Jeffery Deaver - The Coffin Dancer

He paused outside the office he believed was the one with the window opening onto the alley – the one with the blowing curtain. Stephen reached for the doorknob.

But instinct told him to change his plans. He decided to try the basement. He found the stairs and descended into the musty warren of basement rooms.

Stephen worked his way silently toward the side of the building closest to the safe house and pushed open a steel door. He walked into a dimly lit twenty-by-twenty room filled with boxes and old appliances. He found a head-high window that opened onto the alley.

It’d be a tight fit. He’d have to remove the glass and the frame. But once he was out he could slip directly behind a pile of trash bags and in a sniper’s low crawl make his way to the fire door of the safe house. Much safer than the window upstairs.

Stephen thought: I’ve done it.

He’d fooled them all.

Fooled Lincoln the Worm! This gave him as much pleasure as killing the two victims would.

He took a screwdriver from his book bag and began to work the glazier’s putty out of the window. The gray wads came away slowly and he was so absorbed in his task that by the time he dropped the screwdriver and got his hand on the butt of his Beretta, the man was on top of him, shoving a pistol into Stephen’s neck and telling him in a whisper, “You move an inch and you’re dead.”

Hour 23 of 45

SHORT-BARREL, PROBABLY COLT OR SMITTIE or Dago knockoff, not fired recently. Or oiled.

I smell rust.

And what does a rusty gun tell us, Soldier?

Plenty, sir.

Stephen Kall lifted his hands.

The high, unsteady voice said, “Drop your gun over there. And your walkie-talkie.”

Walkie-talkie?

“Come on, do it. I’ll blow your brains out.” The voice crackled with desperation. He sniffled wetly.

Soldier, do professionals threaten?

Sir, they do not. This man is an amateur. Should we immobilize him?

Not yet. He still represents a threat.

Sir, yessir.

Stephen dropped his gun on a cardboard box.

“Where…? Come on, where’s your radio?”

“I don’t have a radio,” Stephen said.

“Turn around. And don’t try anything.”

Stephen eased around and found himself looking at a skinny man with darting eyes. He was filthy and looked sick. His nose ran and his eyes were an alarming red. His thick brown hair was matted. And he stank. Homeless, probably. A wino, his stepfather would have called him. Or a hophead.

The old battered snub-nose Colt was thrust forward at Stephen’s belly and the hammer was back. It wouldn’t take much for the cams to slip, especially if it was old. Stephen smiled a benign smile. He didn’t move a muscle. “Look,” he said, “I don’t want any trouble.”

“Where’s your radio?” the man blurted.

“I don’t have a radio.”

The man nervously patted his captive’s chest. Stephen could have killed him easily – the man’s attention kept wandering. He felt the skittering fingers glide over his body, probing. Finally the man stepped back. “Where’s your partner?”

“Who?”

“Don’t give me any shit. You know.”

Suddenly cringey again. Wormy… Something was wrong. “I really don’t know what you mean.”

“The cop who was just here.”

“Cop?” Stephen whispered. “In this building?”

The man’s rheumy eyes flickered with uncertainty. “Yeah. Aren’t you his partner?”

Stephen walked to the window and looked out.

“Hold it. I’ll shoot.”

“Point that someplace else,” Stephen commanded, glancing over his shoulder. No longer worried about slipping cams. He was beginning to see the extent of his mistake. He felt sick to his stomach.

The man’s voice cracked as he threatened, “Stop. Right there. I fucking mean it.”

“Are they in the alley too?” Stephen asked calmly.

A moment of confused silence. “You really aren’t a cop?”

“Are they in the alley too?” Stephen repeated firmly.

The man looked uneasily around the room. “A bunch of them were a while ago. They’re the ones put those trash bags there. I don’t know ’bout now.”

Stephen stared into the alley. The trash bags… They’d been left there to lure me out. False cover.

“If you signal anybody, I swear -”

“Oh, be quiet.” Stephen scanned the alley slowly, patient as a boa, and finally he saw a faint shadow on the cobblestones – behind a Dumpster. It moved an inch or two.

And on top of the building behind the safe house – on the elevator tower – he saw a ripple of shadow. They were too good to let their gun muzzles show but not good enough to think about blocking the light reflecting upward from the standing water that covered the roof of the building.

Jesus, Lord… Somehow Lincoln the Fucking Worm had known that Stephen wouldn’t buy the setup about the Twentieth Precinct. They’d been expecting him here all along. Lincoln had even figured out his strategy – that Stephen would try to get through the alley from this very building.

The face in the window…

Stephen suddenly had the absurd idea that it had been Lincoln the Worm in Alexandria, Virginia, standing in the window, lit with rosy light, looking at him. He couldn’t have been the one, of course. Still, that impossibility didn’t stop the cringey, pukey nausea from unfurling in Stephen’s gut.

The chocked door, the open window, and the fluttering curtain… a fucking welcome mat. And the alley: a perfect kill zone.

The only thing that had saved him was his instinct.

Lincoln the Worm had set him up.

Who the hell is he?

Rage boiled him. A wave of heat swept over his body. If they were expecting him they’d be following S &S procedures – search and surveillance. Which meant the cop this little shit had seen would be coming back soon to check this room. Stephen spun around to the thin man. “When was the last time the cop checked in here?”

The man’s apprehensive eyes flickered, then blossomed with fear.

“Answer me,” Stephen snapped, despite the black bore of the Colt pointed at him.

“Ten minutes ago.”

“What kind of weapon does he have?”

“I don’t know. I guess one of those fancy ones. Like a machine gun.”

“Who are you?” Stephen asked.

“I don’t have to answer your fucking questions,” the man said defiantly. He wiped his runny nose on his sleeve. And made the mistake of doing this with his gun hand. In a flash Stephen lifted the gun away from him and shoved the little man to the floor.

“No! Don’t hurt me.”

“Shut up,” Stephen barked. Instinctively he opened the little Colt to see how many rounds were in the cylinder. There were none. “It’s empty?” he asked, incredulous.

The man shrugged. “I -”

“You were threatening me with an unloaded weapon?”

“Well… See, if they catch you and it’s not loaded, they don’t put you away for as long.”

Stephen didn’t understand the point. He thought he might just kill the man for the stupidity of carrying an unloaded gun. “What’re you doing here?”

“Just go away and leave me alone,” the man whimpered, struggling to climb to his feet.

Stephen dropped the Colt into his pocket then snagged his Beretta and trained it at the man’s head. “What are you doing here?”