The Coffin Dancer (Lincoln Rhyme 2)

A Rage for Falcons,

Stephen Bodio

. . . Chapter Twenty-six

Hour 26 of 45

Waiting.

Rhyme was now alone in his bed upstairs, listening into the S

pecial Ops frequency. He was dead tired. It was noon on Sunday and he'd had virtually no sleep. And he was exhausted from the most arduous effort of all--of trying to out-think the Dancer. It was taking its toll on his body.

Cooper was downstairs in the lab, running tests to confirm Rhyme's conclusions about the Dancer's latest tactic. Everyone else was at the safe house, Amelia Sachs too. Once Rhyme, Sellitto, and Dellray had decided how to counter what they believed would be the Dancer's next effort to kill Percey Clay and Brit Hale, Thom had checked Rhyme's blood pressure and asserted his virtual parental authority and ordered his boss into bed, no arguments, reasonable or otherwise, accepted. They'd ridden up in the elevator, Rhyme oddly silent, uneasy, wondering if he'd guessed right again.

"What's the matter?" Thom asked.

"Nothing. Why?"

"You're not complaining about anything. No grousing means something's wrong."

"Ha. Very funny," Rhyme grumbled.

After a sitting transfer to get him in bed, some bodily functions taken care of, Rhyme was now leaning back into his luxurious down pillow. Thom had slipped the voice recognition headset over his head and, despite his fatigue, Rhyme himself had gone through the steps of talking to the computer and having it patch into the Special Ops frequency.

This system was an amazing invention. Yes, he'd downplayed it to Sellitto and Banks. Yes, he'd groused. But the device, more than any other of his aids, made him feel differently about himself. For years he'd been resigned to never leading a life that approached normal. Yet with this machine and software he did feel normal.

He rolled his head in a circle and let it ease back into the pillow.

Waiting. Trying not to think of the debacle with Sachs last night.

Motion nearby. The falcon strutted into view. Rhyme saw a flash of white breast, then the bird turned his blue-gray back to Rhyme and looked out over Central Park. It was the male. The tiercel, he remembered Percey Clay telling him. Smaller and less ruthless than the female. He remembered something else about peregrines. They'd come back from the dead. Not too many years ago the entire population in eastern North America grew sterile from chemical pesticides and the birds nearly became extinct. Only through captive breeding efforts and control of pesticides had the creatures thrived.

Back from the dead . . .

The radio clattered. It was Amelia Sachs calling in. She sounded tense as she told him that everything was set up at the safe house.

"We're all on the top floor with Jodie," she said. "Wait . . . Here's the truck."

An armored 4 x 4 with mirrored windows, filled with four officers from the tactical team, was being used as the bait. It would be followed by a single unmarked van, containing--apparently--two plumbing supply contractors. In fact they were 32-E troopers in street clothes. In the back of the van were four others.

"The decoys're downstairs. Okay . . . okay."

They were using two officers from Haumann's unit for decoys.

Sachs said, "Here they go."

Rhyme was pretty sure that given the Dancer's new plans, he wouldn't try a sniper shot from the street. Still, he found himself holding his breath.

"On the run . . . "

A click as the radio went dead.

Another click. Static. Sellitto broadcast, "They made it. Looks good. Starting to drive. The tail cars're ready."

"All right," Rhyme said. "Jodie's there?"

"Right here. In the safe house with us."