Night Victims (The Night Spider) (44 page)

He started the car, but before driving away used the cell phone to call an old friend named Morris Beiner on the bomb squad. Men like Mandle and Vine knew how to get their hands on explosives, or they could make explosives themselves.

As the phone on the other end of the connection rang, he remembered Kray’s cautionary voice: . . .
he can kill from a distance. There are ways you wouldn’t imagine.

All those years in the NYPD, Horn thought. Maybe he hadn’t seen it all. Maybe nobody ever saw it all.

He thought about Anne, hidden away and heavily guarded, and in more danger than she knew. Vine’s motivation might be more understandable—raw, irrational vengeance—but he was no more an ordinary killer than was Mandle. They were both practitioners of the same rare trade. Death’s craftsmen, even artists, in a world of dilettantes.

Maybe there are ways I need to imagine.

48

When they’d left her alone in the cabin, Anne stood in the center of its main room and looked around. It was a small structure, not much more than the single room in which she stood, with a tiny kitchen area, a bathroom, and a crude staircase that led to sleeping lofts. At least it had indoor plumbing, though her brother told her it sometimes didn’t work all that well. She made a mental note to check it as soon as she got unpacked. Maybe before.

Though the construction was crude—stained cedar planks on the outside and on one of the inside walls—there was a certain coziness about the way the place was furnished. A large nubby sofa faced the big stone fireplace. Antlers and stuffed fish were mounted on the walls, along with a few unframed prints of hunting scenes. The floor was rough-hewn cedar, with an oval red and gray woven rug in its center. There was a smaller woven rug in the same colors in front of the fireplace. Framed photos of her brother holding up fish he’d caught over the years were propped on the mantel, and above them an old rod and reel were mounted on the wall. There was a mustiness about the cabin, made somehow pleasant by the underlying acrid scent of all the cedar.

Anne looked over at her suitcase, placed just inside the door, then up at the sleeping lofts.
Is this really going to be home for a while?

She hadn’t been here in years and didn’t even recall if the place had a generator and electricity. But she was relieved to see a light switch on the wall, and that there was a ceiling fan mounted high on the beamed ceiling. Electrical cords extended from the oversized lamps on tables at each end of the sofa. It would be dark soon. At least she’d have light.

There was a knock on the warped plank door as it creaked open. Anne felt a thrill of terror, then relaxed.

It was only Paula, who’d driven her here.

Paula smiled. “Sorry if I spooked you. I forgot something.”

Anne was spooked, all right. She wondered how secure she really was in the cabin.

Cindy Vine was finally talking, but hestitantly. Horn and Larkin watched through the one-way glass of the precinct interrogation room as a detective named Millhouse, whose specialty was sly interrogation, questioned her in the presence of her Legal Aid attorney. The attorney was a handsome, stern woman in her forties named Vicki Twigg, who, in private practice, had almost been disbarred five years before for her romantic involvement with her client. Rumor had it she’d also been doing drugs but had cleaned up that act before it destroyed her personally and professionally. Horn knew Twigg could be her old clever and unprincipled self from time to time. Cindy Vine hadn’t done badly in the luck of the draw.

“You’re the only one in any sort of position to help your husband,” Millhouse was telling Cindy.

She glanced at Twigg, who sat motionless and might have been thinking about a Macy’s sale.

“And help yourself, of course,” Millhouse added. “Unfortunately your husband’s crossed a threshold into a lot of serious difficulty. I sincerely believe he wouldn’t want you to follow him, but I’m afraid that’s what you’ll do if you continue your refusal to cooperate—”

Cindy squirmed. Twigg remained unmoving, maybe wondering how crowded Macy’s would be.

“Damn her,” Larkin said, on the other side of the thick glass.

He punched out a number on his cell phone. The phone in Millhouse’s pocket vibrated soundlessly, and Larkin broke the connection.

“I’m authorized to offer a deal,” Millhouse said.

Twigg looked over at him without moving her head.

“If your client is completely truthful and cooperative—”

“She walks,” Twigg finished for him. Twigg knew the score, the inning, the pitch count. “It’s her husband you want. My client has done nothing actionable.”

“Being an accessory to murder is actionable,” Millhouse said. “But even so—”

“She walks.”

Millhouse glanced over at the glass behind which Larkin and Horn stood unseen. Twigg made it a point not to follow his gaze, but she smiled slightly.

“Okay,” Millhouse said. “Charges won’t be brought as long as she’s truthful. I’m authorized to make the offer. You have my word.”

Twigg looked over at Cindy and nodded. Cindy began to sob.

“Agreement in writing,” Twigg said.

“Sure,” Millhouse said. “I’ll set it up.”

49

Afghanistan, 2001

SSF trooper Joe Vine used a polymer line and belayer to rappel down the rocky mountain face to the cave entrance they’d spotted from the ground. The main cave was still being explored. The Taliban had been driven from the area, or deeper into the caves, so there shouldn’t be much danger in Vine checking out this cave by himself. Judging by the contours of the mountain, it was probably small and shallow and not much more than a grotto. This region was full of such minor caves, sometimes man-made, with dark entrances that usually led nowhere.

The mission was to mop up any remaining Taliban resistance, then search the caves for records and munitions. That could, of course, be extremely dangerous.

Vine stopped his descent about a yard to the side of the cave entrance. He saw now that the cave might be reachable by using a narrow path below, but it would be difficult, and, in places, the rocky path disappeared.

He would have tossed a grenade into the cave before entering, only the unit didn’t want to make its presence known.

The sound of the grenade explosion would echo around the mountainous terrain, and the resultant smoke might be visible for miles.

So Vine readied his automatic weapon, gathered his guts, and pushed off from the mountain face to swing in through the cave entrance and take anyone inside by surprise.

From sunlight to dimness. It took a fraction of a second for Vine’s vision to adjust.

Which was a good thing, or he might have squeezed the trigger.

Inside was his fellow SSF unit member Aaron Mandle. He was stooped over a bundle of some sort and staring up at him in surprise.

“Shit!” Vine said, relaxing. “You beat me to this one.”

Mandle didn’t answer, didn’t move.

And Vine looked down at the bundle at Mandle’s feet and knew why.

It was a young Afghan girl, wound tightly in her burka, which was darkly stained. Vine knew the stain and the faint metallic scent in the cave. Fresh blood.

“What the fuck did you do, Aaron?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Mandle said, standing straight now and smiling, his automatic weapon slung beneath his right arm, the knife in his left. “I found her in here.”

“Like this?”

Mandle actually smiled. “Not exactly, Joe.”

Vine sat down on the hard earth. “Fuck! Oh, fuck!”

“I didn’t do that to her.”

“What I mean,” Vine said, “is that you can’t get by with something like this, Aaron. It’s murder.”

“It’s war, Joe. Total fuckin’ war. The small and the crawl—that’s us, Joe—we get fucked in total war. Any goddamn thing goes.”

“Not
that
!” Vine said, pointing to the dead girl, marveling at how pale and angelic her face looked in the dim cave. She must have lost most of her blood before she died.

“Yeah, that,” Mandle said. “It’s what we trained for, Joe. Don’t shit yourself, it’s what we trained for.”

“That kid’s not the enemy!”

“Sure she is, just like all those Kraut and Jap civilians we bombed in World War Two. You ever read history, Joe?”

“Yeah, history . . .” Vine was feeling a little sick. The heat, even in the dim, shallow cave. The dead girl and the smell.
Jesus! . . .

“I want you to do me a favor, Joe.”

“I know. Forget about this.”

“For a while, is all I’m asking. Until we can both think some more. Talk some more. Maybe straighten this thing out. Will you do that for me? I’d sure as fuck do it for you.”

Vine worked his way to his feet, still feeling woozy. He glanced at his watch.

“We gotta rejoin the unit,” Mandle said.

“Yeah, Aaron.”

“Thanks, brother,” Mandle said. “I owe you big.”

Vine wasn’t quite sure if he’d agreed to anything. He had to get away and find some time. Think about this.

He led the way out of the cave.

Closer to the base of the mountain, at the mouth of the main cave, they heard gunshots.

Mandle and Vine looked at each other. Then training took over. Crouched and fast, they moved into the cave with weapons at the ready.

The firefight was over when they reached the bend in the cave. Three al-Qaida lay dead in limp bundles like the girl in the other cave. Colonel Kray had a brown metal box tucked beneath his left arm.

Vine almost said something to him then, even though it wasn’t the right time. The girl in the cave. Probably no more than twelve or thirteen.
She was a kid . . .

Mandle was staring at him.

And for the first time Vine felt afraid of Aaron Mandle.

And felt his resolve waver.

After all, Mandle could simply deny Vine’s story. Might even say he, Vine, killed the girl. Simply reverse their roles. There were no witnesses, only a dead Afghan girl. Dead in a country of death.

Gotta think about this,
Vine told himself, and held his silence.

Think about it.

“. . . time we shag-ass outta here,” Kray was saying. “We got what we wanted. Looks like it could be a schematic for some kinda biological weapon or some such shit. We get it back to base, no matter what. Understood?”

“Understood, sir!” answered twelve voices almost in unison, heavy on the
sir.

Kray motioned with his right arm and led the way out of the cave, toward sunlight and heat.

Vine spat on the cave floor and fell in behind Mandle, knowing he’d turned a corner in his mind, trying to convince himself he hadn’t.

Think about it.. .

50

New York, 2004

Ten minutes after Cindy Vine had agreed to talk, Horn and Larkin were in the interrogation room with Millhouse, Twigg, and Cindy.

It was warm in there. Horn could feel the body heat and smell the sweat and fear emanating from Cindy. Getting mixed up with the wrong man was every woman’s potential pitfall, he thought. It worked the other way, too, but not as often and not as severely. Not a lot of wives turned out to be serial killers.

“Joe had a lot of pressure,” Cindy began, with the recorder running. “So did I, so maybe that’s why I didn’t notice how odd he was behaving. He was full of hate, and something else. Then, a couple of months ago, he told me about Aaron Mandle killing those women.”

“The Night Spider murders?” Millhouse asked softly.

“No, the ones that happened while they were in the SSF, when they were on missions in various trouble spots around the world. Mandle was sick, dangerous. In Afghanistan, Joe walked in on him right after he’d killed a girl.”

“Did Joe tell his commanding officer?”

“No, he couldn’t. Their unit was separate from the main force, like usual when they were on a nearly suicidal mission. That’s how Joe described it. So he waited before saying anything. He figured out that the girl Mandle killed wasn’t the first and wouldn’t be the last. Then, after a while, he realized it was too late to speak out. It would have looked bad for him if he’d said something, maybe ended his career in disgrace. He said that until now they never told their wives or anyone else about the murders. Joe thought Mandle was dead, until he was arrested for the Night Spider killings. He watched the news and followed the trial, the conviction . . .” Cindy started to sob again but bit her lip. She held in her distress like a great pressure, without breathing for a long time.

Finally she sighed, in control of herself, but seeming to become smaller as she exhaled. “Then came the phone call the night Mandle escaped. We were in bed, but I heard Joe on the phone. I knew he must be talking to Mandle. Joe hung up and started getting dressed in the dark. It surprised him when I asked where he was going. He’d thought I was asleep.”

“What did Joe say?” Millhouse asked casually, isolating and emphasizing the answer for the recorder.

“That he had to go out. An old friend who was in trouble had called. I asked him what old friend, but all he said was not to worry about it. He kissed me good-bye and went.”

“When did he return?”

“I’m not sure. I’d taken pills. We’d both been drinking. The stress of our son . . . what was happening in our lives. When I woke up at about nine the next morning, Joe was next to me in bed.” Cindy couldn’t hold back her tears now. She dropped her head onto the table, hid her face in the crook of her arm, and began to sob uncontrollably.

“Enough for now,” Twigg said.

“Joe’s not an evil man!” said Cindy from the shelter of her bent arm. “Joe is
not
an evil man!”

Horn kept his teeth clenched.
Oh, really? Is this the Joe who wants to torture and kill my wife?

But he said nothing, glancing at Vicki Twigg. She nodded slightly, as if to say,
I understand. We both know about evil.

Horn was again humbled by the realization that what was profound in life usually lay unspoken.