Jeffery Deaver - The Coffin Dancer

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 in a 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.

Hour 4 of 45

THE 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 real critical 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 hands.” Earl yanked the door open, reached in, and unzipped the body bag. Blood flowed out onto the floor of the ambulance.

“Ooops.” Earl winked. “Say, Jim, after you’re through here, wanna get some spaghetti?”

“Mebbe pig’s knuckles.”

“There’s a thought.”

Rhyme interrupted. “Sachs, what’s going on there? You got the body?”

“I’ve got it. Trying to figure out the story.” To the medic she said, “We’ve gotta move on this. Anybody have any idea who he is?”

“Wasn’t anything around to ID him. No missing persons reported. Nobody saw nothing.”

“Any chance he’s a cop?”

“Naw. Nobody I know,” Jim said. “You, Earl?”

“Nup. Why?”

Sachs didn’t answer. She said, “I need to examine him.”

“Okay, miss,” Earl said. “How ’bout I give you a hand?”

“Hell,” the trooper said, “sounds like he’s the one needs a hand.” He chuckled; the medic gave another of his piggy giggles.

She climbed up in the back of the ambulance and unzipped the body bag completely.

And because she wasn’t going to tug off her jeans and have intercourse with them or at the very least flirt back, they had no choice but to torment her further.

“The thing is, this isn’t the kind of traffic detail you’re probably used to,” Earl said to her. “Hey, Jim, this as bad as the one you saw last week?”

“That head we found?” The cop mused, “Hell, I’d rather have a fresh head any day than a month-er. You ever seen a month-er, honey? Now, they’re about as unpleasant as can be. Give a body three, four months in the water, hey, not a problem – mostly just bones. But you get one’s been simmering for a month…”

“Nasty,” Earl said. “Uck-o.”

“You ever seen a month-er, honey?”

“ ’Preciate your not saying that, Jim,” she said absently to the cop.

“ ‘Month-er’?”

“ ‘Honey.’ ”

“Sure, sorry.”

“Sachs,” Rhyme snapped, “what the hell is going on?”

“No ID, Rhyme. Nobody’s got a clue as to who it is. Hands removed with a fine-bladed razor saw.”

“Is Percey safe? Hale?”

“They’re in the office. Banks’s with them. Away from the windows. What’s the word on the van?”

“Should be there in ten minutes. You’ve got to find out about that body.”

“You talking to yourself, hon – Officer?”

Sachs studied the poor man’s body. She guessed the hands had been removed just after he’d died, or as he was dying, because of the copious amount of blood. She pulled on her latex examining gloves.

“It’s strange, Rhyme. Why’s he only partially ID-proofed?”

If killers don’t have time to dispose of a body completely they ID-proof it by removing the main points of identification: the hands and the teeth.

“I don’t know,” the criminalist responded. “It’s not like the Dancer to be careless, even if he was in a hurry. What’s he wearing?”

“Just skivvies. No clothes or other ID found at the scene.”

“Why,” Rhyme mused, “did the Dancer pick him?”

“ If it was the Dancer did this.”

“How many bodies turn up like that in Westchester?”

“To hear the locals tell it,” she said ruefully, “every other day.”

“Tell me about the corpse. COD?”

“You determine the cause of death?” she called to chubby Earl.

“Strangled,” the tech said.

But Sachs noticed right away there were no petechial hemorrhages on the inner surface of the eyelids. No damage to the tongue either. Most strangulation victims bite their tongue at some point during the attack.

“I don’t think so.”