Night Victims (The Night Spider) (13 page)

Was he thinking anything at all?

After leaving the Home Away, Horn walked and talked. Unlike many people acting similarly in New York, he was using a cell phone. It was almost ten o’clock, and pedestrian traffic on the wide sidewalk was relatively sparse. No one paid any attention to the big man with the tiny phone tucked to his ear. The sun was higher and brighter, and passing in and out of the shadows of buildings brought noticeable contrasts in temperature.

“What about Gary Schnick?” Horn was asking Bicker-staff.

“We cut him loose. He couldn’t kill anything but time, and he’s got an alibi for the night of one of the Night Spider murders. He was with a woman in her apartment in Queens. She swears to it. He was with another woman in
his
apartment the night of one of the other killings, but she’s married and a little shy about talking. This guy, I tell you, is a pussy magnet.”

“That’s not his reputation.”

“His reputation is wrong. My impression is, he’s one of those guys who doesn’t kiss and tell so he gets a lot of stray.”

“You sound jealous.”

Bickerstaff laughed. “Maybe ten years ago. Now what I wanna do is catch this asshole we’re after so I can go fishing.”

“You really see it that way?” Horn asked.

“About fishing?”

“No. That the bartender at Brook’s Crooks regards Schnick as an obvious loser, but women see him as just the opposite.”

“It only takes one woman to see him as the jackpot: the woman we’re talking about.”

Horn supposed that was true.

“Where’s Paula?”

“I’m on the line,” she said. “Thinking about Bickerstaff ‘s pathetic sex life.”

“You two get anything fresh from Redmond’s neighbors?” Horn asked.

“Nothing yet,” Paula said. “But there’s something that mighta been missed on the roof—”

“At least Paula thinks it’s something,” Bickerstaff interrupted.

“There’s an irregularity in the blacktop where there’s no gravel mixed in. Looks to me like the heel print of a bare foot.”

“Or a dent in the roof underneath the tar,” Bickerstaff said. “Or it’s where somebody dropped something, or maybe some kid ran barefoot a long time ago.”

“It looks fresh,” Paula persisted. “I photographed it.”

Horn dodged a posse of chattering teenage girls taking up half the sidewalk and waited for Bickerstaff to chime in, but Bickerstaff remained silent.

“That’s good work, Paula,” Horn said. “What I want’s for you two to stay on the neighbors, maybe shake something loose.”

“The neighbors are scared,” Bickerstaff said. “Especially the women. It don’t help us that this guy’s killings are all over the news now. I’ll bet the prick loves it, reads all the papers and watches all the TV news.”

“It’s almost a sure bet he enjoys it,” Paula said.

Horn filled them in on what he’d been doing, including his phone call to the number Sayles had given him.

“The military has a way of clamming up,” Bickerstaff pointed out. “Secret weapons and all that.”

“I don’t know,” Paula said. “Could be promising.”

Horn was only half a block from home. “I have to hang up. Let me know if you come across anything else that might mean something.” The
else
was for Paula and her potential bare heel print.

“I’d just as soon stay off roofs for a while,” Bickerstaff said, catching Horn’s meaning. “I might catch vertigo, like in that movie.”

“You’ve been dizzy since I’ve known you, Roy,” Paula told him.

“Stay on it,” Horn said. “We’ll meet later and discuss.”

He replaced the phone in his pocket and started up the steps to the brownstone’s door.

A male voice made him pause and turn. “Thomas Horn?”

Horn looked down at the man from his vantage point two steps higher. He was average height but with a compact, muscular build that somehow made him appear smaller. His gray suit was well tailored, blue tie neatly knotted at the collar of his white shirt. He had precisely cut and parted dark brown hair. The bland, innocuous features of a man whom you wouldn’t mind dating your sister. Harmless looking, with his balanced stance and amiable smile.

“Thomas Horn?” he asked again.

You know I am.

“I’m Luke Altman. Can we talk?”

“What would be the subject of our conversation?”

“Mountain climbing.”

Horn decided not to invite Altman in. He stepped down off the concrete steps and faced him on the sidewalk. Altman was surprisingly tall and broad, when you got up close to him. “Are you with an agency, Mr. Altman?”

“Yes. A government agency.”

Not good enough.
“That would be the CIA?”

The friendly smile. “Or something like it. We were curious about your inquiry concerning Special Forces mountain-terrain groups.”

“One particular group.”

“Yes. That’s what made us curious.”

“Why I want a list of members should be no secret,” Horn said, suspecting he was talking to a man who assumed secrets everywhere. “I think the serial killer the news media are calling the Night Spider might be, or once was, a member of a secret and elite mountain-terrain fighting force.”

“Why would such a force be secret?”

“To do the kind of dangerous, undercover wet work no country can afford another country to know about.”

Altman shook his head.
“Wet work.
That sounds like something out of a spy novel. And the operatives you describe sound like dishonorable men.”

“Only the people who send them on missions could make them act dishonorably. They’d be soldiers, defined by their orders.”

“Wouldn’t they also be assassins?”

“At times, I suppose. Very efficient ones. And skilled climbers. It’s possible that among these almost exclusively honorable men is one who lost his way—one who learned too well how to stalk and kill, and came to like it. It happens. I’ve seen it with cops.”

“So have I, with soldiers. I served in the marines, and there’s no finer outfit than the corps. But still, experience can shape the man.”

“If I’m to stop this killer, Mr. Altman, I need to see the roster of that elite unit. Past and present members.”

“That would be a difficult thing to supply even if there were such a unit.”

“You’re telling me there isn’t?”

Again Altman’s car-salesman smile. “I’m defined by my orders, too, Captain Horn. And they are to inform you that there is no such unit. Oh, we know about the rumors, and that’s exactly what they are—rumors.”

“The CIA actually sent you here to tell me that?”

“I didn’t mention the CIA.”

“You’re telling me you’re not a spook?”

“Spook? Oh, you mean a spy. A secret agent. That’s a quaint term.”

“It’s a quaint business.”

“If only that were true, especially these days. But, no, I’m not a spook. I can see where it might be fun, though. Maybe in the next life I can be a romantic figure like that. But back to your question: Yes, my superiors did send me to tell you that. Also to show you the light so you’d stop assuming this secret elite fighting unit exists.”

“I guess if I knew for sure,” Horn said, “it would no longer be a secret unit.”

“That would follow,” Altman said. “But it doesn’t exist, so there’s no list of names for you to possess. Therefore, we’d like it if you forgot this particular avenue of your investigation.”

“We?”

“My superiors. The ones who sent me here. If I were the sort of agent you assume, I would assure you that if there were anything amiss in this imaginary unit, my department would deal with the problem and maintain secrecy. With that assurance, you could eliminate an unnecessary phase of your investigation.”

“What if I persisted?”

Altman shrugged. “Then you’d waste your time.”

Horn studied him, knowing Altman, behind his smile, was studying him right back. He changed his mind about inviting Altman in. The more he could keep him talking, the more he might learn.

Pulling his key ring from his pocket, Horn turned and took the steps to the stoop and the brownstone’s front door. “Why don’t you come inside, Mr. Altman?” he asked over his shoulder, as he keyed the lock.

But when he turned around, Altman was gone. Here and then gone.

Horn couldn’t help smiling as he opened the door and went inside.

Presto-change-o!

So like a spook.

15

He had to walk fast to keep up with her, this long-legged, boldly striding woman who’d tripped a tendril of his web, who’d sent a subtle tremor of interest and intrigue across the void between them.

He’d seen her across the street. That was all it took, really, a glimpse, a connection.

He always knew when he found the one. She would suddenly become the only woman before him even if she happened to be part of a crowd. Deep in the sacred cruel center of his being there would be a stirring, then an irresistible tugging at his mind and heart toward his core. Ancient voices and instincts would take over. Predators’ instincts. His mind, his desire, his every fiber, would focus sharply on his prey.

He was never wrong about these women. It was almost as if they emanated signals. Toward the end, when he was very near them, through all the odors of their fluids and fears, he could smell their need.

Theirs had been a holy covenant from the beginning, from every beginning, and finally they understood that and surrendered to death. He always could see by their eyes that they understood.

At first they weren’t trapped—constricted and helpless— and his. That took time, delicate spinning, and careful preparation. He would learn more about them, including where they lived and whether it met his expectations. That wasn’t much of a problem, as most single and attractive women in New York lived in apartments, and usually on high floors for their so-called security. He traded on his victims’ false sense of security. It lulled them like a drug until they realized in their silent terror that it had failed.

She’s slowed by that knot of pedestrians near a street vendor. Fall back, keep pace, not so close . . .

This one was tall and had red hair. How it must confuse the police that his victims were of no particular type, or no particular type they could perceive, anyway. Even he couldn’t predict which would be the chosen one, so how could they? It was as if he sent out trailing threads of the mind that were extremely sensitive to willing victims—and there was something in these women that made them want to be his. He could feel the tremors of connection, and he knew that on some level they could feel them. But they didn’t understand until it was too late, until he was on them and they realized that their destiny and his destiny were locked together. When he saw them on the street, on a bus or subway train, in a restaurant, or through a window, he knew everything in their futures was his will because, on a whim, he could take away their futures.

Over time he followed and watched them, wrapped them secretly and softly in layers of knowledge that would make the consummation of their affair sweet and inevitable. Eventually . . . eventually . . . Everything would be revealed to them and to him through their pain, through their passage. Through their pain.

It was necessary for them. For him.

Seeing the tall, fiery redhead walking angrily toward them prompted people on Third Avenue to move out of Neva Taylor’s way.

She was plenty pissed off. Handleman, the asshole account executive at Massmann Container, had made it clear that if she wanted to grow their advertising arrangement, she might consider sleeping with him.

He’d been shrewd, saying nothing, doing nothing, that could in any way be actionable if she were to formally complain. And of course if she did accuse him of sexual blackmail, he’d simply and successfully deny it. Even Neva had to admit it would be wrong to prosecute a man without sufficient proof of wrongdoing.

This left her helpless.

On the other hand, she hadn’t been so much as touched by the creep. And she still had the account.

That was small solace at the moment, as she strode past the Citigroup Building Barnes and Noble; across the intersection, while staring down a cabdriver about to make a right turn; and past a shop, where she might normally pause to look in the window.

She barely saw or heard the people around her as she relived in her mind the humiliating and infuriating events of an hour ago. The unctuous Handleman, with his transparent verbal fencing, trying to back her up, trying to draw blood. It was as if he knew that if she weakened, he’d have her. He understood women like her, he was implying. He knew better than she what she
really
wanted, and they both knew what that was. And she could have it and gain much on the side.

Neva stopped and stood still. She drew a deep breath and held it while people walking in the opposite direction stared.

Then she exhaled and made herself walk more slowly, made herself think as well as feel.

Handleman’s desk had been cluttered with framed photos of his family, an overweight wife and three or four chubby kids who looked too much like Handleman. Neva considered a counteroffensive. She might intimate to Handleman that if he persisted in his subtle but unmistakable advances, she’d take their little dance outside the business world and into his personal life, make trouble for him with his family.

Jesus! What am I thinking?

She put any idea of a counteroffensive out of her mind. If Handleman kept it up she’d tell her boss, who’d believe her but probably couldn’t do anything about the matter, either. Then, if necessary, she’d force the issue, get Handleman to discuss it. Neva knew this about herself: There was no kind of trouble she’d ever been in that she hadn’t been able to deal with and, at times, turn to her advantage.

She stopped at the next intersection to stand and wait for the traffic signal to change. Around her the city roared and played out lives. Cars and trucks on Third Avenue blasted their horns. Tires hummed on hot concrete. Sidewalks trembled with the rushing of subway trains beneath. The air was full of dozens of smells and noises and conversations and exhaust fumes, and Neva loved it.