The Coffin Dancer

like it. Didn’t like her. He wondered why.
    The grass rustled around him. He thought: Worms.
    Was starting to feel cringey.
    The face in the window . . .
    He put the crosshairs on her chest.
    The cringey feeling went away.
    Soldier, what is the sniper’s motto?
    Sir, it is “One chance, one shot, one kill.”
    The conditions were excellent. There was a slight right-to-left crosswind, which he guessed was four miles an hour. The air was humid, which would buoy the slug. He was shooting over unvaried terrain with only moderate thermals.
    He slid back down the knoll and ran a cleaning rod, tipped with a soft cotton cloth, through the Model 40. You always cleaned your weapon before firing. The slightest bit of moisture or oil could put a shot off by an inch or so. Then he made a loop sling and lay down in his nest.
    Stephen loaded five rounds into the chamber. They were M-118 match-quality rounds, manufactured at the renowned Lake City arsenal. The bullet itself was a 173-grain boattail and it struck its target at a speed of a half mile a second. Stephen had altered the slugs somewhat, however. He’d drilled into the core and filled them with a small explosive charge and replaced the standard jacket with a ceramic nose that would pierce most kinds of body armor.
    He unfolded a thin dish towel and spread it out on the ground to catch the ejected cartridges. Then he doubled the sling around his left biceps and planted that elbow firmly on the ground, keeping the forearm absolutely perpendicular to the ground—a bone support. He “spot-welded” his cheek and right thumb to the stock above the trigger.
    Then slowly he began scanning the kill zone.
    It was hard to see inside the offices but Stephen thought he caught a glimpse of the Wife.
    Yes! It was her.
    She was standing behind a big curly-haired man ina wrinkled white shirt. He held a cigarette. A young blond man in a suit, a badge on his belt, ushered them back out of sight.
    Patience . . . she’ll present again. They don’t have a clue that you’re here. You can wait all day. As long as the worms—
    Flashing lights again.
    Into the parking lot sped a county ambulance. The red-haired cop saw it. Her eyes grew excited. She ran toward the vehicle.
    Stephen breathed deeply.
    One chance . . .
    Zero your weapon, Soldier.
    Normal come-up elevation at 316 yards is three minutes, sir. He clicked the sight so that the barrel would be pointed upward slightly to take gravity into account.
    One shot . . .
    Calculate the crosswind, Soldier.
    Sir, the formula is range in hundreds of yards times velocity divided by fifteen. Stephen’s mind thought instantly: Slightly less than one minute of windage. He adjusted the telescope accordingly.
    Sir, I am ready, sir.
    One kill . . .
    A shaft of light streamed from behind a cloud and lit the front of the office. Stephen began to breathe slowly and evenly.
    He was lucky; the worms stayed away. And there were no faces watching him from the windows.

 . . . Chapter Eleven
    Hour 4 of 45
    T he medic rolled out of the ambulance.
    She nodded to him. “I’m Officer Sachs.”
    He aimed his rotund belly her way and, straight-faced, said, “So. You ordered the pizza?” Then giggled.
    She sighed. “What happened?” Sachs said.
    “What happened? T’him? He got himself dead’s what happened.” He looked her over, shook his head. “What kinda cop are you? I never seen you up here.”
    “I’m from the city.”
    “Oh, the city. She’s from the city. Well, better ask,” he added gravely. “You ever see a body before?”
    Sometimes you bend just a little. Learning how and how far takes some doing but it’s a valuable lesson. Sometimes more than valuable, sometimes necessary. She smiled. “You know, we’ve got a realcritical situation here. I’d sure appreciate your help. Could you tell me where you found him?”
    He studied her chest for a moment. “Reason I ask about seeing bodies is this one’s gonna bother you. I could do what needs to be done, searching it or whatever.”
    “Thanks. We’ll get to that. Now, again, where’d you find him?”
    “Dumpster in a parking lot ’bout two clicks—”
    “That’s miles,” another voice added.
    “Hey, Jim,” the medic said.
    Sachs turned. Oh, great. It was the GQ cop. The one who’d been flirting with her on the taxiway. He strode up to the ambulance.
    “Hi, honey. Me again. How’s your police tape holdin’ up? Whatcha got, Earl?”
    “One body, no