The Coffin Dancer

shoot.”
    She appreciated his comments but recognized that they were just an attempt to reassure her about yesterday’s fiasco; the words meant nothing to her.
    “Better talk to Percey now.”
    “Right through there, Officer.”

    Sachs pushed into the huge hangar. She walked slowly, looking at all the places the Dancer could hide. Sachs paused behind a tall row of boxes; Percey didn’t see her.
    The woman was standing on a small scaffolding, hands on her hips, as she gazed at the complicated network of pipes and tubes of the open engine. She’d rolled her sleeves up and her hands were covered with grease. She nodded to herself then reached forward into the compartment.
    Sachs was fascinated, watching the woman’s hands fly over the machinery, adjusting, probing, seating metal to metal, and tightening the fixtures down with judicious swipes of her thin arms. She mounted a large red cylinder, a fire extinguisher, Sachs guessed, in about ten seconds flat.
    But one part—it looked like a big metal inner tube—wouldn’t fit correctly.
    Percey climbed off the scaffolding, selected a socket wrench, and climbed up again. She loosened bolts, removed another part to give her more room to maneuver, and tried again to push the big ring into place.
    Wouldn’t budge.
    She shouldered it. Didn’t move an inch. She removed yet another part, meticulously setting each screw and bolt in a plastic tray at her feet. Percey’s face turned bright red as she struggled to mount the metal ring. Her chest heaved as she fought the part. Suddenly it slipped, dropping completely out of position, and knocked her backward off the scaffolding. She twisted and landed on her hands and knees. The tools and bolts that she’d arranged so carefully in the tray spilled to the floor beneath the plane’s tail.
    “No!” Percey cried. “No!”
    Sachs stepped forward to see if she was hurt, but noticed immediately that the outburst had nothing to do with pain—Percey grabbed a large wrench and slammed it furiously into the floor of the hangar. The policewoman stopped, stepped into the shadow beside a large carton.
    “No, no, no . . . ,” Percey cried, hammering the smooth concrete.
    Sachs remained where she was.
    “Oh, Ed . . . ” She dropped the wrench. “I can’t do it alone.” Gasping for breath, she rolled into a ball. “Ed . . . oh, Ed . . . I miss you so much!” She lay, curled like a frail leaf, on the shiny floor and wept.
    Then, suddenly, the attack was over. Percey rolled upright, took a deep breath, and climbed to her feet, wiped the tears from her face. The aviatrix within her took charge once again and she picked up the bolts and tools and climbed back up onto the scaffolding. She stared at the troublesome ring for a moment. She examined the fittings carefully but couldn’t see where the metal pieces were binding.
    Sachs retreated to the door, slammed it hard, and then started back into the hangar, walking with loud steps.
    Percey swung around, saw her, then turned back to the engine. She gave a few swipes to her face with her sleeve and continued to work.
    Sachs walked up to the base of the scaffolding and watched as Percey struggled with the ring.
    Neither woman said anything for a long moment.
    Finally Sachs said, “Try a jack.”
    Percey glanced back at her, said nothing.
    “It’s just that the tolerance is close,” Sachs continued. “All you need is more muscle. The old coercion technique. They don’t teach it in mechanics school.”
    Percey looked carefully at the mounting brackets on the pieces of metal. “I don’t know.”
    “I do. You’re talking to an expert.”
    The flier asked, “You’ve mounted a combustor in a Lear?”
    “Nope. Spark plugs in a Chevy Monza. You have to jack up the engine to reach them. Well, only in the V-eight. But who’d buy a four-cylinder car? I mean, what’s the point?”
    Percey looked back at the engine.
    “So?” Sachs persisted. “A jack?”
    “It’ll bend the outer housing.”
    “Not if you put it there.” Sachs pointed to a structural member connecting the engine to the support that went to the fuselage.
    Percey studied the fitting. “I don’t have a jack. Not one small enough to fit.”
    “I do. I’ll get it.”
    Sachs stepped outside to the RRV and returned with the accordion jack. She climbed up on the scaffolding, her knees protesting the effort.
    “Try right there.” She touched the base of the engine. “That’s I-beam