The Coffin Dancer

minimums, she estimated. Wind 090 at five knots. Quarter mile visibility. She hoped the weather cleared for the flight tonight. Oh, she could fly in any weather—and had. Anyone with an IFR ticket—instrument flight rules rating—could take off, fly, and land in dense overcast. (In fact, with their computers, transponders, radar, and collision avoidance systems, most commercial airliners could fly themselves—even setting down for a perfect, hands-free landing.) But Percey liked to fly in clear weather. She liked to see the ground pass by beneath her. The lights at night. The clouds. And above her the stars.
    All the stars of evening . . .
    She thought again of Ed and her call to his mother in New Jersey last night. They’d made plans for his memorial service. She wanted to think some more about it, work on the guest list, plan the reception.
    But she couldn’t. Her mind was preoccupied with Lincoln Rhyme.
    Recalling the conversation they’d had yesterday behind closed doors in his bedroom—after the fight with that officer Amelia Sachs.
    She’d sat next to Rhyme in an old armchair. He’d studied her for a moment, looking her up and down. A curious sensation came over her. His wasn’t a personal perusal—not the way men looked over some women (not her, of course) in bars or on the street. It was the way a senior pilot might study her before their first flight together. Checking her authority, her demeanor, her quickness of thought. Her courage.
    She’d pulled her flask from her pocket but Rhyme had shaken his head and suggested eighteen-year-old scotch. “Thom thinks I drink too much,” he’d said. “Which I do. But what’s life without vices, right?”
    She’d given a wan laugh. “My father’s a purveyor.”
    “Of booze? Or vice in general?”
    “Cigarettes. Executive with U.S. Tobacco in Richmond. Excuse me. They’re not called that anymore. It’s U.S. Consumer Products or something like that.”
    There was a flutter of wings outside the window.
    “Oh.” She’d laughed. “It’s a tiercel.”
    Rhyme had followed her gaze out the window. “A what?”
    “A male peregrine. Why’s his aerie down here? They nest higher in the city.”
    “I don’t know. I woke up one morning and there they were. You know falcons?”
    “Sure.”
    “Hunt with them?” he’d asked.
    “I used to. I had a tiercel I used for hunting partridge. I got him as an eyas.”
    “What’s that?”
    “A young bird in the nest. They’re easier to train.” She’d examined the nest carefully, a faint smile on her face. “But my best hunter was a haggard—a mature goshawk. Female. They’re bigger than the males, better killers. Hard to work with. But she’d take anything—rabbit, hare, pheasant.”
    “You still have her?”
    “Oh, no. One day, she was waiting on—that means hovering, looking for prey. Then she just changed her mind. Let a big fat pheasant get away. Flew into a thermal that took her hundreds of feet up. Disappeared into the sun. I staked bait for a month but she never came back.”
    “She just vanished?”
    “Happens with haggards,” she’d said, shrugging unsentimentally. “Hey, they’re wild animals. But we had a good six months together.” It was this falcon that had been the inspiration for the Hudson Air logo. She’d nodded toward the window. “You’re lucky for the company. Have you named them?”
    Rhyme’d given a scornful laugh. “Not the kind of thing I’d do. Thom tried. I laughed him out of the room.”
    “Is that Officer Sachs really going to arrest me?”
    “Oh, I think I can persuade her not to. Say, I have to tell you something.”
    “Go ahead.”
    “You have a choice to make, you and Hale. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
    “Choice?”
    “We can get you out of town. To a witness protection facility. With the right evasive maneuvers I’m pretty sure we can lose the Dancer and keep you safe for the grand jury.”
    “But?” she’d asked.
    “But he’ll keep after you. And even after the grand jury you’ll still be a threat to Phillip Hansen because you’ll have to testify at trial. That could be months away.”
    “The grand jury might not indict him, no matter what we say,” Percey’d pointed out. “Then there’s no point in killing us.”
    “It doesn’t matter. Once the Dancer’s been hired to kill someone he doesn’t stop until they’re dead. Besides, the prosecutors’ll go after Hansen for killing your husband and