"Hey, now's your chance to," Sellitto said.
Flipping through the tattered pages again. Sighing. "Whatta I gotta do?"
Dellray pointed an alarmingly long thumb toward the ceiling. His mark of approval.
"We'll get to that in a minute," Rhyme said, looking around the room. Suddenly he shouted, "Thom! Thom! Come here. I need you."
The handsome, exasperated face of the aide poked around the corner. "Yessss?"
"I'm feeling vain," Rhyme announced dramatically.
"What?"
"I'm feeling vain. I need a mirror."
"You want a mirror?"
"A big one. And would you please comb my hair. I keep asking you and you keep forgetting."
The U.S. Medical and Healthcare van pulled onto the tarmac. If the two white-jacketed employees, carting a quarter million dollars' worth of human organs, were concerned about the machine-gun-armed cops ringing the field, they gave no indication of it.
The only time they flinched was when King, the bomb squad German shepherd, sniffed the cargo cases for explosives.
"Uhm, I'd watch that dog there," one of the deliverymen said uneasily. "I imagine to them liver's liver and heart's heart."
But King behaved like a thorough professional and signed off on the cargo without sampling any. The men carried the containers on board, loaded them into the refrigeration units. Percey returned to the cockpit where Brad Torgeson, a sandy-haired young pilot who flew occasional freelance jobs for Hudson Air, was going through the pre-flight check.
They'd both already done the walkaround, accompanied by Bell, three troopers, and King. There was no way the Dancer could have gotten to the plane in the first place, but the killer now had a reputation of materializing out of thin air; this was the most meticulous pre-flight visual in the history of aviation.
Looking back into the passenger compartment, Percey could see the lights of the refrigeration units. She felt that tug of satisfaction she always felt when inanimate machinery, built and honed by humans, came to life. The proof of God, for Percey Clay, could be found in the hum of servomotors and the buoyancy of a sleek metal wing at that instant when the airfoil creates negative top pressure and you become weightless.
Continuing with the pre-flight checklist, Percey was startled by the sound of heavy breathing next to her.
"Whoa," Brad said as King decided there were no explosives in his crotch and continued his examination of the inside of the plane.
Rhyme had spoken to Percey not long ago and told her that he and Amelia Sachs had examined the gaskets and tubing and found no match for the latex discovered at the crash site in Chicago. Rhyme got the idea that he might have used the rubber to seal the explosives so that the dogs couldn't smell it. So he had Percey and Brad stand down for a few minutes while Tech Services went through the entire plane, inside and out, with hypersensitive microphones, listening for a detonator timer.
Clean.
When the plane rolled out, the taxiway would be guarded by uniformed patrolmen. Fred Dellray had contacted the FAA to arrange that the flight plan be sealed, so that the Dancer couldn't learn where the plane was going--if he even knew that Percey was at the helm. The agent had also contacted the FBI field offices in each of the arrival cities and arranged for tactical agents to be on the tarmac when the shipments were delivered.
Now, engines started, Brad in the right-hand seat and Roland Bell shifting uneasily in one of the two remaining passenger seats, Percey Clay spoke to the tower, "Lear Six Niner Five Foxtrot Bravo at Hudson Air. Ready for taxi."
"Roger, Niner Five Foxtrot Bravo. Cleared onto taxiway zero nine right."
"Zero nine right, Niner Five Foxtrot Bravo."
A touch to the smooth throttles and the spritely plane turned onto the taxiway and proceeded through the gray, early spring evening. Percey was driving. Copilots have flight authority but only the pilot can steer the plane on the ground.
"You having fun, Officer?" she called back to Bell.
"I'm just tickled," he said, looking sourly out the large round window. "You know, you can see straight down. I mean, the windows go so far round. Why'd they make it that way?"
Percey laughed. She called out, "On airliners, they try to keep you from realizing you're flying. Movies, food, small windows. Where's the fun? What's the point?"
"I can see a point or two," he said, chewing his Wrigley's with energetic teeth. He closed the curtain.
Percey's eyes were on the taxiway, checking left and right, always vigilant. To Brad she said, "I'll do the briefing now. Okay?"
"Yes'm."
"This'll be a rolling takeoff with flaps set to fifteen degrees," Percey said. "I'll advance the throttles. You call airspeed, eighty knots, cross-check, V one, rotate, V two, and positive rate. I'll command gear up and you raise it. Got that?"
"Airspeed, eighty, V one, rotate, V two, positive rate. Gear."
"Good. You'll monitor all instruments and the annunciator panel. Now, if we get a red panel light or there's an engine malfunction before V one, sing out 'Abort' loud and clear and I'll make a go/no-go decision. If there's a malfunction at or after V one, we will continue the takeoff and we'll treat the situation as an in-flight emergency. We will continue on heading and you'll request VFR clearance for an immediate return to the airport. Understood?"
"Understood."
"Good. Let's do some flying . . . You ready, Roland?"
"I'm ready. Hope you are. Don't drop your candy."
Percey laughed again. Their housekeeper in Richmond had used that expression. It meant, don't screw up.
She wobbled the throttles a little closer to the firewall. The engines gave a grinding sound and the Learjet sped forward. They continued to the hold position, where the killer had placed the bomb on Ed's plane. She looked out the window and saw two cops standing guard.
"Lear Niner Five Foxtrot Bravo," Ground Control called through the radio, "proceed to and hold short of runway five left."
"Foxtrot Bravo. Hold short of zero five left."
She steered onto the taxiway.
The Lear was a ground hugger, yet whenever Percey Clay sat in the left-hand seat, whether in the air or on the ground, she felt that she was a mile high. It was a powerful place to be. All the decisions would be hers, followed unquestioningly. All the responsibility was on her shoulders. She was the captain.
Eyes scanning the instruments.
"Flaps fifteen, fifteen, green," she said, repeating the degree setting.
Doubling the redundancy, Brad said, "Flaps fifteen, fifteen, green."
ATC called, "Lear Niner Five Foxtrot Bravo, turn into position. Cleared for takeoff, runway five left."
"Five left, Foxtrot Bravo. Cleared for takeoff."
Brad concluded the takeoff checklist. "Pressurization, normal. Temperature select is in auto. Transponder and exterior lights on. Ignition, pitot heat, and strobes, your side."
Percey checked those controls, said, "Ignition, pitot heat, and strobes on."
She turned the Lear onto the runway, straightened the nosewheel, and lined up with centerline. She glanced at the compass. "All heading indicators check zero five. Runway five L. I'm setting power."
She pushed the throttles forward. They began racing down the middle of the concrete strip. She felt his hand grip the throttles just below hers.
"Power set." Then Brad called, "Airspeed alive," as the airspeed indicators jumped off the peg and started to move upward, twenty knots, forty knots . . .
The throttles nearly to the fire wall, the plane shot forward. She heard a "wayl . . . " from Roland Bell and repressed a smile.
Fifty knots, sixty knots, seventy . . .
"Eighty knots," Brad called out, "cross-check."
"Check," she called after a glance at the airspeed indicator.
"V one," Brad sang out. "Rotate."
Percey removed her right hand from the throttles and took the yoke. Wobbly until now, the plastic control suddenly grew firm with air resistance.
She eased back, rotating the Lear upward to the standard seven-and-a-half-degree incline. The engines continued to roar smoothly and so she pulled back slightly more, increasing the climb to ten degrees.
"Positive rate," Brad called.
"Gear up. Flaps up. Yaw damp on."
Through the headphone came the voice of ATC. "Lear Niner Five Foxtrot Bravo, turn left heading two eight oh. Contact departure control."
"Two eight oh, Niner Five Foxtrot Bravo. Thank you, sir."
"Good evening."
Tugging the yoke a bit more, eleven degrees, twelve, fourteen . . . Leaving the power settings at takeoff level, higher than normal, for a few minutes. Hearing the sweet grind of the turbofans behind her, the slipstream.
And in this sleek silver needle, Percey Clay felt herself flying into the heart of the sky, leaving behind the cumbersome, the heavy, the painful. Leaving behind Ed's death and Brit's, leaving behind even that terrible man, the devil, the Coffin Dancer. All of the hurt, all of the uncertainty, all of the ugliness were trapped far below her, and she was free. It seemed unfair that she should escape these stifling burdens so easily, but that was the fact of it. For the Percey Clay who sat in the left-hand seat of Lear N695FB was not Percey Clay the short girl with the squat face, or Percey Clay the girl whose only sex appeal was the lure of Daddy's chopped-tobacco money. It wasn't Per-ceee Pug, Percey the Mug, Percey the Troll, the awkward brunette struggling with the ill-fitting gloves at her cotillion, on the arm of her mortified cousin, surrounded by willowy blondes who nodded at her with pleasant smiles and stored up the sight for a gossip fest later.
That wasn't the real Percey Clay.
This was.
Another gasp from Roland Bell. He must have peeked through the window curtain during their alarming bank.
"Mamaroneck departure, Lear Niner Five Foxtrot Bravo with you out of two thousand."
"Evening, Five Foxtrot Bravo. Climb and maintain six thousand."
And then they began the mundane tasks of setting nav com for the VOR frequencies that would guide them to Chicago as straight as a samurai's arrow.
At six thousand feet they broke through the cloud cover into a sky that was as spectacular as any sunset Percey had ever seen. Not really an outdoor person, she never grew tired of the sight of beautiful skies. Percey allowed herself a single sentimental thought--that it would have been a very good thing if Ed's last sight had been as beautiful as this.
At twenty-one thousand feet she said, "Your aircraft."
Brad responded, "Got it."
"Coffee?"
"Love some."
She stepped into the back of the plane, poured three cups, took one to Brad, and then sat down next to Roland Bell, who took the cup in shaking hands.
"How you doing?" she asked.
"It's not like I get airsick. It's just I get"--his face folded--"well, nervous as a . . . " There were probably a thousand good Tarheel similes to choose from, but for once his southern talk failed him. "Just nervous," he concluded.
"Take a look," she said, pointing out the cockpit window.
He eased forward in the seat and looked out the windshield. She watched his craggy face blossom in surprise as they stared into the maw of the sunset.
Bell whistled. "Well, now. Lookit that . . . Say, that was a real rush, takeoff."
"She's a sweet bird. You ever hear of Brooke Knapp?"
"Don't believe so."
"Businesswoman in California. Set an around-the-world speed record in a Lear thirty-five A--what we're in right now. Took her a hair over fifty hours. I'm going to break that someday."
"I don't doubt you are." Calmer now. Eyes on the controls. "Looks awful complicated."
She sipped the coffee. "There's a trick to flying we don't tell people. Sort of a trade secret. It's a lot simpler than you'd think."
"What's that?" he asked eagerly. "The trick?"
"Well, look outside. You see those colored lights on the wing tips?"
He didn't want to look, but he did. "Okay, got it."
"There's one on the tail too."
"Uh-huh. Remember seeing that, I think."
"All we have to do is make sure we keep the plane in between those lights and everything'll go fine."
"In between . . . " It took a moment for the joke to register. He gazed at her deadpan face for a minute, then smiled. "You get a lotta people with that one?"
"A few."
But the joke didn't really amuse him. His eyes were still on the carpet. After a long moment of silence she said, "Brit Hale could've said no, Roland. He knew the risks."
"No, he didn't," Bell answered. "Nope. He went along with what we had in mind, not knowing much of anything. I should've thought better. I should've guessed about the fire trucks. Should've guessed that the killer'd know where your rooms were. I could've put you in the basement, or someplace. And I could've shot better too."
Bell seemed so despondent that Percey could think of nothing to say. She rested her veiny hand on his forearm. He seemed thin, but he was really quite strong.
He gave a soft laugh. "You wanta know something?"
"What?"
"This is the first time I've seen you looking halfway comfortable since I met you."
"Only place I feel really at home," she said.
"We're going two hundred miles an hour a mile up in the air and you feel safe." Bell sighed.
"No, we're going four hundred miles an hour, four miles up."
"Uh. Thanks for sharing that."
"There's an old pilot's saying," Percey said. " 'Saint Peter doesn't count the time spent flying, and he doubles the hours you spend on the ground.' "
"Funny," Bell said. "My uncle said something like that too. Only he used it talking about fishing. I'd vote for his version over yours any day. Nothing personal."
. . . Chapter Thirty-one
Hour 33 of 45
Worms . . .
Stephen Kall, sweating, stood in a filthy bathroom in the back of a Cuban Chinese restaurant.
Scrubbing to save his soul.
Worms gnawing, worms eating, worms swarming . . .
Clean 'em away . . . Clean them away!!!
Soldier--
Sir, I'm busy, sir.
Sol--
Scrub, scrub, scrub, scrub.
Lincoln the Worm is looking for me.
Everywhere Lincoln the Worm looks, worms appear.
Go away!!!
The brush moved whisk, whisk, back and forth until his cuticles bled.
Soldier, that blood is evidence. You can't--
Go away!!!
He dried his hands then grabbed the Fender guitar case and the book bag, pushed into the restaurant.
Soldier, your gloves--
The alarmed patrons stared at his bloody hands, his crazed expression. "Worms," he muttered in explanation to the entire restaurant, "fucking worms," then burst outside onto the street.
Hurrying down the sidewalk, calming. He was thinking about what he had to do. He had to kill Jodie, of course. Have to kill him have to kill him have to . . . Not because he was a traitor, but because he'd given away so much information--
And why the fuck d'you do that, Soldier?
--about himself to the man. And he had to kill Lincoln the Worm because . . . because the worms would get him if he didn't.
Have to kill have to have to have . . .
Are you listening to me, Soldier? Are you?
That was all there was left to do.
Then he'd leave this city. Head back to West Virginia. Back to the hills.
Lincoln, dead.
Jodie, dead.
Have to kill have to have to have to . . .
Nothing more to keep him here.
As for the Wife--he looked at his watch. Just after 7 P.M. Well, she was probably dead already.
"'Sbulletproof."
"Against those bullets?" Jodie asked. "You said they blow up!"
Dellray assured him it was effective. The vest was thick Kevl
ar on top of a steel sheet. It weighed forty-two pounds and Rhyme didn't know a cop in the city who wore a vest like this, or ever would.
"But what if he shoots my head?"
"He wants me a lot more than he wants you," Rhyme said.
"And how's he gonna know I'm staying here?"
"How d'ya think, mutt?" Dellray snapped. "I'ma tell him."
The agent cinched up the little man tight in the vest and tossed him a windbreaker. He'd showered--after protesting--and had been given a set of clean clothes. The large navy blue jacket, covering the bulletproof vest, was a little lopsided but actually gave him a muscular physique. He caught sight of himself in the mirror--his scrubbed and newly attired self--and smiled for the first time since he'd been here.
"Okay," Sellitto said to two undercover officers, "take him downtown."
The officers ushered him out the door.
After he'd left, Dellray looked at Rhyme, who nodded. The lanky agent sighed and flicked open his cell phone, placed a call to Hudson Air Charters, where another agent was waiting to pick up the phone. The fed's tech group had found a remote tap on a relay box near the airport, clipped into the Hudson Air phone lines. The agents hadn't removed it, though; in fact at Rhyme's insistence they checked to make sure it was working and had replaced the weak batteries. The criminalist was relying on the device for the new trap.
On the speakerphone, several rings then a click.
"Agent Mondale," came the deep voice. Mondale wasn't Mondale and he was speaking according to a prewritten script.
"Mondale," Dellray said, sounding lily white, to a Connecticut manor born. "Agent Wilson here, we're at Lincoln's now." (Not "Rhyme"; the Dancer knew him as "Lincoln.") "How's the airport?"
"Still secure."
"Good. Listen, got a question. We've got a CI working for us, Joe D'Oforio."
"He was the one--"
"Right."
"--turned. You're working with him?"
"Yeah," said Wilson, aka Fred Dellray. "Bit of a mutt, but he's cooperating. We're going to run him down to his hidey-hole and back here."
"Where's 'here'? You mean, back to Lincoln's?"
"Right. He wants his stuff."
"Fuck you doing that for?"
"He cut a deal. He dimes this killer and Lincoln agreed he could have some stuff from his place. This old subway station . . . Anyway, we're not doing a convoy. Just one car. Reason I called, we need a good driver. You worked with somebody you liked, right?"
"Driver?"
"On the Gambino thing?"
"Oh, yeah . . . Lemme think."