The Coffin Dancer

I be so far off?”
    And the computer heard the last word of Rhyme’s sentence and dutifully shut off his communications program.
    “No!” Rhyme cried. “No!”
    But the system couldn’t understand his loud, frantic voice and with a silent flash the message came up, Do you really want to shut off your computer?
    “No,” he whispered desperately.
    For a moment nothing happened, but the system didn’t shut down. A message popped up. What would you like to do now?
    “Thom!” he shouted. “Somebody . . . please. Mel!”
    But the door was closed; there was no response from downstairs.
    Rhyme’s left ring finger twitched dramatically. At one time he’d had a mechanical ECU controller and he could use his one working finger to dial the phone. The computer system had replaced that and he now had to use the dictation program to call the safe house and tell them that the Dancer was on his way there, dressed as a fireman or rescue worker.
    “Command mode,” he said into the microphone. Fighting to stay calm.
    I did not understand what you just said. Please try again.
    Where was the Dancer now? Was he inside already? Was he just about to shoot Percey Clay or Brit Hale?
    Or Amelia Sachs?
    “Thom! Mel!”
    I did not understand . . .
    Why wasn’t I thinking better?
    “Command mode,” he said breathlessly, trying to master the panic.
    The command mode message box popped up. The cursor arrow sat at the top of the screen and, a continentaway, at the bottom, was the communications program icon.
    “Cursor down,” he gasped.
    Nothing happened.
    “Cursor down,” he called, louder.
    The message came back: I did not understand what you just said. Please try again.
    “Oh, goddamn . . . ”
    I did not understand . . .
    Softer, forcing himself to speak in a normal tone, he said, “Cursor down.”
    The glowing white arrow began its leisurely trip down the screen.
    We’ve still got time, he told himself. And it wasn’t as though the people in the safe house were unprotected or unarmed.
    “Cursor left,” he gasped.
    I did not understand . . .
    “Oh, come on!”
    I did not understand . . .
    “Cursor up . . . cursor left.”
    The cursor moved like a snail over the screen until it came to the icon.
    Calm, calm . . .
    “Cursor stop. Double click.”
    Dutifully, an icon of a walkie-talkie popped up on the screen.
    He pictured the faceless Dancer moving up behind Percey Clay with a knife or garrote.
    In as calm a voice as he could muster he ordered the cursor to the set-frequency box.
    It seated itself perfectly.
    “Four,” Rhyme said, pronouncing the word so very carefully.
    A 4 popped up into the box. Then he said, “Eight.”
    The letter A appeared in the second box.
    Lord in heaven!
    “Delete left.”
    I did not understand . . .
    No, no!
    He thought he heard footsteps. “Hello?” he cried. “Is someone there? Thom? Mel?”
    No answer except from his friend the computer, which placidly offered its contrarian response once again.
    “Eight,” he said slowly.
    The number appeared. His next attempt, “Three,” popped into the box without a problem.
    “Point.”
    The word point appeared.
    Goddamn!
    “Delete left.” Then, “Decimal.”
    The period popped up.
    “Four.”
    One space left. Remember, It’s zero not oh. Sweat streaming down his face, he added the final number of the Secure Ops frequency without a glitch.
    The radio clicked on.
    Yes!
    But before he could transmit, static clattered harshly and, with a frozen heart, he heard a man’s frantic voice crying, “Ten-thirteen, need assistance, federal protection location six.”
    The safe house.
    He recognized the voice as Roland Bell’s. “Two down and . . . Oh, Jesus, he’s still here. He’s got us, he’s hit us! We need—”
    There were two gunshots. Then another. A dozen. A huge firefight. It sounded like Macy’s fireworks on the Fourth of July.
    “We need—”
    The transmission ended.
    “Percey!” Rhyme cried. “Percey . . . ”
    On the screen came the message in simple type: I did not understand what you just said. Please try again.

    A nightmare.
    Stephen Kall, in ski mask and wearing the bulky fireman’s coat, lay pinned down in the corridor of the safe house, behind the body of one of the two U.S. marshals he’d just killed.
    Another shot, closer, digging a piece out of the floor near his head. Fired by the detective with the thinning brown hair—the one he’d seen in the window of the safe