The Coffin Dancer by Jeffery Deaver Read Free Book Online Page B

alive. But the face in the window was like a worm crawling up his leg.
    Cringey ...
    Which was exactly what he felt now, seeing the lines of officers moving toward him from both directions on Lexington. Cars were honking, drivers were angry. But the police paid no mind; they continued their dogged search. It was just a matter of minutes until they spotted him—an athletic white man by himself, carrying a guitar case that might easily contain the best sniper rifle God put on this earth.
    His eyes went to the black, grimy windows overlooking the street.
    He prayed he wouldn’t see a face looking out.
    Soldier, the fuck you talking about?
    Sir, I—
    Reconnoiter, Soldier.
    Sir, yessir.
    A burnt, bitter smell came to him.
    He turned around and found he was standing outside a Starbucks. He walked in and while he pretended to read the menu in fact he surveyed the customers.
    At a table by herself a large woman sat in one of the flimsy, uncomfortable chairs. She was reading a magazine and nursing a tall cup of tea. She was in her early thirties, dumpy, with a broad face and a thick nose. Starbucks, he free-associated ... Seattle ... dyke?
    But, no, he didn’t think so. She pored over the Vogue in her hands with envy, not lust.
    Stephen bought a cup of Celestial Seasonings tea, chamomile. He picked up the container and started to walk toward a seat at the window. Stephen was just passing the woman’s table when the cup slipped from his hand and dropped onto the chair opposite her, spraying the hot tea all over the floor. She slid back in surprise, looking up at the horrified expression on Stephen’s face.
    “Oh, my goodness,” he whispered, “I am sooo sorry.” He lunged for a handful of napkins. “Tell me I didn’t get any on you. Please!”
     
    Percey Clay pulled away from the young detective who held her pinned to the floor.
    Ed’s mother, Joan Carney, lay a few feet away, her face frozen in shock and bewilderment.
    Brit Hale was up against the wall, covered by two strong cops. It looked as if they were arresting him.
    “I’m sorry, ma’am, Mrs. Clay,” one cop said. “We—”
    “What’s going on?” Hale seemed mystified. Unlike Ed and Ron Talbot and Percey herself, Hale had never been military, never come close to combat. He was fearless—he always wore long sleeves instead of a pilots’ traditional short-sleeve white shirt to hide the leathery burn scars on his arms from the time a few years ago he’d climbed into a flaming Cessna 150 to rescue a pilot and passenger. But the idea of malice and crime—intentional harm—was wholly alien to him.
    “We got a call from the task force,” the detective explained. “They think the man who killed Mr. Carney has been back. Probably to come after you two. Mr. Rhyme thinks the killer was the one driving that black van you saw today.”
    “Well, we have those men to guard us,” Percey snapped, tossing her head to the cops who’d arrived earlier.
    “Jesus,” Hale muttered, looking outside. “There must be twenty cops out there.”
    “Away from the window, please, sir,” the detective said firmly. “He could be on a rooftop. The site’s not secure yet.”
    Percey heard footsteps running up the stairs. “The roof?” she asked sourly. “Maybe he’s tunneling into the basement.” She put her arm around Mrs. Carney. “You all right, Mother?”
    “What’s going on, what is all this?”
    “They think you might be in danger,” the officer said. “Not you, ma’am,” he added to Ed’s mother. “Mrs. Clay and Mr. Hale here. Because they’re witnesses in that case. We were told to secure the premises and take them to the command post.”
    “They talk to him yet?” Hale asked.
    “Don’t know who that’d be, sir.”
    The lean man answered, “The guy we’re witnesses against. Hansen.” Hale’s world was the world of logic. Of reasonable people. Of machines and numbers and hydraulics. His three marriages had failed because the only place where