The Coffin Dancer (Lincoln Rhyme 2)

the throttles. "ATIS."

Brad clicked his radio to the automated airport information system and repeated out loud what the recorded voice told him. "Chicago information, Whiskey. Clear and forever. Wind two five oh at three. Temperature fifty-nine degrees. Altimeter thirty point one one."

Brad set the altimeter as Percey said into her microphone, "Chicago Approach, this is Lear Niner Five Foxtrot Bravo. With you inbound at twelve thousand. Heading two eight zero."

"Evening, Foxtrot Bravo. Descend and maintain one zero thousand. Expect vectors runway twenty-seven right."

"Roger. Descend and maintain ten. Vectors, two seven right. Niner Five Foxtrot Bravo."

Percey refused to look down. Somewhere below and ahead of them was the grave of her husband and his aircraft. She didn't know if he'd been cleared to land on O'Hare's runway 27 right, but it was likely that he had, and if so, ATC would've vectored Ed through exactly the same airspace she was now sailing through.

Maybe he'd started to call her right about here . . .

No! Don't think about it, she ordered herself. Fly the aircraft.

In a low, calm voice she said, "Brad, this will be a visual approach to runway twenty-seven right. Monitor the approach and call all assigned altitudes. When we turn on final, please monitor airspeed, altitude, and rate of descent. Warn me of a sink rate greater than one thousand fpm. Go-around will be at ninety-two percent."

"Roger."

"Flaps ten degrees."

"Flaps, ten, ten, green."

The radio crackled, "Lear Niner Five Foxtrot Bravo, turn left heading two four zero, descend, and maintain four thousand."

"Five Foxtrot Bravo, out of ten for four. Heading two four zero."

She eased back on the throttle and the plane settled slightly, the grinding sound of the engines diminished, and she could hear the woosh of the air like a whisper of wind over bedsheets beside an open window at night.

Percey yelled back to Bell, "You're about to have your first landing in a Lear. Let's see if I can set her down without rippling your coffee."

"In one piece's all I'm asking for," Bell said and cinched his seat belt tight as a bungee cord harness.

"Nothing, Rhyme."

The criminalist closed his eyes in disgust. "I don't believe it. I just don't believe it."

"He's gone. He was there, they're pretty sure. But the mikes didn't pick up a sound."

Rhyme glanced up at the big mirror he'd ordered Thom to prop up across the room. They'd been waiting for the explosive rounds to crash into it. Central Park was peppered with Haumann's and Dellray's tactical officers, just waiting for a gunshot.

"Where's Jodie?" Rhyme asked.

Dellray snickered. "Hiding in the alley. Saw some car go by and spooked."

"What car?" Rhyme asked.

The agent laughed. "If it was the Dancer, then he turned hisself into four fat Puerto Rican girls. Little shit said he won't come out till somebody shuts off the streetlight in front of your building."

"Leave him. He'll come back when he gets cold."

"Or to get his money," Sachs reminded.

Rhyme scowled. He was bitterly disappointed that this trick too hadn't worked.

Was it his failing? Or was there some uncanny instinct that the Dancer had? A sixth sense? The idea was repugnant to Lincoln Rhyme, the scientist, but he couldn't discount it completely. After all, even the NYPD used psychics from time to time.

Sachs started toward the window.