The Coffin Dancer by Jeffery Deaver Page A

mean, I’ve been skiing. I’m not as good as you, I’ll bet. And I like to go to the movies. Some movies.”
    Stephen said, “Oh, I don’t ski. I don’t like sports much.” He looked outside and saw the cops everywhere. Looking in every car. A swarm of blue worms ...
    Sir, I don’t understand why they’re mounting this offensive, sir.
    Soldier, your job is not to understand. Your job is to infiltrate, evaluate, delegate, isolate, and eliminate. That is your only job.
    “Sorry?” he asked, missing what she’d said.
    “I said, oh, don’t give me that. I mean, I’d have to work out for, like, months to get in shape like you. I’m going to join the Health & Racquet Club. I’ve been planning to. Only, I’ve got back problems. But I really, really am going to join.”
    Stephen laughed. “Aw, I get so tired of—geez, all these girls look so sick. You know? All thin and pale. Take one of those skinny girls you see on TV and send her back to King Arthur’s day and, bang, they’d call for the court surgeon and say, ‘She must be dying, m’lord.’ ”
    Sheila blinked, then roared with laughter, revealing unfortunate teeth. The joke gave her an excuse to rest her hand on his arm. He felt the five worms kneading his skin and fought down the nausea. “My daddy,” she said, “he was a career army officer, traveled a lot. He told me in other countries they think American girls are way skinny.”
    “He was a soldier?” Sam Sammie Samuel Levine asked, smiling.
    “Retired colonel.”
    “Well ...”
    Too much? he wondered. No. He said, “I’m service. Sergeant. Army.”
    “No! Where you stationed?”
    “Special Operations. In New Jersey.” She’d know enough not to ask any more about Special Ops activities. “I’m glad you’ve got a soldier in the family. I sometimes don’t tell people what I do. It’s not too cool. ’Specially around here. New York, I mean.”
    “Don’t you worry about that. I think it’s very cool, friend.” She nodded at the Fender case. “And you’re a musician, too?”
    “Not really. I volunteer at a day care center. Teach kids music. It’s something the base does.”
    Looking outside. Flashing lights. Blue white. A squad car streaked past.
    She scooted her chair closer and he detected a repulsive scent. It made him go cringey again and the image came to mind of worms oozing through her greasy hair. He nearly vomited. He excused himself for a moment and spent three minutes scrubbing his hands. When he returned he noticed two things: that the top button of her blouse had been undone and that the back of her vest contained about a thousand cat hairs. Cats, to Stephen, were just four-legged worms.
    He looked outside and saw that the line of cops was getting closer. Stephen glanced at his watch and said, “Say, I’ve gotta pick up my cat. He’s at the vet—”
    “Oh, you have a cat? What’s his name?” She leaned forward.
    “Buddy.”
    Her eyes glowed. “Oh, cutey cutey cute. You have a picture?”
    Of a fucking cat?
    “Not on me,” Stephen said, clicked his tongue regretfully.
    “Is poor Buddy sicky-wicky?”
    “Just a checkup.”
    “Oh, good for you. Watch out for those worms.”
    “How’s that?” he asked, alarmed.
    “You know, like heartworm.”
    “Oh. Right.”
    “Uhm, if you’re good, friend,” Sheila said, singsongy again, “maybe I’ll introduce you to Garfield, Andrea, and Essie. Well, it’s really Esmeralda but she’d never approve of that, of course.”
    “They sound so wonderful,” he said, gazing at the pictures Sheila’d dug from her wallet. “I’d love to meet them.”
    “You know,” she blurted, “I only live three blocks away.”
    “Hey, got an idea.” He looked bright. “Maybe I could drop this stuff off and meet your babies. Then you could help me collect Buddy.”
    “Neat-o,” Sheila said.
    “Let’s go.”
    Outside, she said, “Ooo, look at all the police. What’s going on?”
    “Wow. Dunno.” Stephen slung the