The Coffin Dancer

arms around Percey and led her out into the corridor, still vigilant, still clutching his own weapon.

    Two hundred and thirty yards from the safe house.
    Red and blue lights from the dozens of emergency vehicles flashed and tried to blind him but he was sighting through the Redfield telescope and was oblivious to anything but the reticles. He scanned back and forth over the kill zone.
    Stephen had stripped off the fireman’s uniform and was dressed again as a late-blooming college student. He’d recovered the Model 40 from under the water tank, where he’d hidden it that morning. The weapon was loaded and locked. The sling was around his arm and he was ready to murder.
    At the moment it wasn’t the Wife he was after.
    And it wasn’t Jodie, the little faggot Judas.
    He was looking for Lincoln the Worm. The man who’d out-thought him once again.
    Who was he? Which of them?
    Cringey.
    Lincoln . . . Prince of Worms.
    Where are you? Are you right in front of me now? In that crowd standing around the smoking building?
    Was he that large lump of a cop, sweating like a hog?
    The tall, thin Negro in the green suit? He looked familiar. Where had Stephen seen him before?
    An unmarked car streaked up and several men in suits climbed out.
    Maybe Lincoln was one of them.
    The red-haired policewoman stepped outside. She was wearing latex gloves. Crime Scene, are you? Well, I treat my casings and slugs, darling, he said to her silently as the reticles of the telescope picked out a pretty target on her neck. And you’ll have to fly to Singapore before you pick up a lead to my gun.
    He figured he had time to fire just one shot and then be driven into the alley by the fusillade that would follow.
    Who are you?
    Lincoln? Lincoln?
    But he had no clue.
    Then the front door swung open and Jodie appeared, stepping out the door uneasily. He looked around, squinted, shrank back against the building.
    You . . .
    The electric sizzle again. Even at this distance.
    Stephen easily moved the reticles onto his chest.
    Go ahead, Soldier, fire your weapon. He’s a logical target; he can identify you.
    Sir, I am adjusting for tracking and windage.
    Stephen upped the poundage on his trigger.
    Jodie . . .
    He betrayed you, Soldier. Take . . . him . . . out.
    Sir, yes, sir. He is ice cold. He is dead meat. Sir, vultures are already hovering.
    Soldier, the USMC sniper’s manual dictates that you increase poundage on the trigger of your Model 40 imperceptibly so that you are not aware of the exact moment your weapon will discharge. Is that correct, Soldier?
    Sir, yes, sir.
    Then why the fuck aren’t you doing it?
    He squeezed harder.
    Slowly, slowly . . .
    But the gun wasn’t firing. He lifted the sights to Jodie’s head. And as it happened, Jodie’s eyes, which had been scanning the rooftops, saw him.
    He’d waited too long.
    Shoot, Soldier. Shoot!
    A whisper of a pause . . .
    Then he jerked the trigger like a boy on the .22 rifle range at summer camp.
    Just as Jodie leapt out of the way, pushing the cops with him aside.
    How the fuck d’you miss that shot, Soldier? Repeat fire!
    Sir, yes, sir!
    He got off two more rounds but Jodie and everyone else was under cover or crawling fast along the sidewalk and street.
    And then the return fire began. First a dozen guns, then a dozen more. Mostly pistols but some H&Ks too, spewing the bullets so fast they sounded like unmuffled car engines.
    Bullets were striking the elevator tower behind him, showering him with bits of brick and concrete and lead and sharp, craggy copper jackets from theslugs, cutting his forearms and the backs of his hands.
    Stephen fell backward, covering his face with his hands. He felt the cuts and saw tiny drops of his blood fall on the tar paper roof.
    Why did I wait? Why? I could have shot him and been gone.
    Why?
    The sound of a helicopter speeding toward the building. More sirens.
    Evacuate, Soldier! Evacuate!
    He glanced down to see Jodie scrambling to safety behind a car. Stephen threw the Model 40 into the case, slung the backpack over his shoulder, and slid down the fire escape into the alley.

    The second tragedy.
    Percey Clay had changed her clothes and stepped into the corridor, slumped against the strong figure of Roland Bell. He put his arm around her.
    The second of three. It hadn’t been their mechanic quitting or problems with the charter. It had been the death of her dear friend.
    Oh, Brit . . .
    Imagining him, eyes wide, mouth open