The Burial

Hour

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 First published in the United States of America in 2017 by Grand Central Publishing

First published in Great Britain in 2017 by Hodder & Stoughton

An Hachette UK company

Copyright Gunner Publications, LLC 2017

The right of Jeffery Deaver to be identified as the Author of the Work has been
asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a

retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior
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binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar
condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real
persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

Hardback ISBN 978 1 473 61867 1

Trade Paperback ISBN 978 1 473 61865 7
eBook ISBN 978 1 473 61863 3

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 The winter wind blows and the night is dark;
Moans are heard in the linden-trees.
Through the gloom, white skeletons pass,
Running and leaping in their shrouds.
Henri Cazalis, Danse Macabre

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 I
THE HANGMANS WALTZ
M O N D A Y, S E P T E M B E R 2 0

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 CHAPTER 1

Mommy.
In a minute.
They trooped doggedly along the quiet street on the Upper
East Side, the sun low this cool autumn morning. Red leaves,
yellow leaves spiraled from sparse branches.
Mother and daughter, burdened with the baggage that children
now carted to school.
In my day ...
Claire was texting furiously. Her housekeeper had wouldnt
you know it? gotten sick, no, possibly gotten sick, on the day
of the dinner party! The party. And Alan had to work late.
Possibly had to work late.
As if I could ever count on him anyway.
Ding.
The response from her friend:

Sorry, Carmellas busy tnight.

Jesus. A tearful emoji accompanied the missive. Why not type

the goddamn o in tonight? Did it save you a precious milli-
second? And remember apostrophes?
But, Mommy ... A nine-year-old singsongy tone.
A minute, Morgynn. You heard me. Claires voice was a benign
monotone. Not the least angry, not the least peeved or piqued.
Thinking of the weekly sessions: Sitting in the chair, not lying
back on the couch the good doctor didnt even have a couch
in his office Claire attacked her nemeses, the anger and impa-
tience, and she had studiously worked to avoid snapping or
shouting when her daughter was annoying (even when she

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 JEFFERY DEAVER

behaved that way intentionally, which, Claire calculated, was

easily one-quarter of the girls waking hours).
And Im doing a damn good job of keeping a lid on it.
Reasonable. Mature. A minute, she repeated, sensing the girl
was about to speak.
Claire slowed to a stop, flipping through her phones address
book, lost in the maelstrom of approaching disaster. It was early
but the day would vanish fast and the party would be on her like
a nearby Uber. Wasnt there someone, anyone, in the borough
of Manhattan who might have decent help she could borrow to
wait a party? A party for ten friggin people! That was nothing.
How hard could it be?
She debated. Her sister?
Nope. She wasnt invited.
Sally from the club?
Nope. Out of town. And a bitch, to boot.
Morgynn had slowed and Claire was aware of her daughter
turning around. Had she dropped something? Apparently so. She
ran back to pick it up.
Better not be her phone. Shed already broken one. The screen
had cost $187 to fix.
Honestly. Children.
Then Claire was back to scrolling, praying for waitperson
salvation. Look at all these names. Need to clean out this damn
contact list. Dont know half these people. Dont like a good
chunk of the rest. Off went another beseeching message.
The child returned to her side and said firmly, Mommy,
look
Ssssh. Hissing now. But there was nothing wrong with an
edge occasionally, of course, she told herself. It was a form of
education. Children had to learn. Even the cutest of puppies
needed collar-jerk correction from time to time.
Another ding of iPhone.
Another no.
Goddamn it.
Well, what about that woman that Terri from the office had
used? Hispanic, or Latino ... Latina. Whatever those people

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 THE BURIAL HOUR

called themselves now. The cheerful woman had been the star of
Terris daughters graduation party.
Claire found Terris number and dialed a voice call.
Hello?
Terri! Its Claire. How are you?
A hesitation then Terri said, Hi, there. Howre you doing?
Im
At which point Morgynn interrupted yet again. Mommy!
Snap. Claire spun around and glared down at the petite blonde,
hair in braids, wearing a snug pink leather Armani Junior jacket.
She raged, I am on the phone! Are you blind? What have I told
you about that? When Im on the phone? What is so f Okay,
watch the language, she told herself. Claire offered a labored
smile. Whats so ... important, dear?
Im trying to tell you. This man back there? The girl nodded
up the street. He came up to another man and hit him or some-
thing and pushed him in the trunk.
What?
Morgynn tossed a braid, which ended in a tiny bunny clip, off
her shoulder. He left this on the ground and then drove away.
She held up a cord or thin rope. What was it?
Claire gasped. In her daughters petite hand was a miniature
hangmans noose.
Morgynn replied, Thats whats so She paused and her tiny
lips curled into a smile of their own. Important.

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 CHAPTER 2

Greenland.
Lincoln Rhyme was staring out the parlor window of his
Central Park West town house. Two objects were in his immediate
field of vision: a complicated Hewlett-Packard gas chromato-
graph and, outside the large nineteenth-century window, a
peregrine falcon. The predatory birds were not uncommon in
the city, where prey was plentiful. It was rare, however, for them
to nest so low. Rhyme, as unsentimental as any scientist could
be especially the criminal forensic scientist that he was none-
theless took a curious comfort in the creatures presence. Over
the years, hed shared his abode with a number of generations
of peregrines. Mom was here at the moment, a glorious thing,
sumptuously feathered in brown and gray, with beak and claws
that glistened like gunmetal.
A mans calm, humorous voice filled the silence. No. You and
Amelia cannot go to Greenland.
Why not? Rhyme asked Thom Reston, an edge to his tone.
The slim but sturdy man had been his caregiver for about as long
as the line of falcons had resided outside the old structure. A
quadriplegic, Rhyme was largely paralyzed south of his shoulders,
and Thom was his arms and legs and considerably more. He had
been fired as often as hed quit but here he was and, both knew
in their hearts, here he would remain.
Because you need to go someplace romantic. Florida,
California.
Clich, clich, clich. Might as well go to Niagara Falls.
Rhyme scowled.
Whats wrong with that?
Im not even responding.
What does Amelia say?

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 THE BURIAL HOUR

She left it up to me. Which was irritating. Doesnt she know

I have better things to think about?
You mentioned the Bahamas recently. You wanted to go back,
you said.
That was true at the time. Its not true any longer. Cant one
change ones mind? Hardly a crime.
Whats the real reason for Greenland?
Rhymes face with its prominent nose and eyes like pistol
muzzles was predatory in its own right, much like the birds.
What do you mean by that?
Could it be that theres a practical reason you want to go to
Greenland, a professional reason? A useful reason?
Rhyme glanced at the single-malt scotch bottle sitting just out
of reach. He was largely paralyzed, yes. But surgery and daily
exercise had returned to him some ability to move his right arm
and hand. Fate had helped too. The beam that had tumbled upon
his neck from a crime scene many years ago and severed and
crushed many nerves had left a few outlying strands intact, if
injured and confused. He could grasp objects like single-malt
scotch bottles, to pick a random example but he could not rise
from his complex wheelchair to fetch them if Thom, playing
nursemaid, kept them out of goddamn reach.
Not cocktail hour yet, the aide announced, noting the arc of
his bosss vision. So, Greenland? Fess up.
Its underrated. Named Greenland while much of its barren.
Not the least verdant. Compare Iceland. Quite green. I like the
irony.
Youre not answering.
Rhyme sighed. He disliked being transparent and hugely
disliked being caught being transparent. He would appeal to
truth. It seems that the Rigspolitiet, the Danish police, have been
doing rather important research into a new system of horticul-
tural spectrographic analysis in Greenland. A lab in Nuuk. Thats
the capital, by the way. You can situate a sample in a much
narrower geographic area than with standard systems. Rhymes
brows rose involuntarily. Nearly the cellular level. Imagine! We
think all plants are the same

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 JEFFERY DEAVER

Not a sin of mine.

Rhyme groused, You know what I mean. This new technique
can narrow down a target area to three meters! He repeated,
Imagine.
Im trying to. Greenland no. And has Amelia actually
deferred to you?
She will. When I tell her about the spectrograph.
How about England? Shed love that. Is that show on still,
the one she likes? Top Gear? I think the original is off the air
but I heard theres a new version. Shed be great on it. They let
people go out on the racetrack. Shes always talking about driving
a hundred and eighty miles an hour on the wrong side of the
road.
England? Rhyme mocked. Youve just lost your argument.
Greenland and England offer the same degree of romance.
Youll find some disagreement there.
Not from the Greenlanders.
Lincoln Rhyme did not travel much. The practical conse-
quences of his disability added a layer of complication to journeys
but physically, his doctors reported, there was no reason not to
hit the road. His lungs were fine hed weaned himself off a
ventilator years ago, the chest scar present but not prominent
and as long as such matters as the piss n shit details his words
and low-chafing clothing were attended to, there was little
chance of being afflicted by the quads bane: autonomic dysre-
flexia. A good portion of the world was disabled-accessible now
with most enterprises, from restaurants to bars to museums,
offering ramps and special restrooms. (Rhyme and Sachs had
shared a smile when Thom pointed out an article in the paper
about a school that had recently installed a disabled ramp and
bathroom; the place taught only one thing: tap dancing.)
No, much of Rhymes reluctance to travel and his reclusiveness
were simply because he was, well, a recluse. By nature. Working
in his laboratory the parlor here, filled with equipment and
teaching and writing for scientific journals appealed to him far
more than tired sights polished for tourists.
But, given what was on his and Sachss agenda in the next few

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 THE BURIAL HOUR

weeks, a trip outside Manhattan was necessary; even he admitted

that one could not honeymoon in ones own hometown.
Plans for trips to labs specializing in horticultural spectrometry,
or locales of wooing romance, were, though, put on hold for the
moment; the door buzzer sounded. Rhyme glanced at the security
video and thought: Well.
Thom rose and returned a moment later with a middle-aged
man in a camel-tan suit, which he might have slept in, though
he probably hadnt. He moved slowly but with little hesitation,
and Rhyme thought that pretty soon hed be able to discard the
cane, which was, however, a pretty nifty accessory. Black with a
silver head in the shape of an eagle.
The man looked around the lab. Quiet.
Is. A few small private jobs recently. Nothing fun. Nothing
exciting. Nothing since the Steel Kiss killer. A recent perpetrator
had taken to sabotaging household items and public conveyances
with tragic and occasionally gruesome results.
NYPD detective Lon Sellitto, in the Major Cases Division, had
been Rhymes partner before Rhyme had moved up to captain
and taken over the Crime Scene Unit. Nowadays Sellitto would
occasionally hire Rhyme to consult on cases in which special
forensic expertise was needed.
Whatre you looking at? Tan is all I had. Sellitto waved toward
his suit.
Daydreaming, Rhyme said. I wasnt looking at anything.
Not true, but he hadnt been regarding either the curious color
of or the savage wrinkles in the suit. He was noting, with satis-
faction, that Sellitto was recovering well following the attack on
him by poison, which had caused major nerve and muscle
damage hence, the cane. While the detective was always
fighting his weight, Rhyme thought he looked better on the
portly side, like now. The sight of a gaunt, gray Lon Sellitto
had been alarming.
Wheres Amelia? Sellitto asked.
In court. Testifying in the Gordon case. On the calendar first
thing. Should be over with soon. Then she was going shopping.
For our trip.

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 JEFFERY DEAVER

Buying herself a trousseau? What is that anyway?

Rhyme had no idea. Something about weddings, clothing. I
dont know. But shes got a dress already. Something frilly. Blue.
Or maybe pink. Today shes shopping for me. Whats so goddamn
funny, Lon?
Picturing you in a tuxedo.
Just sweats and a shirt. Maybe a tie. I dont know.
Tie? And you didnt complain?
True, Rhyme had little patience for what he considered affec-
tation. But this occasion was different. For all her edge and
edginess and her need of speed and blunt firearms, her passion
for tactical solutions, Sachs had a splinter of teen girl within her
and she was enjoying the game of wedding planning. This
included shopping for a whatever-the-hell-it-was trousseau and
a romantic honeymoon, and if that pleased her, by God, Rhyme
was more than happy to accommodate.
Though he really hoped he could convince her about Greenland.
Well, tell her to shop later. I need her to run a scene. Weve
got a situation.
A ping resounded within Rhyme the way a submarines sonar
detects something unexpected off the port bow.
He texted Sachs and received no response. Maybe on the stand,
testifying. Tell me more.
Thom appeared in the doorway Rhyme hadnt realized hed
left. The aide said, Lon, coffee? Cookies? Ive been baking. Ive
got a couple of different kinds. One is
Yes, yes, yes. It was Rhyme answering. Bring him something.
Make a decision yourself. I want to hear his story.
Situation ...
Proceed, he told Sellitto.
Anything chocolate, Sellitto called to Thoms back.
Easily arranged.
Kidnapping, Linc. Upper East Side. Apparently one adult male
snatched another.
Apparently? What requires interpretation?
The only wit was nine years old.
Ah.

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 THE BURIAL HOUR

Perp grabs vic, tosses him into a car trunk. Takes off.
The girl is sure about this? Not a figment of her overactive
little imagination, stoked by watching too much television,
ruining her thumbs on video games, reading too many Hello
Pony stories?
Hello Kitty. Ponies are a different book.
Did Mommy or Daddy confirm?
Morgynn, the girl, was the only one who saw. But I think its
legit. She found a calling card hed left behind. Sellitto held up
his phone and displayed a photo.
At first Rhyme couldnt make out the image. It was a picture
of a dark shape, thin, lying on a sidewalk.
Its a
Rhyme interrupted. Noose.
Yep.
Made out of?
Not sure. Girl said he set it on the spot where he got the vic.
She picked it up but the responding set it back in the same place
hed left it, more or less.
Great. Ive never worked a scene contaminated by a nine-
year-old.
Relax, Linc. All she did was pick it up. And the responding
wore gloves. Scenes secure, waiting for somebody to run it.
Somebody, as in Amelia.
The noose was made out of dark material, which was stiff,
since segments were not flush with the pavement, as would be
the case with more limp fibers. From the size of the poured-
concrete sidewalk panel, the noose was about twelve to fourteen
inches long in total, the neck hoop about a third of that.
The wits still on scene. With Mommy. Who isnt very happy.
Neither was Rhyme. All they had to go on was a nine-year-old
schoolgirl with the observational skills and perception of a ...
well, nine-year-old schoolgirl.
The vic? Rich, politically active, connected with OC, record?
Sellitto said, No ID yet. Nobody reported missing. A few
minutes after the snatch somebody saw a phone fly outta a car
dark sedan, nothing more. Third Avenue. Dellrays boysre running

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 JEFFERY DEAVER

it. We find out who, we find out why. Business deal gone bad, vic
has information somebody wants, or the old standby. For-profit
ransom.
Or its a psycho. There was the noose, after all.
Yeah, Sellitto said, and the vic just happened to be WTWP.
What?
Wrong time, wrong place.
Rhyme scowled once more. Lon?
Its going around the department.
Flu viruses not viri, by the way go around the department.
Idiotic expressions do not. Or should not, at least.
Sellitto used the cane to rise to his feet and aimed his bulky
form toward the tray of cookies that Thom was setting down,
like a Realtor seducing prospective buyers at a condominium
open house. The detective ate one, then two, then another, nodded
approval. He poured himself a cup of coffee from a silver pitcher
and spilled in artificial sweetener, his concession to the battle
against calories being to sacrifice refined sugar for pastry.
Good, he announced through a mouthful of cookie. You
want one? Some coffee?
The criminalists eyes swiveled instinctively toward the
Glenmorangie, sitting golden and alluring on the high shelf.
But Lincoln Rhyme decided: No. He wanted his faculties about
him. He had a feeling that the girls observations were all too
accurate, that the kidnapping had occurred just as she had
described it and that the macabre calling card was a taunting
message of a death soon to be.
And perhaps more after that.
He texted Amelia Sachs once again.

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 CHAPTER 3

A plop, as water fell from ceiling to floor.

Ten feet.
Every four seconds.
Plop, plop, plop.
The resulting sound wasnt a splash. The floor of this old, old
factory, now abandoned, was scarred from the passage of metal
and wooden objects, and the water didnt accumulate in pools but
eased away in crevices and cuts, as patterned as an old mans face.
Plop, plop.
Moans, too, as the chill autumn breeze slipped over the mouths
of ducts, pipes and vents, the way youd blow across a bottle
neck to make a hooing sound. Didnt see that much anymore,
no, you didnt. Because kids used to do it mostly with soda
bottles, which were now plastic, not glass. Plastic didnt work
very well. Beer bottles you could use but adults didnt get any
pleasure out of the hooo-hoooing sounds.
Stefan had once written a piece of music to be played on
Mountain Dew bottles, each filled with a different amount of
water to produce a chromatic scale of twelve notes. He had been
six years old.
The tones the factory now made were a C sharp, an F, a G.
There was no rhythm, as the wind was irregular. Also:
Distant traffic, a constant.
More-distant exhalations of jet airplanes.
Not distant at all: a rat skittering.
And, of course, the most captivating sound of all: the rasping
breath of the man sitting in a chair in the corner of this dim
storage room. Hands bound. Feet bound. Around his neck, a
noose. The string Stefan had left on the sidewalk as a grisly
announcement of the kidnapping was a cello string; this noose

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 JEFFERY DEAVER

was made of two longer strings, bound together to extend the

length they were the lowest and thickest strings of an upright
double bass, one of those instruments that made the happy
transition from classical music to jazz. Made of mutton serosa
the lining of a sheeps intestine these were the most expensive
musical strings on the market. Each had cost $140. They produced
the richest tone, and there were world-class violinists, cellists and
bass players who would never think of playing a baroque piece
on anything but this. Gut strings were far more temperamental
than metal or nylon strings and might go out of tune at the
slightest change in temperature or humidity.
For Stefans immediate purpose, though, the strings intoler-
ance of humidity was irrelevant; for hanging someone, they
worked just great.
The loop hung loosely around the mans neck and the tail
rested on the floor.
Stefan shivered from excitement, the way any pilgrim would
at the beginning of his quest. He shivered from the chill too,
even though he was an insulated man in all senses: heavy-set
with long, dense curly dark hair dropping well past his ears, and
full beard, and a silken pelt of chest and arm hair. And he was
swathed in protective clothing too: a white sleeveless undershirt
beneath a heavy dark-gray work shirt, a black waterproof jacket
and dungarees, also dark gray. They were like cargo pants but
not cargo pants because the place where hed been living until
recently did not permit anyone to have pockets. Stefan was thirty
years old but appeared younger, thanks to the smooth, baby-fat
skin.
The room these two men were in was deep within the sprawling
place. Hed set it up yesterday, moving in a table and chairs hed
found in other parts of the factory. A small battery-powered light.
His musical, recording and video equipment too.
The watch on his wrist revealed the time to be 10:15 a.m. He
should get started. Hed been careful but you never knew about
the police. Had that little girl seen more than it seemed she had?
The license plate was smeared with mud but someone might have
noted the first two letters. Maybe enough to track the vehicle to

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 THE BURIAL HOUR

the long-term parking lot at JFK airport, where it had been until
yesterday. Using algorithms, using deductions, using interview
skills ... they might put an identification together.
Cant have that now, can we? Have to be careful.
I am, dont worry.
Stefan believed he might have spoken these words aloud.
Sometimes he wasnt sure if he thought his messages to Her or
spoke them. Wasnt sure if Her responses were real or not, either.
He laid the equipment out in front of him, examining keyboards
and computer, cords and plugs. Switches clicked on. Hard drives
hummed, adding sound.
Plop.
Moan.
Hum.
Good.
Ah, and the rat, too.
Skitter.
As long as there were sounds, distracting sounds, seductive
sounds, Stefan had a good chance of keeping the Black Screams
away.
So far, so good.
And now to add one more sound, one of his own making. He
played a melody on the Casio. He was not an exceptional musi-
cian but, given his love, his addiction, his obsession, he knew his
way around a keyboard. He ran through the music once, then
twice. These were good renditions. He tried it again.
Stefan didnt pray, as such, but he did send a thought of thanks
to Her for the inspiration to pick this composition.
Now he rose and walked to the blindfolded man, who was
wearing dark business slacks and a white business shirt. His
jacket was on the floor.
Stefan was holding a digital recorder. Dont say anything.
The man nodded and remained silent. Stefan gripped the noose
and pulled it taut. With his other hand, he held the recorder in
front of the mans mouth. The choking noise issuing from his
lips was delightful. Complex, varied in tone and modulation.
Almost, you might say, musical.

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