The Coffin Dancer (Lincoln Rhyme 2)

"Oh," Percey gasped, her hand rising to her mouth.

There was no fuel left in the tanks, of course, but the interior of the aircraft--the seats, the wiring, the carpet, the plastic fittings, and the precious cargo--burned furiously as the fire trucks waited a prudent moment then streamed forward, pointlessly shooting more snowy foam on the ruined metallic corpse.

V

Danse Macabre

I looked up to see a dot dropping, becoming an inverted heart, a diving bird. The wind screamed through her bells, making a sound like nothing else on earth as she fell a half mile through the clear autumn air. At the last moment she turned parallel to the chukar's line of flight and hit it from behind with the solid "thwack" of a large-caliber bullet striking flesh.

A Rage for Falcons,

Stephen Bodio

. . . Chapter Thirty-five

Hour 42 of 45

It was after 3 A.M., Rhyme noted. Percey Clay was flying back to the East Coast on an FBI jet and in just a few hours she'd be on her way to the courthouse to get ready for her grand jury appearance.

And Rhyme still had no idea where the Coffin Dancer was, what he was planning, what identity he was now assuming.

Sellitto's phone brayed. He listened. His face screwed up. "Jesus. The Dancer just got somebody else. They found another body--ID-proofed--in a tunnel in Central Park. Near Fifth Avenue."

"Completely ID-proofed?"

"Did it up right, sounds like. Removed the hands, teeth, jaw, and clothes. White male. Youngish. Late twenties, early thirties." The detective listened again. "Not a bum," he reported. "He's clean, in good shape. Athletic. Haumann thinks he's some yuppie from the East Side."

"Okay," Rhyme said. "Bring him here. I want to go over it myself."

"The body?"

"Right."

"Well, okay."

"So the Dancer's got a new identity," Rhyme mused angrily. "What the hell is it? How's he going to come at us next?"

Rhyme sighed, looked out the window. He said to Dellray, "What safe house're you going to put them in?"

"I been thinking 'bout that," the lanky agent said. "Seems to me--"

"Ours," a new voice said.

They looked at the heavyset man in the doorway.

"Our safe house," Reggie Eliopolos said. "We're taking custody."

"Not unless you've got--" Rhyme began.

The prosecutor waved the paper too fast for Rhyme to read it but they all knew the protective custody order would be legit.

"That's not a good idea," Rhyme said.

"It's better than your idea of trying to get our last witness killed any way you can."

Sachs stepped forward, angrily, but Rhyme shook his head.

"Believe me," Rhyme said, "the Dancer'll figure out that you're going to take them into custody. He's probably already figured it out. In fact," he added ominously, "he may be banking on it."