Free The Coffin Dancer by Jeffery Deaver
Authors: Jeffery Deaver
time. I always buy a new roll of tape. I can never remember if I’ve bought one before so I end up with a ton of them. Aren’t I a silly-billy?”
He didn’t answer because he was surveying the kitchen and decided that was the best kill zone in the apartment.
“Here you go.” She tossed him the roll of tape playfully. He instinctively caught it. He was angry because he hadn’t had the chance to put his gloves on. He knew he’d left prints on the roll. He shivered in rage and when he saw Sheila grinning, saying, “Hey, good catch, friend,” what he was really looking at was a huge worm moving closer and closer. He set the tape down and pulled on his gloves.
“Gloves? You cold? Say, friend, what’re you . . . ?”
He ignored her and opened the refrigerator door, began removing the food.
She stepped farther into the room. Her giddy smile started to fade. “Uhm, you hungry?”
He began removing the shelves.
A look passed between them and suddenly, from deep within her throat, came a faint “Eeeeeeee.”
Stephen got the fat worm before she made it halfway to the front door.
Fast or slow?
He dragged her back into the kitchen. Toward the refrigerator.
. . . Chapter Seven
Hour 2 of 45
T hrees.
Percey Clay, honors engineering major, certified airframe and power plant mechanic, and holder of every license the Federal Aviation Agency could bestow on pilots, had no time for superstition.
Yet as she drove in a bulletproof van through Central Park on the way to the federal safe house in midtown, she thought of the old adage that superstitious travelers repeat like a grim mantra. Crashes come in threes.
Tragedies too.
First, Ed. Now, the second sorrow: what she was hearing over the cell phone from Ron Talbot, who was in his office at Hudson Air.
She was sandwiched between Brit Hale and that young detective, Jerry Banks. Her head was down.Hale watched her, and Banks looked vigilantly out the window at traffic, passersby, and trees.
“U.S. Med agreed to give us one more shot.” Talbot’s breath wheezed in and out alarmingly. One of the best pilots she’d ever known, Talbot hadn’t driven an aircraft for years—grounded because of his precarious health. Percey considered this a horrifyingly unjust punishment for his sins of liquor, cigarettes, and food (largely because she shared them). “I mean, they can cancel the contract. Bombs aren’t force majeure. They don’t excuse us from performance.”
“But they’re letting us make the flight tomorrow.”
A pause.
“Yeah. They are.”
“Come on, Ron,” she snapped. “No bullshit between us.” She heard him light another cigarette. Big and smokey—the man she’d bum Camels from when she was quitting smoking—Talbot was forgetful of fresh clothing and shaves. And inept at delivering bad news.
“It’s Foxtrot Bravo,” he said reluctantly.
“What about her?”
N695FB was Percey Clay’s Learjet 35A. Not that the paperwork indicated this. Legally the twin-engine jet was leased to Clay-Carney Holding Corporation Two, Inc., a wholly owned subsidiary of Hudson Air Charters, Ltd., by Morgan Air Leasing Inc., which in turn leased it from La Jolla Holding Two’s wholly owned subsidiary Transport Solutions Incorporated, a Delaware company. This byzantine arrangement was both legal and common, given thefact that both airplanes and airplane crashes are phenomenally expensive.
But everyone at Hudson Air Charters knew that November Six Nine Five Foxtrot Bravo was Percey’s. She’d logged thousands of hours in the airplane. It was her pet. It was her child. And on the too-many nights Ed was gone just the thought of the aircraft would take the sting out of the loneliness. A sweet stick, the aircraft could cruise at forty-five thousand feet at speeds of 460 knots—over 500 miles per hour. She personally knew it could fly higher and faster, though that was a secret kept from Morgan Air Leasing, La Jolla Holding, Transport Solutions, and the
He didn’t answer because he was surveying the kitchen and decided that was the best kill zone in the apartment.
“Here you go.” She tossed him the roll of tape playfully. He instinctively caught it. He was angry because he hadn’t had the chance to put his gloves on. He knew he’d left prints on the roll. He shivered in rage and when he saw Sheila grinning, saying, “Hey, good catch, friend,” what he was really looking at was a huge worm moving closer and closer. He set the tape down and pulled on his gloves.
“Gloves? You cold? Say, friend, what’re you . . . ?”
He ignored her and opened the refrigerator door, began removing the food.
She stepped farther into the room. Her giddy smile started to fade. “Uhm, you hungry?”
He began removing the shelves.
A look passed between them and suddenly, from deep within her throat, came a faint “Eeeeeeee.”
Stephen got the fat worm before she made it halfway to the front door.
Fast or slow?
He dragged her back into the kitchen. Toward the refrigerator.
. . . Chapter Seven
Hour 2 of 45
T hrees.
Percey Clay, honors engineering major, certified airframe and power plant mechanic, and holder of every license the Federal Aviation Agency could bestow on pilots, had no time for superstition.
Yet as she drove in a bulletproof van through Central Park on the way to the federal safe house in midtown, she thought of the old adage that superstitious travelers repeat like a grim mantra. Crashes come in threes.
Tragedies too.
First, Ed. Now, the second sorrow: what she was hearing over the cell phone from Ron Talbot, who was in his office at Hudson Air.
She was sandwiched between Brit Hale and that young detective, Jerry Banks. Her head was down.Hale watched her, and Banks looked vigilantly out the window at traffic, passersby, and trees.
“U.S. Med agreed to give us one more shot.” Talbot’s breath wheezed in and out alarmingly. One of the best pilots she’d ever known, Talbot hadn’t driven an aircraft for years—grounded because of his precarious health. Percey considered this a horrifyingly unjust punishment for his sins of liquor, cigarettes, and food (largely because she shared them). “I mean, they can cancel the contract. Bombs aren’t force majeure. They don’t excuse us from performance.”
“But they’re letting us make the flight tomorrow.”
A pause.
“Yeah. They are.”
“Come on, Ron,” she snapped. “No bullshit between us.” She heard him light another cigarette. Big and smokey—the man she’d bum Camels from when she was quitting smoking—Talbot was forgetful of fresh clothing and shaves. And inept at delivering bad news.
“It’s Foxtrot Bravo,” he said reluctantly.
“What about her?”
N695FB was Percey Clay’s Learjet 35A. Not that the paperwork indicated this. Legally the twin-engine jet was leased to Clay-Carney Holding Corporation Two, Inc., a wholly owned subsidiary of Hudson Air Charters, Ltd., by Morgan Air Leasing Inc., which in turn leased it from La Jolla Holding Two’s wholly owned subsidiary Transport Solutions Incorporated, a Delaware company. This byzantine arrangement was both legal and common, given thefact that both airplanes and airplane crashes are phenomenally expensive.
But everyone at Hudson Air Charters knew that November Six Nine Five Foxtrot Bravo was Percey’s. She’d logged thousands of hours in the airplane. It was her pet. It was her child. And on the too-many nights Ed was gone just the thought of the aircraft would take the sting out of the loneliness. A sweet stick, the aircraft could cruise at forty-five thousand feet at speeds of 460 knots—over 500 miles per hour. She personally knew it could fly higher and faster, though that was a secret kept from Morgan Air Leasing, La Jolla Holding, Transport Solutions, and the