Rhyme’s neck stung as he strained forward, looking at the bent clock face.

Cooper scrutinized the device. I’ve got the model number and manufacturer.”

“Run everything through ERC.”

The FBI’s Explosives Reference Collection was the most extensive database on explosive devices in the world. It included information on all bombs reported in the United States as well as actual physical evidence from many of them. Certain items in the collection were antiques, dating back to the 1920s.

Cooper typed on his computer keyboard. Five seconds later his modem whistled and crackled.

A few moments later the results of the request came back.

“Not good,” the bald man said, grimacing slightly, about as emotional as the technician ever got. “No specific profiles match this particular bomb.”

Nearly all bombers fall into a pattern when they make their devices – they learn a technique and stick pretty close to it. (Given the nature of their product it’s a good idea not to experiment too much.) If the parts of the Dancer’s bomb matched an earlier IED in, say, Florida or California, the team might be able to pick up additional clues from those bomb sites that could lead them to the man’s whereabouts. The rule of thumb is that if two bombs share at least four points of construction – soldered leads instead of taped, for instance, or analog versus digital timers – they were probably made by the same person or under his tutelage. The Dancer’s bomb several years ago in Wall Street was different from this one. But, Rhyme knew, this one was intended to serve a different purpose. That bomb was planted to hamper a crime scene investigation; this one, to blow a large airplane out of the sky. And if Rhyme knew anything about the Coffin Dancer, it was that he tailored his tools to the job.

“Gets worse?” Rhyme asked, reading Cooper’s face as the tech stared at the computer screen.

“The timer.”

Rhyme sighed. He understood. “How many billions and billions in production?”

“The Daiwana Corporation in Seoul sold a hundred and forty-two thousand of them last year. To retail stores, OEMs, and licensees. There’s no coding on them to tell where they were shipped.”

“Great. Just great.”

Cooper continued to read the screen. “Hm. The folks at ERC say they’re very interested in the device and hope we’ll add it to their database.”

“Oh, our number one priority,” Rhyme grumbled.

His shoulder muscles suddenly cramped and he had to lean back into the headrest of the wheelchair. He breathed deeply for a few minutes until the nearly unbearable pain subsided, then vanished. Sachs, the only one who noticed, stepped forward, but Rhyme shook his head toward her, said, “How many wires you make out, Mel?”

“Just two, it looks like.”

“Multichannel or fiber optic?”

“Nope. Just average-ordinary bell wire.”

“No shunts?”

“None.”

A shunt is a separate wire that completes the connection if a battery or timer wire is cut in an attempt to render the bomb safe. All sophisticated bombs have shunting mechanisms.

“Well,” Sellitto said, “that’s good news, isn’t it? Means he’s getting careless.”

But Rhyme believed just the opposite. “Don’t think so, Lon. The only point of a shunt is to make rendering safe tougher. Not having a shunt means he was confident enough the bomb wouldn’t be found and would blow up just like he’d planned – in the air.”

“This thing,” Dellray asked contemptuously, looking over the bomb components. “What kind of people’d our boy have to rub shoulders with to make something like this? I got good CIs knowing ’bout bomb suppliers.”

Fred Dellray too had learned more about bombs than he’d ever intended. His longtime partner and friend, Toby Doolittle, had been on the ground floor of the Oklahoma City federal building several years ago. He’d been killed instantly in the fertilizer bomb explosion.

But Rhyme shook his head. “It’s all off-the-shelf stuff, Fred. Except for the explosives and the detonator cord. Hansen probably supplied them. Hell, the Dancer could’ve gotten everything he needed at Radio Shack.”

“What?” Sachs asked, surprised.

“Oh, yeah,” Cooper said, adding, “we call it the Bomber’s Store.”

Rhyme wheeled along the table over to a piece of steel housing twisted like crumpled paper, stared at it for a long moment.

Then he backed up and looked at the ceiling. “But why plant it outside?” he pondered. “Percey said there were always lots of people around. And doesn’t the pilot walk around the plane before they take off, look at the wheels and things?”

“I think so,” Sellitto said.

“Why didn’t Ed Carney or his copilot see it?”

“Because,” Sachs said suddenly, “the Dancer couldn’t put the bomb on board until he knew for sure who was going to be in the plane.”

Rhyme swiveled around to her. “That’s it, Sachs! He was there watching. When he saw Carney get on board he knew he had at least one of the victims. He slipped it on somewhere after Carney got on board and before the plane took off. You’ve got to find out where, Sachs. And search it. Better get going.”

“Only have an hour – well, less now,” said cool-eyed Amelia Sachs as she started toward the door.

“One thing,” Rhyme said.

She paused.

“The Dancer’s a little different from everybody else you’ve ever been up against.” How could he explain it? “With him, what you see isn’t necessarily what is.”

She cocked an eyebrow, meaning, Get to the point.

“He’s probably not up there, at the airport. But if you see anyone make a move for you, well… shoot first.”

“What?” She laughed.

“Worry about yourself first, the scene second.”

“I’m just CS,” she answered, walking through the door. “He’s not going to care about me.”

“Amelia, listen…”

But he heard her footsteps receding. The familiar pattern: the hollow thud on the oak, the mute steps as she crossed the Oriental carpet, then the tap on the marble entryway. Finally, the coda – as the front door closed with a snap.

Hour 3 of 45

THE BEST SOLDIERS ARE PATIENT SOLDIERS.

Sir, I’ll remember that, sir.

Stephen Kall was sitting at Sheila’s kitchen table, deciding how much he disliked Essie, the mangy cat, or whoever the fuck it was, and listening to a long conversation on his tape recorder. At first he’d decided to find the cats and kill them but he’d noticed that they occasionally gave an unearthly howl. If neighbors were used to the sound they might become suspicious if they heard only silence from Sheila Horowitz’s apartment.

Patience… Watching the cassette roll. Listening.

It was twenty minutes later that he heard what he’d been hoping for on the tape. He smiled. Okay, good. He collected his Model 40 in the Fender guitar case, snug as a baby, and walked to the refrigerator. He cocked his head. The noises had stopped. It didn’t shake any longer. He felt a bit of relief, less cringey, less crawly, thinking of the worm inside, now cold and still. It was safe to leave. He picked up his backpack and left the dim apartment with its pungent cat musk, dusty wine, and a million trails of disgusting worms.

Into the country.

Amelia Sachs sped through a tunnel of spring trees, rocks on one side, a modest cliff on another. A dusting of green, and everywhere the yellow starbursts of forsythia.

Sachs was a city girl, born in Brooklyn General Hospital, and was a lifetime resident of that borough. Nature, for her, was Prospect Park on Sundays or, on weekday evenings, Long Island forest preserves, where she’d hide her black shark-like Dodge Charger from the patrol cruisers prowling for her and her fellow amateur auto racers.

Now, at the wheel of an Investigation and Resources Division rapid response vehicle – a crime scene station wagon – she punched the accelerator, swerved onto the shoulder, and passed a van that sported an upside-down Garfield cat suctioned to the rear window. She made the turnoff that took her deep into Westchester County.