The Coffin Dancer (Lincoln Rhyme 2)

"What's that?" he asked eagerly. "The trick?"

"Well, look outside. You see those colored lights on the wing tips?"

He didn't want to look, but he did. "Okay, got it."

"There's one on the tail too."

"Uh-huh. Remember seeing that, I think."

"All we have to do is make sure we keep the plane in between those lights and everything'll go fine."

"In between . . . " It took a moment for the joke to register. He gazed at her deadpan face for a minute, then smiled. "You get a lotta people with that one?"

"A few."

But the joke didn't really amuse him. His eyes were still on the carpet. After a long moment of silence she said, "Brit Hale could've said no, Roland. He knew the risks."

"No, he didn't," Bell answered. "Nope. He went along with what we had in mind, not knowing much of anything. I should've thought better. I should've guessed about the fire trucks. Should've guessed that the killer'd know where your rooms were. I could've put you in the basement, or someplace. And I could've shot better too."

Bell seemed so despondent that Percey could think of nothing to say. She rested her veiny hand on his forearm. He seemed thin, but he was really quite strong.

He gave a soft laugh. "You wanta know something?"

"What?"

"This is the first time I've seen you looking halfway comfortable since I met you."

"Only place I feel really at home," she said.

"We're going two hundred miles an hour a mile up in the air and you feel safe." Bell sighed.

"No, we're going four hundred miles an hour, four miles up."

"Uh. Thanks for sharing that."

"There's an old pilot's saying," Percey said. " 'Saint Peter doesn't count the time spent flying, and he doubles the hours you spend on the ground.' "

"Funny," Bell said. "My uncle said something like that too. Only he used it talking about fishing. I'd vote for his version over yours any day. Nothing personal."

. . . Chapter Thirty-one

Hour 33 of 45

Worms . . .

Stephen Kall, sweating, stood in a filthy bathroom in the back of a Cuban Chinese restaurant.

Scrubbing to save his soul.

Worms gnawing, worms eating, worms swarming . . .

Clean 'em away . . . Clean them away!!!

Soldier--

Sir, I'm busy, sir.

Sol--