The Coffin Dancer (Lincoln Rhyme 2)

"Speed check."

"One hundred eighty knots."

As Tim spoke into his mike--"Chicago, Niner Charlie Juliet, crossing the numbers; through five for four"--Carney heard the phone start to ring in their Manhattan town house, seven hundred miles away.

Come on, Percey. Pick up! Where are you?

Please . . .

ATC said, "Niner Charlie Juliet, reduce speed to one eight zero. Contact tower. Good evening."

"Roger, Chicago. One eight zero knots. Evening."

Three rings.

Where the hell is she? What's wrong?

The knot in his gut grew tighter.

The turbofan sang, a grinding sound. Hydraulics moaned. Static crackled in Carney's headset.

Tim sang out, "Flaps thirty. Gear down."

"Flaps, thirty, thirty, green. Gear down. Three green."

And then, at last--in his earphone--a sharp click.

His wife's voice saying, "Hello?"

He laughed out loud in relief.

Carney started to speak but, before he could, the aircraft gave a huge jolt--so vicious that in a fraction of a second the force of the explosion ripped the bulky headset from his ears and the men were flung forward into the control panel. Shrapnel and sparks exploded around them.

Stunned, Carney instinctively grabbed the unresponsive yoke with his left hand; he no longer had a right one. He turned toward Tim just as the man's bloody, rag-doll body disappeared out of the gaping hole in the side of the fuselage.

"Oh, God. No, no . . . "

Then the entire cockpit broke away from the disintegrating plane and rose into the air, leaving the fuselage and wings and engines of the Lear behind, engulfed in a ball of gassy fire.

"Oh, Percey," he whispered, "Percey . . . " Though there was no longer a microphone to speak into.

. . . Chapter Two

Big as asteroids, bone yellow.

The grains of sand glowed on the computer screen. The man was sitting forward, neck aching, eyes in a hard squint--from concentration, not from any flaw in vision.

In the distance, thunder. The early morning sky was yellow and green and a storm was due at any moment. This had been the wettest spring on record.

Grains of sand . . .

"Enlarge," he commanded, and dutifully the image on the computer doubled in size.

Strange, he thought.

"Cursor down . . . stop."

Leaning forward again, straining, studying the screen.