The Coffin Dancer

the wall clock. It was now 10 A.M. Saturday.
    “We’ve got exactly forty-five hours. Thom, write, ‘Hour one of forty-five.’ ”
    The aide hesitated.
    “Write!”
    He did.
    Rhyme glanced at the others in the room. He saw their eyes flickering uncertainly among them, a skeptical frown on Sachs’s face. Her hand rose to her scalp and she scratched absently.
    “Think I’m being melodramatic?” he asked finally. “Think we don’t need a reminder?”
    No one spoke for a moment. Finally Sellitto said, “Well, Linc, I mean, it’s not like anything’s going to happen by then.”
    “Oh, yes, something’s going to happen,” Rhyme said, eyes on the male falcon as the muscular bird launched himself effortlessly into the air over Central Park. “By seven o’clock on Monday morning, either we’ll’ve nailed the Dancer or both our witnesses’ll be dead. There’re no other options.”
    The dense silence was broken by the chirp of Banks’s cell phone. He listened for a minute, then looked up. “Here’s something,” he said.
    “What?” Rhyme asked.
    “Those uniforms guarding Mrs. Clay and the other witness? Britton Hale?”
    “What about them?”
    “They’re at her town house. One of ’em just called in. Seems Mrs. Clay says there was a black van she’d never seen before parked on the block outside thehouse for the last couple days. Out-of-state plates.”
    “She get the tag? Or state?”
    “No,” Banks responded. “She said it was gone for a while last night after her husband left for the airport.”
    Sellitto stared at him.
    Rhyme’s head eased forward. “And?”
    “She said it was back this morning for a little while. It’s gone now. She was—”
    “Oh, Jesus,” Rhyme whispered.
    “What?” Banks asked.
    “Central!” the criminalist shouted. “Get on the horn to Central. Now!”

    A taxi pulled up in front of the Wife’s town house.
    An elderly woman got out and walked unsteadily to the door.
    Stephen watching, vigilant.
    Soldier, is this an easy shot?
    Sir, a shooter never thinks of a shot as easy. Every shot requires maximum concentration and effort. But, sir, I can make this shot and inflict lethal wounds, sir. I can turn my targets into jelly, sir.
    The woman climbed up the stairs and disappeared into the lobby. A moment later Stephen saw her appear in the Wife’s living room. There was a flash of white cloth—the Wife’s blouse again. The two of them hugged. Another figure stepped into the room. A man. A cop? He turned around. No, it was the Friend.
    Both targets, Stephen thought excitedly, only thirty yards away.
    The older woman—mother or mother-in-law—remained in front of the Wife as they talked, heads down.
    Stephen’s beloved Model 40 was in the van. But he wouldn’t need the sniper rifle for this shot, only the long-barrel Beretta. It was a wonderful gun. Old, battered, and functional. Unlike many mercenaries and pros, Stephen didn’t make a fetish out of his weapons. If a rock was the best way to kill a particular victim, he’d use a rock.
    He assessed his target, measuring angles of incidence, the window’s potential distortion and deflection. The old woman stepped away from the Wife and stood directly in front of the glass.
    Soldier, what is your strategy?
    He’d shoot through the window and hit the elderly woman high. She’d fall. The Wife would instinctively step forward toward her and bend over her, presenting a fair target. The Friend would run into the room too and would profile just fine.
    And what about the cops?
    A slight risk. But uniformed patrolmen were modest shots at best and had probably never been fired on in the line of duty. They’d be sure to panic.
    The lobby was still empty.
    Stephen pulled back the slide to cock the weapon and give himself the better control of squeezing the trigger in the gun’s single-action mode. He pushed the door open and blocked it with his foot, looked up and down the street.
    No one.
    Breathe, soldier. Breathe, breathe, breathe . . .
    He lowered the gun to his palm, the butt resting heavy in his gloved hand. He began applying imperceptible pressure to the trigger.
    Breathe, breathe.
    He stared at the old woman, and forgot completely about squeezing, forgot about aiming, forgot about the money he was making, forgot everything in the universe. He simply held the gun steady as a rock in his supple, relaxed hands and waited for the weapon to fire itself.

 . . . Chapter Five
    Hour 1 of 45
    T he elderly