The Coffin Dancer

the transponder to let everyone at ATC and other aircraft know exactly which blip was the Lear.
    She heard Bell say into his phone, “Th’only person got close to the plane, ’cept for me and Percey, was the business manager, Ron Talbot—and, nothing personal to him, but my boys or I watched him like a hawk while he was doing the work, stood over his shoulder the whole time. Oh, and that guy delivered some of the engine parts came by too. From Northeast Aircraft Distributors in Greenwich. But I checked him out good. Even got his home phone and called his wife, had them talk—to make sure he was legit.” Bell listened for a moment more then hung up. “They’ll call us back.”
    Percey looked at Brad and at Bell, then returned to the task of piloting her aircraft.
    “Fuel?” she asked her copilot. “How much time?”
    “We’re under our estimated. Headwinds’ve been good.” He did the calculations. “A hundred and five minutes.”
    She thanked God, or fate, or her own intuition, for deciding not to refuel at Chicago, but to load enough to get them to Saint Louis, plus the FAA requirement for an additional forty-five minutes’ flying time.
    Bell’s phone chirped again.
    He listened, sighed, then asked Percey, “Did that Northeast company deliver a fire extinguisher cartridge?”
    “Shit, did he put it in there?” she asked bitterly.
    “Looks like it. The delivery truck had a flat tire just after it left the warehouse on the way to make that delivery to you. Driver was busy for about twenty minutes. Connecticut trooper just found a mess of what looks like carbon dioxide foam in the bushes right near where it happened.”
    “God damn!” Percey glanced involuntarily toward the engine. “And I installed the fucker myself.”
    Bell asked, “Rhyme wants to know about heat. Wouldn’t it blow the bomb?”
    “Some parts are hot, some aren’t. It’s not that hot by the cartridge.”
    Bell told this to Rhyme, then he said, “He’s going to call you directly.”
    A moment later, through the radio, Percey heard the patch of a unicom call.
    It was Lincoln Rhyme.
    “Percey, can you hear me?”
    “Loud and clear. That prick pulled a fast one, hm?”
    “Looks like it. How much flying time do you have?”
    “Hour forty-five minutes. About.”
    “Okay, okay,” the criminalist said. A pause. “All right . . . Can you get to the engine from the inside?”
    “No.”
    Another pause. “Could you somehow disconnect the whole engine? Unbolt it or something? Let it drop off?”
    “Not from the inside.”
    “Is there any way you could refuel in midair?”
    “Refuel? Not with this plane.”
    Rhyme asked, “Could you fly high enough to freeze the bomb mechanism?”
    She was amazed at how fast his mind worked. These were things that wouldn’t have occurred to her. “Maybe. But even at emergency descent rate—I’m talking nosedive—it’d still take eight, nine minutes to get down. I don’t think any bomb parts’d stay very frozen for that long. And the Mach buffet would probably tear us apart.”
    Rhyme continued, “Okay, what about getting a plane in front of you and tethering some parachutes back?”
    Her initial thought was that she would never abandon her aircraft. But the realistic answer—the one she gave him—was that given the stall speed of a Lear 35A and the configuration of door, wings, and engines, it was unlikely that anyone could leap from the aircraft without being killed.
    Rhyme was again silent for a moment. Brad swallowed and wiped his hands on his razor-creased slacks. “Brother.”
    Roland Bell rocked back and forth.
    Hopeless, she thought, staring down at the murky blue dusk.
    “Lincoln?” Percey asked. “Are you there?”
    She heard his voice. He was calling to someone in his lab—or bedroom. In a testy tone he was demanding, “Not that map. You know which one I mean. Well, why would I want that one? No, no . . . ”
    Silence.
    Oh, Ed, Percey thought. Our lives have always followed parallel paths. Maybe our deaths will too. She was most upset about Roland Bell, though. The thought of leaving his children orphans was unbearable.
    Then she heard Rhyme asking, “On the fuel you’ve got left, how far can you fly?”
    “At the most efficient power settings . . . ” She looked at Brad, who was punching in the figures.
    He said, “If we got some altitude, say, eight hundred miles.”
    “Got an idea,” Rhyme said. “Can you make it to Denver?”

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