The Coffin Dancer (Lincoln Rhyme 2)

"This is the second time he's stopped me. And he almost got me caught. I'm trying to figure him out and I can't."

"What do you have to figure out?"

"What he's going to do next. So I can stay ahead of him."

Another squeeze to the spine. Jodie didn't seem to mind. He didn't look away either. He wasn't timid anymore. And the look he gave Stephen was odd. Was it a look of . . . ? Well, he didn't know. Admiration maybe . . .

Stephen realized that it was the way Sheila had looked at him in Starbucks when he was saying all the right things. Except that, with her, he hadn't been Stephen, he had been somebody else. Somebody who didn't exist. Jodie was now looking at him this way even though he knew exactly who Stephen was, that he was a killer.

Leaving his hand on the man's back, Stephen said, "What I can't figure out is if he's going to move them out of their safe house. The one next to the building where I met you."

"Move who? The people you're trying to kill?"

"Yeah. He's going to try to out-guess me. He's thinking . . . " Stephen's voice faded.

Thinking . . .

And what was Lincoln the Worm thinking? Would he move the Wife and the Friend, guessing I'll try the safe house again? Or would he leave them, thinking I'll wait and try for them at a new location? And even if he thinks I'll try the safe house again, will he leave them there as bait, trying to sucker me back for another ambush? Will he move two decoys to a new safe house? And try to take me when I follow them?

The thin man said, almost whispering, "You seem, I don't know, shook up or something."

"I can't see him . . . I can't see what he's going to do. Everybody else's ever been after me I can see. I can figure them out. Him, I can't."

"What do you want me to do?" Jodie asked, swaying against Stephen. Their shoulders brushed.

Stephen Kall, craftsman extraordinaire, stepson of a man who never had a moment's hesitation in anything he did--killing deer or inspecting plates cleaned with a toothbrush--was now confounded, staring at the floor, then looking up into Jodie's eyes.

Hand on the man's back. Shoulders touching too.

Stephen made up his mind.

He bent forward and rummaged through his backpack. He found a black cell phone, looked at it for a moment, then handed it to Jodie.

"Whatsis?" the man asked.

"A phone. For you to use."

"A cell phone! Cool." He examined it as if he'd never seen one, flipped it open, studying all the buttons.

Stephen asked, "You know what a spotter is?"

"No."

"The best snipers don't work alone. They always have a spotter with them. He locates the target and figures out how far away it is, looks for defensive troops, things like that."

"You want me to do that for you?"

"Yep. See, I think Lincoln's going to move them."

"Why, you figure?" Jodie asked.

"I can't explain it. I just have this feeling." He looked at his watch. "Okay, here's the thing. At one-thirty this afternoon, what I want you to do is walk down the street like a . . . homeless person."

"You can say 'bum,' you want."

"And watch the safe house. Maybe you could look through trash cans or something."

"For bottles. I do that. All the time."