The Coffin Dancer (Lincoln Rhyme 2)

Silence. Then a tap, a faint scrape. More silence.

She stepped into her room. It was dark. She turned to grope for the switch and found herself staring at two eyes that caught a sliver of reflected light from outside.

Right hand on the butt of her Glock, she swept her left up to the light switch. The eight-point buck stared at her with his shiny, false eyes.

"Dead animals," she muttered. "Great idea in a safe house . . . "

She pulled her blouse off and removed the bulky American Body Armor suit. Not as bulky as Jodie's, of course. What a kick he was. The little . . . what was Dellray's street word? Skel. Short for "skeleton." Scrawny little loser. What a mutt.

She reached under her mesh undershirt and scratched frantically. Her boobs, her back under the bra, her sides.

Ooooo, feels good.

Exhausted, sure, but could she sleep?

The bed looked pretty damn nice.

She pulled on her blouse again, buttoned it, and lay down on the comforter. Closed her eyes. Did she hear footsteps?

One of the guards making coffee, she supposed.

Sleep? Breathe deep . . .

No sleep.

Her eyes opened and she stared at the webby ceiling.

The Coffin Dancer, she mused. How would he come at them? What would his weapon be?

His deadliest weapon is deception . . .

Glancing out a crack in the curtain, she saw the beautiful fish-gray dawn. A haze of mist bleached the color from the distant trees.

Somewhere inside the compound she heard a thud. A footstep.

Sachs swung her feet around to the floor and sat up. May as well just give up and get some coffee. I'll sleep tonight.

She had a sudden urge to talk to Rhyme, to see if he'd found anything. She could hear him saying, "If I'd found something I would've called you, wouldn't I? I said I'd check in."

No, she didn't want to wake him, but she doubted he was asleep. She pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and clicked it on before she remembered Marshal Franks's warning to use only the secure line in the living room.

As she was about to shut the phone off, it chirped loudly.

She shivered--not at the jarring sound, but at the thought that the Dancer had somehow found her number and wanted to confirm she was in the compound. For an instant she wondered if somehow he'd slipped explosives into her phone too.

Damnit, Rhyme, look how spooked I am!

Don't answer it, she told herself.

But instinct told her to, and while criminalists may shun instinct, patrol cops, street cops, always listen to those inner voices. She pulled the antenna out of the phone.

"'Lo?"

"Thank God . . . " The panicked tone of Lincoln Rhyme chilled her.

"Hey, Rhyme. What's--"

"Listen very carefully. Are you alone?"