The Coffin Dancer

water ahead, Sachs looked down at the floor.
    What was this all about?
    When she glanced up and saw her words weren’t registering, she said, “I know how you feel about her. And she doesn’t admit it, but I know how she feels about you.”
    “Who?”
    “You know who. Percey Clay. You’re thinking she’s a widow, she’s not going to want someone in her life right now. But . . . You heard what Talbot said—Carney had a girlfriend. A woman in the office. Percey knew about it. They stayed together because they were friends. And because of the Company.”
    “I never—”
    “Go for it, Rhyme. Come on. I really mean that. You think it’d never work. But she doesn’t care about your situation. Hell, look at what she said the other day. She was right—you’re both real similar.”
    There are times when you just need to lift your hands and let them flop into your lap in frustration. Rhyme settled for nestling his head in his luxurious down pillow. “Sachs, where on earth did you get this idea?”
    “Oh, please. It’s so obvious. I’ve seen how you’ve been since she showed up. How you look at her. How obsessed you’ve been to save her. I know what’s going on.”
    “What is going on?”
    “She’s like Claire Trilling, the woman who left you a few years ago. That’s who you want.”
    Oh . . . He nodded. So that’s it.
    He smiled. Said, “Sure, Sachs, I have been thinking about Claire a lot the past few days. I lied when I said I hadn’t been.”
    “Whenever you mentioned her I could tell you were still in love with her. I know that after the accident she never saw you again. I figured it was still an open book for you. Like me and Nick after he left me. You met Percey and she reminded you of Claire all over again. You realized that you could be with someone again. With her, I mean. Not . . . not with me. Hey, that’s life.”
    “Sachs,” he began, “it’s not Percey you should’ve been jealous of. She’s not the one that booted you out of bed the other night.”
    “No?”
    “It was the Dancer.”
    Another splash of wine in her glass. She swirled it and looked down at the pale liquid. “I don’t understand.”
    “The other night?” He sighed. “I had to draw the line between us, Sachs. I’m already too close to you for my own good. If we’re going to keep working together, I had to keep that barrier up. Don’t you see? I can’t be close to you, not that close, and still send you in harm’s way. I can’t let it happen again.”
    “Again?” She was frowning, then her face flooded with understanding.
    Ah, that’s my Amelia, he thought. A fine criminalist. A good shot. And she’s quick as a fox.
    “Oh no, Lincoln, Claire was . . . ”
    He was nodding. “She was the tech I assigned to search the crime scene in Wall Street after the Dancer’s hit five years ago. She was the one who reached into the wastebasket and pulled out the paper that set off the bomb.”
    Which is why he’d been so obsessed with the man. Why he’d wanted, so uncharacteristically, to debrief the killer. He wanted to catch the man who’d killed his lover. Wanted to know all about him.
    It was revenge, undiluted revenge. When Lon Sellitto—who’d known about Claire—had wondered if it might not be better for Percey and Hale to leave town, he was asking if Rhyme’s personal feelings weren’t intruding into the case.
    Well, yes, they were. But Lincoln Rhyme, for all the overwhelming stasis of his present life, was asmuch a hunter as the falcons on his window ledge. Every criminalist is. And when he scented his prey he wouldn’t be stopped.
    “So, that’s it, Sachs. It has nothing to do with Percey. And as much as I wanted you to spend the night—to spend every night—I can’t risk loving you any more than I do.”
    It was so astonishing—bewildering—to Lincoln Rhyme to be having this conversation. After the accident he’d come to believe that the oak beam that had snapped his spine actually did its worst damage to his heart, killing all sensation within it. And his ability to love and be loved were as crushed as the thin fiber of his spinal cord. But the other night, Sachs close to him, he’d realized how wrong he was.
    “You understand, don’t you, Amelia?” Rhyme whispered.
    “Last names only,” she said, smiling, walking close to the bed.
    She bent down and kissed him on the mouth. He pressed back into his pillow for a moment then returned the kiss.
    “No, no,” he