She finished the tidy incision and gazed inside, sighed. “Nothing.”

“What the hell is he up to?” Rhyme asked. “Let’s think . . . . What if he isn’t ID-proofing the body? If he’d wanted to he would’ve taken the teeth. What if there’s something else he’s trying to hide from us?”

“Something on the vic’s hands?” Sachs suggested.

“Maybe,” Rhyme responded. “Something that he couldn’t wash off the corpse easily. And something that’d tell us what he was up to.”

“Oil? Grease?”

“Maybe he was delivering jet fuel,” Rhyme said. “Or maybe he was a caterer—maybe his hands smelled of garlic.”

Sachs looked around the airport. There were dozens of gasoline deliverymen, ground crews, repairmen, construction workers building a new wing on one of the terminals.

Rhyme continued, “He’s a big guy?”

“Yep.”

“He was probably sweating today. Maybe he wiped his head. Or scratched it.”

I’ve been doing that all day myself, Sachs thought, and felt an urge to dig into her hair, hurt her skin as she always did when she felt frustrated and tense.

“Check his scalp, Sachs. Behind the hairline.”

She did.

And there she found it.

“I see streaks of color. Blue. Bits of white too. On the hair and skin. Oh, hell, Rhyme. It’s paint! He’s a painting contractor. And there’re about twenty construction workers on the grounds.”

“The line on the neck,” Rhyme continued. “The Dancer pulled off his necklace ID.”

“But the picture’d be different.”

“Hell, the ID’s probably covered with paint or he faked it somehow. He’s on the field somewhere, Sachs. Get Percey and Hale down on the floor. Put a guard on ’em and get everybody else out, looking for the Dancer. SWAT’s on its way.”

Problems.

He was watching the red-haired cop in the back of the ambulance. Through the Redfield telescope he couldn’t see clearly what she was doing. But he suddenly felt uneasy.

He felt she was doing something to him. Something to expose him, to tie him down.

The worms were getting closer. The face at the window, the wormy face, was looking for him.

Stephen shuddered.

She jumped out of the ambulance, looking around the field.

Something’s happening, Soldier.

Sir, I am aware of that, sir.

The redhead began shouting orders to other cops. Most of them looked at her, took her news grimly, then looked around. One ran to his car, then a second.

He saw the redhead’s pretty face and her wormy eyes scanning the airport grounds. He rested the reticles on her perfect chin. What had she found? What was she looking for?

She paused and he saw her talking to herself.

No, not herself. She was talking into a headset. The way she’d listen, then nod, it seemed that she was taking orders from someone.

Who? he wondered.

Someone who’d figured out that I’m here, Stephen thought.

Someone looking for me.

Someone who can watch me through windows and disappear instantly. Who can move through walls and holes and tiny cracks to sneak up and find me.