Jeffery Deaver - The Coffin Dancer

“What is it?”

The cop shrugged. “He said it was shit from some truck treads. But that’s nuts. Must’ve been kidding.”

“No,” Rhyme said, “that’s exactly what it is.” He glanced at Cooper. Tire scrapings from the crash site.

The cop blinked. “You wanted that? Flown in from Chicago?”

“We’ve been waiting with bated breath.”

“Well. Life’s funny sometimes, ain’t it?”

And Lincoln Rhyme could only agree.

Professional flying is only partly about flying.

Flying is also about paperwork.

Littering the back of the van transporting Percey Clay to Mamaroneck Airport was a huge stack of books and charts and documents: NOS’s Airport/Facility Directory , the Airman’s Information Manual , the FAA’sNOTAMs – “Notices to Airmen” – and advisory circulars, and the Jeppesen “J-Aids,” the Airport and Information Directory. Thousands of pages. Mountains of information. Percey, like most pilots, knew much of it by heart. But she also wouldn’t think about driving an aircraft without going back to the original materials and studying them, literally, from the ground up.

With this information and her calculator she was filling out the two basic pre-flight documents: the navigation log and the flight plan. On the log she’d mark their altitude, calculate the course variations due to wind and the variance between true course and magnetic course, determine their ETE – estimated time en route – and come up with the Godhead number: the amount of fuel they’d need for the flight. Six cities, six different logs, dozens of checkpoints in between…

Then there was the FAA flight plan itself, on the reverse side of the navigation log. Once airborne, the copilot would activate the plan by calling the Flight Service Station at Mamaroneck, which would in turn call ahead to Chicago with Foxtrot Bravo’s estimated time of arrival. If the aircraft didn’t arrive at its destination within a half hour after ETA, it would be declared overdue and search-and-rescue procedures would start.

These were complicated documents and had to be calculated perfectly. If aircraft had unlimited fuel supplies they could rely on radio navigation and spend as much time as they wanted cruising from destination to destination at whatever altitudes they wanted. But not only was fuel expensive to begin with (and the twin Garrett turbofans burned an astonishing amount of it); it was also extremely heavy and cost a lot – in extra fuel charges – just to carry. On a long flight, especially with a number of fuel-hungry takeoffs, carrying too much gas could drastically erode the profit the Company was making on the flight. The FAA dictated that each flight have enough fuel to make it to the point of destination, plus a reserve, in the case of a night flight, of forty-five minutes’ flying time.

Fingers tapping over the calculators, Percey Clay filled in the forms in her precise handwriting. Careless about so much else in her life, she was meticulous about flying. The merest act of filling in ATIS frequencies or the magnetic heading variations gave her pleasure. She never scrimped, never estimated when accurate calculations were called for. Today, she submerged herself in the work.

Roland Bell was beside her. He was haggard and sullen. The good ole boy was long gone. She grieved for him, as much as for herself; it seemed that Brit Hale was the first witness he’d lost. She felt an unreasonable urge to touch his arm, to reassure him, as he’d done for her. But he seemed to be one of those men who, when faced with loss, disappear into themselves; any sympathy would jar. He was much like herself, she believed. Bell gazed out the window of the van, his hand frequently touching the checkered black grip of the pistol in his shoulder holster.

Just as she finished the last flight plan card, the van turned the corner and entered the airport, stopping for the armed guards, who examined their IDs and waved them through.

Percey directed them to the hangar but she noticed that the lights were still on in the office. She told the cars to stop and she climbed out, as Bell and her other bodyguards walked with her, vigilant and tense, into the main part of the office.

Ron Talbot, grease-stained and exhausted, sat in the office, wiping his sweating forehead. His face was an alarming red.

“Ron…” She hurried forward. “Are you all right?”

They embraced.

“Brit,” he said, shaking his head, gasping. “He got Brit too. Percey, you shouldn’t be here. Go someplace safe. Forget about the flight. It isn’t worth it.”

She stepped back. “What’s wrong? You sick?”

“Just tired.”

She took the cigarette out of his hand and stubbed it out. “You did the work yourself? On Foxtrot Bravo?”

“I -”

“Ron?”

“Most of it. It’s almost finished. The guy from Northeast delivered the fire extinguisher cartridge and the annular about an hour ago. I started to mount them. Just got a little tired.”

“Chest pains?”

“No, not really.”

“Ron, go home.”

“I can -”

“Ron,” she snapped, “I’ve lost two dear people in the last two days. I’m not going to lose a third… I can mount an annular. It’s a piece of cake.”

Talbot looked like he couldn’t even lift a wrench, much less a heavy combustor.

Percey asked, “Where’s Brad?” The FO for the flight.

“On his way. Be here in an hour.”

She kissed his sweaty forehead. “You get home. And lay off the weeds, for God’s sake. You crazy?”

He hugged her. “Percey, about Brit…”

She hushed him with a finger to her lips. “Home. Get some sleep. When you wake up I’ll be in Erie and we’ll have ourselves that contract. Signed, sealed, and delivered.”

He struggled to his feet, stood for a moment looking out the window at Foxtrot Bravo. His face revealed an acrid bitterness. It was the same look she’d remembered in his milky eyes when he’d told her that he’d flunked his physical and could no longer fly for a living. Talbot headed out the door.

It was time to get to work. She rolled up her sleeves, motioned Bell over to her. He lowered his head to her in a way she found charming. The same pose Ed had fallen into when she was speaking softly. She said, “I’m going to need a few hours in the hangar. Can you keep that son of a bitch off me until then?”

No down-home aphorisms, no done deals. Roland Bell, the man with two guns, nodded solemnly, his eyes moving quickly from shadow to shadow.

They had a mystery on their hands.

Cooper and Sachs had examined all the trace found in the treads of the Chicago fire trucks and police cars that had been at the scene of the Ed Carney crash. There was the useless dirt, dog shit, grass, oil, and garbage that Rhyme had expected to find. But they made one discovery that he felt was important.

He just didn’t have a clue what it meant.

The only batch of trace exhibiting indications of bomb residue were tiny fragments of a pliable beige substance. The gas chromatograph/mass spectrometer reported it was C 5H 8.

“Isoprene,” Cooper reflected.

“What’s that?” Sachs asked.

“Rubber,” Rhyme answered.

Cooper continued. “I’m also reading fatty acids. Dyes, talcum.”

“Any hardening agents?” Rhyme asked. “Clay? Magnesium carbonate? Zinc oxide?”

“None.”

“It’s soft rubber. Like latex.”

“And little fragments of rubber cement too,” Cooper added, peering at a sample in the compound microscope. “Bingo,” he said.

“Don’t tease, Mel,” Rhyme grumbled.

“Bits of soldering and tiny pieces of plastic embedded in the rubber. Circuit boards.”