The Coffin Dancer

in a soundless shout, charge toward the terrible man. Trying to stop him, appalled that someone would actually be trying to kill him, to kill Percey. More indignant and betrayed than scared. Your life was so precise, she thought to him. Even your risks were calculated. The inverted flight at fifty feet, the tailspins, the skydiving.To spectators, it looked impossible. But you knew what you were doing and if you thought about the chance of an early death, you believed it would be from a bum linkage or a clogged fuel line or some careless student who intruded into your airspace.
    The great aviation writer Ernest K. Gann wrote that fate was a hunter. Percey’d always thought he meant nature or circumstance—the fickle elements, the faulty mechanisms that conspire to send airplanes hurtling into the ground. But fate was more complicated than that. Fate was as complicated as the human mind. As complicated as evil.
    Tragedies come in threes . . . And what would the last one be? Her death? The Company’s? Someone else’s?
    Huddling against Roland Bell, she shivered with anger at the coincidence of it all. Thinking back several weeks: she and Ed and Hale, groggy from lack of sleep, standing in the glare of the hangar lights around Learjet Charlie Juliet , hoping desperately they’d win the U.S. Medical contract, shivering in the damp night as they tried to figure out how best to outfit the jet for the job.
    Late, a misty night. The airport deserted and dark. Like the final scene in Casablanca.
    Hearing the squeal of brakes and glancing outside.
    The man lugging the huge duffle bags out of the car on the tarmac, flinging them inside, and firing up the Beechcraft. The distinctive whine of a piston engine starting.
    She remembered Ed saying, incredulous, “What’s he doing? The airport’s closed.”
    Fate.
    That they happened to be there that night.
    That Phillip Hansen had chosen that exact moment to get rid of his damaging evidence.
    That Hansen was a man who would kill to keep that flight a secret.
    Fate . . .
    Then she jumped—at a knocking on the door of the safe house.
    Two men stood there. Bell recognized them. They were from the NYPD Witness Protection Division. “We’re here to transport you to the Shoreham facility on Long Island, Mrs. Clay.”
    “No, no,” she said. “There’s a mistake. I have to go to Mamaroneck Airport.”
    “Percey,” Roland Bell said.
    “I have to.”
    “I don’t know about that, ma’am,” one of the officers said. “We’ve got orders to take you to Shoreham and keep you in protective confinement until a grand jury appearance on Monday.”
    “No, no, no. Call Lincoln Rhyme. He knows about it.”
    “Well . . . ” One of the officers looked to the other.
    “Please,” she said, “call him. He’ll tell you.”
    “Actually, Mrs. Clay, it was Lincoln Rhyme who ordered you moved. If you’ll come with us, please. Don’t you worry. We’ll take good care of you, ma’am.”

 . . . Chapter Twenty-seven
    Hour 28 of 45
    “I t’s not pleasant,” Thom told Amelia Sachs.
    From behind the bedroom door she heard, “I want that bottle and I want it now.”
    “What’s going on?”
    The handsome young man grimaced. “Oh, he can be such a prick sometimes. He got one of the patrol officers to pour him some scotch. For the pain, he said. He said he’s got a prescription for single malt. Can you believe it? Oh, he’s insufferable when he drinks.”
    A howl of rage from his room.
    Sachs knew the only reason he wasn’t throwing things was that he couldn’t.
    She reached for the doorknob.
    “You might want to wait a little,” Thom warned.
    “We can’t wait.”
    “Goddamnit!” Rhyme snarled. “I want that fucking bottle!”
    She opened the door. Thom whispered, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
    Inside, Sachs paused in the doorway. Rhyme was a sight. His hair was disheveled, there was spittle on his chin, and his eyes were red.
    The Macallan bottle was on the floor. He must have tried to grab it with his teeth and knocked it over.
    He noticed Sachs but all he said was a brisk “Pick it up.”
    “We’ve got work to do, Rhyme.”
    “Pick. Up. That. Bottle.”
    She did. And placed it on the shelf.
    He raged, “You know what I mean! I want a drink!”
    “You’ve had more than enough, sounds like.”
    “Pour some whiskey in my goddamn glass. Thom! Get the hell in here . . . Coward.”
    “Rhyme,” she snapped, “we’ve got evidence to look