The Coffin Dancer (Lincoln Rhyme 2)

Scrub, scrub, scrub, scrub.

Lincoln the Worm is looking for me.

Everywhere Lincoln the Worm looks, worms appear.

Go away!!!

The brush moved whisk, whisk, back and forth until his cuticles bled.

Soldier, that blood is evidence. You can't--

Go away!!!

He dried his hands then grabbed the Fender guitar case and the book bag, pushed into the restaurant.

Soldier, your gloves--

The alarmed patrons stared at his bloody hands, his crazed expression. "Worms," he muttered in explanation to the entire restaurant, "fucking worms," then burst outside onto the street.

Hurrying down the sidewalk, calming. He was thinking about what he had to do. He had to kill Jodie, of course. Have to kill him have to kill him have to . . . Not because he was a traitor, but because he'd given away so much information--

And why the fuck d'you do that, Soldier?

--about himself to the man. And he had to kill Lincoln the Worm because . . . because the worms would get him if he didn't.

Have to kill have to have to have . . .

Are you listening to me, Soldier? Are you?

That was all there was left to do.

Then he'd leave this city. Head back to West Virginia. Back to the hills.

Lincoln, dead.

Jodie, dead.

Have to kill have to have to have to . . .

Nothing more to keep him here.

As for the Wife--he looked at his watch. Just after 7 P.M. Well, she was probably dead already.

"'Sbulletproof."

"Against those bullets?" Jodie asked. "You said they blow up!"

Dellray assured him it was effective. The vest was thick Kevl

ar on top of a steel sheet. It weighed forty-two pounds and Rhyme didn't know a cop in the city who wore a vest like this, or ever would.

"But what if he shoots my head?"

"He wants me a lot more than he wants you," Rhyme said.

"And how's he gonna know I'm staying here?"

"How d'ya think, mutt?" Dellray snapped. "I'ma tell him."