The Coffin Dancer (Lincoln Rhyme 2)

"Yeah," he said, "try not to run into any airplanes."

II

The Kill Zone

A falconer's bird, however tame and affectionate, is as close to a wild animal in condition and habit as an animal that lives with man can be. Above all, it hunts.

A Rage for Falcons,

Stephen Bodio

. . . Chapter Ten

Hour 3 of 45

"I'm here, Rhyme," she announced.

Sachs climbed out of the RRV wagon and pulled latex gloves on her hands and wound rubber bands around her shoes--to make certain her footprints wouldn't be confused with the perp's, as Rhyme had taught her.

"And where, Sachs," he asked, "is here?"

"At the intersection of taxiways. Between a row of hangars. It's where Carney's plane would've stopped."

Sachs glanced uneasily at a line of trees in the distance. It was an overcast, dank day. Another storm was threatening. She felt exposed. The Dancer might be here now--maybe he'd returned to destroy evidence he'd left behind, maybe to kill a cop and slow down the investigation. Like the bomb in Wall Street a few years ago, the one that killed Rhyme's techs.

Shoot first . . .

Damn it, Rhyme, you're spooking me! Why're you acting like this guy walks through walls and spits poison?

Sachs took the PoliLight box and a large suitcase from the back of the RRV. She opened the suitcase. Inside were a hundred tools of the trade: screwdrivers, wrenches, hammers, wire cutters, knives, friction ridge collection equipment, ninhydrin, tweezers, brushes, tongs, scissors, flex-claw pickups, a gunshot residue kit, pencils, plastic and paper bags, evidence collection tape . . .

One, establish the perimeter.

She ran yellow police line tape around the entire area.

Two, consider media and range of camera lenses and microphones.

No media. Not yet. Thank you, Lord.

"What's that, Sachs?"

"I'm thanking God there're no reporters."

"A fine prayer. But tell me what you're doing."

"Still securing the scene."

"Look for the--"

"Entrance and exit," she said.

Step three, determine the perpetrator's entrance and exit routes--they will be secondary crime scenes.

But she didn't have a clue as to where they might be. He could've come from anywhere. Snuck around the corners, driven here in a luggage cart, a gas truck . . .

Sachs donned goggles and began sweeping the PoliLight wand over the taxiway. It didn't work as well outside as in a dark room, but with the heavy overcast she could see flecks and streaks glowing under the eerie green-yellow light. There were, however, no footprints.

"Sprayed her down last night," the voice called behind her.