Night Vision

by Paul Levine

  I thought about it. "Okay. We start with Barely Legal, maybe switch to Lady Chattery if we come up empty."

  "Have fun, kids," Cindy said. "Gotta meet Dottie the Disco Queen and catch the last shuttle to Paradise Island. Twenty-four hours in the casino, hitting the slots, fending off Romeos. Sayonara."

  ***

  Pam sat, posture perfect, at the keyboard. I stretched out on the sofa, hefting my .38-caliber revolver, courtesy of Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson. It's the air-weight bodyguard model with the checkered walnut stock and the blue steel cylinder, an ugly little five-shot gun with a two-inch barrel. At fourteen ounces, just about anybody can fire it, whether they ought to or not. Every assistant state attorney gets one, along with a laminated badge and an autographed, smiling photo of Nick Fox. The gun shouldn't scare me. It has the requisite safety devices and fits snugly in the hand, a solid feel. It should be reassuring. But it scares me.

  I hate a knife.

  I hate a needle.

  And I hate a gun.

  A gun doesn't do you any good unless you're willing to shoot. You can't aim at somebody and not mean it. You can't pull the trigger and take it back. I put the gun down and picked up a four-foot gaff I keep on the skiff. A mean hook at the end, but the whole thing is lightweight aluminum. You could bend it over somebody's head, he'd need a couple of aspirin, but could still shoot you if he had a gun of his own. Our visitor, if any there be, wouldn't have a gun. He'd have a sport coat and cordovan loafers and a trendy car. And a closet full of goblins that screamed in the dark.

  I was sleepy from too much sun, and the muscles of my shoulders were bunching into angry little knots, telling the wise guy who used them that he hadn't read the owner's manual. There it was in boldface: after forty thousand miles, use an engine to push the boat.

  Pam watched me handling the .38 and said, "We could ask the police to stop by."

  "There aren't any secrets in the department. Rodriguez would find out. Besides, I can take care of you."

  She regarded me skeptically.

  I waggled my gaff and showed her my tough-guy face. Pam Maxson shrugged and logged in. Barely Legal was on the air.

  ***

  It must have been a slow night for the electronic buzz-and-whisper set. Clark Kent said he'd like to come over and change clothes; Katz Meow asked if being Barely Legal was kosher; Camera Man allowed as how he only wanted to watch. A couple of women made connections. Phyllis Ph.D. complained about the intelligence of the men you find on your monitors these days. Bi Di asked if maybe it wasn't time for a change in direction.

  But no Biggus Dickus.

  I had called the station; Alex Rodriguez wasn't on duty. He should be home, opening a six-pack, watching TV, growing bored. He should be warming up the beige box, rolling those microchip dice. Come on, Biggus, we're waiting.

  I was tired and hungry. I checked the refrigerator. Typical bachelor-girl fare. Six cartons of yogurt, some old enough to earn interest at the CD rate. Two cans of diet Pepsi, one opened, two sips missing. A forlorn tomato with no other veggies for company. A can of tuna, a couple eggs. A take-out carton from Joe's Stone Crab that emitted an astonishing odor. No wonder, Joe's closed for the season in April. It was nearly Labor Day. The freezer was packed. Six pints of Ben & Jerry's, all different flavors. I tried Chunky Monkey.

  Back in the living room, Barely Legal was logging out and Lady Chattery was logging in. Muff Diver popped up and asked if the new lady omitted a letter from her name.

  No, it's a pun, she responded.

  A what? he asked.

  Pam pushed a few more buttons and joined Compu-Mate's party line. Rita Cane was verbally abusing Señor Slave, who seemed to like it. Another code and she was in the mating room, singles meeting new talent. Charlie Horse said hello and complained about his rheumatism. In the Dungeon, Bum Swatter was looking for passive women. I hoped he didn't run into Rita Cane; there'd be hell to pay.

  I left Pam there, then lay down on the sofa, picked up the Journal, and got my daily dose of Miami madness. The usual collection of crime stories. Another policeman shot another drug suspect, another three women had their car windows smashed with bricks and their purses grabbed at downtown traffic lights, and another cache of automatic weapons was seized at the airport. Standard local fare.

  Something else, too. A story about how dry we are, and are going to be. The Biscayne Aquifer keeps shrinking and we keep chugging the water in great wasteful portions. We are overpopulated and over pampered. We water our lawns while thunderstorms rage. In one plush suburb overflowing with hibiscus and impatiens, each household uses an astonishing six hundred gallons of water every day. So there is a push on to replace thirsty palms and St. Augustine grass with ferns and satin leaf trees, bougainvillea, and other shrubs that thrive without irrigation.

  As the water table drops, the garbage piles up. Mount Trashmore overflows. Our old landfills leak poisonous crud into the porous sand-and-limestone aquifer. Instead of recycling, we use and discard. Disposable diapers take five hundred years to decompose, many times the rate of our greatest books. Our shorelines are clogged with plastics and Styrofoam. Our fish and turtles and birds become snared in six-pack rings or strangled in illegal nets. We dump thousands of old cars and used tires in places where sludge leaks into the groundwater. One gallon of oil contaminates a million gallons of water.

  This very day, a freighter slammed into a coral reef off Key Largo not far from where Charlie and I chased bonefish. It takes six thousand years to build a reef, from the Pleistocene limestone and calcareous mud to the skeletal sand and the miraculous living coral, swaying brightly in the tidal flow. It takes seconds for the steel bow of a Panamanian rustbucket to destroy it.

  We are a vain, greedy, and foolish people. We squander and spoil, befoul and defile. We take for granted the beauties and bounties of nature, but in the end nature will out. We will dry up or smoke out or choke on our own waste. In the end we will pay the ultimate price.

  I put the paper down and closed my eyes. Cops say surveillance is the worst. They use the wartime cliché, hours of boredom followed by moments of terror. At this moment the sofa was rocking gently, just as the skiff had done. Lulling me to sleep with the soft tap, tap, tapping of fingers on electronic keys. Through faraway clouds I called to Pam but could not see her. I heard Nick Fox's voice. What was he saying? Suddenly I was cold. And wet. I was wearing fatigues and my boots were squishing in the mud outside a village they call Dak Sut. My back was bent under the weight of my gear, my stomach knotted with dread. From somewhere I heard the echo of small weapons. I dived into the mud. I heard Nick Fox again. "Evan," he called. "Evan, where are you?"

  I awoke to Pam's voice. "Jake, you might want to look at this."

  She was calm, but underneath the flat tones I heard the tension. I imagined a nurse calling the surgeon to the gurney to inspect an appalling wound.

  I shook myself up and wobbled to her desk. The monitor was humming.

  AND YOU, LADY CHATTERY, WHAT DO YOU SEEK?

  A GARDENER, STRONG OF LIMB, PLAIN OF TALK, BRIMMING WITH PASSION. KNOW ANYONE WHO FITS THE BILL?

  THE PRINCE OF PASSION, AT YOUR SERVICE.

  Professor Gerald Prince or some impostor. I didn't know which.

  Pam wrinkled her forehead and started typing.

  A PRINCE IS EVERY GIRL'S FANTASY.

  AND YOU, MY LADY. IF YOU FOUND YOUR PRINCE, WOULD YOU KNOW IT, OR WOULD APPEARANCES PUT YOU OFF?

  Pam paused and turned to me. "What's he saying?"

  "Ask him if he's a prince or the phantom of the opera."

  WHAT DO YOU LOOK LIKE, PRINCE?

  NEVER MIND ME. WHO ARE YOU, LADY C? WHAT ARE YOU?

  WHAT DO YOU THINK?

  The screen stayed blank. Where'd you go, Prince? A minute passed. Maybe he went to the john. But then it started and I tried to picture him, huddled in some room, tapping out the words. I didn't have a picture.

  TILL BACK I FELL, AND FROM MINE ARMS SHE ROSE GLOWING ALL OVER NO
BLE SHAME; AND ALL HER FALSER SELF SLIPT FROM HER LIKE A ROBE, AND LEFT HER WOMAN...

  Pam looked at me, but I just shrugged. Again she typed.

  THAT'S LOVELY, PRINCE. WHAT'S IT FROM?

  The answer flickered white against the black background.

  DO YOU KNOW YOUR TENNYSON?

  No, I thought, but I'm learning.

  I skimmed back over the words. My mind was racing and nothing made sense. Of course, it could be coincidence. The Tennyson messages left at the Rosedahl and Fox murder scenes, and now this. Sure, Lassiter, sure. Most horny guys with computers quote Tennyson every chance they get. But this stuff, Victorian verse, might as well have been Greek to me. I started to ask Pam something, but she cut me off with a wave of her hand. She had once deciphered kidnappers' notes and was back in her element—dissecting the words of a psychopath.

  PRINCE, WHATS IT MEAN, "HER FALSER SELF"?

  Again, we waited, watching the little white cursor blipping hypnotically on the dark screen. Then:

  FOR WOMAN IS NOT UNDEVELOPT MAN, BUT DIVERSE: COULD WE MAKE HER AS THE MAN, SWEET LOVE WERE SLAIN: HIS DEAREST BOND IS THIS, NOT LIKE TO LIKE, BUT LIKE IN DIFFERENCE. YET IN THE LONG YEARS LIKER MUST THEY GROW; THE MAN BE MORE OF WOMAN, SHE OF MAN.

  "What's he talking about?" I said.

  "Hush, Jake. I have to think and type, and you're hovering over me like an Auntie Busybody."

  "Well, ex-cuse me. I'm just trying to catch a murderer, here. If he asks for your phone number, give it to him. If he wants to come over, invite him in for a drink. Hey, don't you owe him a reply?"

  PRINCE, YOUR POETRY PUZZLES ME.

  WHY, PRINCESS?

  "Holy shit!" I said. "The Princess."

  Pam Maxson shot me a look over her shoulder. I paced behind her. "On Priscilla Fox's computer. 'Man is the hunter; woman is his game.' It's from The Princess by Tennyson. You're talking to the murderer."

  "I'm quite aware of that," she said dispassionately.

  Suddenly I wanted to call somebody.

  Who? Gerald Prince.

  Why? To know if he was online.

  I picked up the phone. Dead. Of course, dead, dummy. The computer modem was using the line. Frugal Cindy. A fortune on Japanese doodads, but only one telephone line. I am not one of those lawyers who carries a cute little phone in my briefcase. At traffic lights I listen to Peter, Paul and Mary on an oldies station or the surf report on the weather band. I can't return all the urgent calls until the next day, by which time hopefully the urgency has passed. But now, damn it, I needed a phone.

  "Be right back!" I shouted as I raced for the door.

  A sidewalk connected Cindy's townhouse with four others on a cul-de-sac. I didn't bother with my sneakers, which were still on the doorstep. Instead, in my sweat socks, I padded my two hundred twenty-five pounds to the next door and rang the bell. If eyes can frown, a blue-shadowed one frowned at me through the peephole. I gave my name and mission and the eye disappeared. The door didn't open. Instead, a double bolt clicked into place. A woman's voice from behind the door: "I've got a shotgun and know how to use it."

  Now why would anyone do that? I looked at myself. Clean blue jeans, a T-shirt from my favorite oyster bar with the logo "Eat it raw," and a four-foot gaff in my right hand. Whoops. I tucked the gaff behind my back and hotfooted it to the next townhouse. Nobody home. At the third door I flashed my laminated, temporary, specially appointed assistant-state-attorney badge at a beefy man with a Doberman at his side. He let me in and seemed to hope I'd try something. While the man and the dog watched I stood in the kitchen and dialed Prince's number.

  Busy.

  That could mean he was online with Pamela Maxson at this very moment. Maybe he fooled me. But how did he fool the DNA test? Maybe someone else had sex with the women, and a crazed Prince waited for them to leave, then came to kill. It still didn't make sense.

  I dialed again.

  Still busy. The guy was getting bored watching me. The Doberman looked hungry, or do they always drool?

  I dialed again.

  It rang.

  "'Even-ing," sang Prince's voice.

  "Prince, it's Lassiter. What are you doing?"

  "Doing? About world illiteracy or are you interested in more personal concerns?"

  "Right now, what have you been doing the past half hour?"

  "Ingesting the contents of a clear bottle with a brown liquid, why?"

  "Have you been online with Compu-Mate?"

  There was a pause. Then: "As a matter of fact, I was just on with Eager Beaver."

  "Not Lady Chattery."

  "Check D. H. Lawrence's line."

  "Not Chatterly, Chattery."

  "Never heard of her. Now see here, Biff, you have no right to interfere with—"

  But I hung up the phone. I was running back to Cindy's place, having sidestepped the big black dog.

  Something was wrong.

  People tell you they feel things, something that's going to happen, and you laugh. But there is a chill behind the laugh.

  I felt something that made me hurry.

  My old car was still in the space in front of Cindy's townhouse. Next to it was a mud-splattered jeep that wasn't there ten minutes ago.

  The front door was cracked slightly open. Had I left it that way or did someone else? Why had I left? Because, smart guy that I am, I figured if the murderer was typing away, he couldn't be here. Now I fought the urge to burst through the door, gaff swinging. I entered without a sound and stepped into the small foyer. The paper walls of the Japanese den were in front of me.

  From the living room I heard a man's voice. It was familiar but I could not place it.

  I crept around one corner, holding the gaff at my side. I heard Pam. "But why must you? It's so terribly cruel."

  Calm, collected Dr. Maxson. What a pro. Trying to talk her way out of it. Using her experience with rapists and killers. Buying time. Waiting to be rescued by the blockhead who left her alone.

  The man's voice now clear: "Once I got used to the blood, there was nothing to it."

  I turned the corner, and there he was, his back to me. He wore brown pants, black leather boots, and a buckskin shirt with fringes. The back of his neck was bronzed from the sun. In his right hand he held a knife with sawteeth that could chop down a redwood. The knife was pointed directly at Pamela Maxson's sternum.

  Two steps and I could lunge at him, take him down with a shoulder in the small of the back. But if he turned, I'd catch a foot-long blade in the belly. So I bent at the waist, put a hand on a knee, carefully picked up my right leg, extra high, then gently placed my right foot down on the outside of the ball, rolled to the inside, and finally brought down the heel silent as a wish.

  Then I did it again with the left foot. Why not? He's the one who taught me the Tom Cat Stalk.

  CHAPTER 30

  Yin from Yang

  My second step was perfect. Even I didn't hear it.

  Pam was facing him, the blade of the knife inches from her chest. "Surely you can't go on with your bloodletting, oblivious to the consequences."

  Then she saw me. Her eyes widened.

  No, Pam, no! Look away.

  I hurried the next step. I didn't snap a twig or step on a squirrel's tail. But he heard me. It could have been his woodsman's ears. More likely it was the crash of ceramic bowl on tile. Moving too quickly, I had swung the gaff to one side where it clipped the bowl, sending it to the floor. So there I stood, one knee tucked under my chin, broken pottery covering my socks.

  Tom Carruthers pivoted and glared at me. "You!"

  "Me."

  He smiled ruefully. "Of course. I should have recognized those foolish sneakers out front."

  "Okay, Carruthers. It's all over. I'm going to take you in. Now either drop that knife, or I'm going to jam this—"

  "Jake," Pam interrupted. "Perhaps—"

  "Why not try it?" Carruthers offered, gesturing with the knife. In the light of a Japanese lantern, the blade shone red. />
  I circled to my right, keeping the knife in view. He circled to his right. He had the sharper weapon; I had the longer. I raised the gaff as if it were a foil. I got into the classic fencing position, feet at right angles, right foot and knee pointed at my enemy, and shouted, "On guard," as if I were Errol Flynn. Then I advanced, my feet skimming the floor in the two-count tempo.

  "Jake, he's—"

  "Not to worry," I called out.

  Carruthers raised the knife in the saber grip, thumb on top, four fingers below. He stood with left foot forward, shoulders square, left hand extended to block any blows, right hand back, protecting the knife, out of my reach.

  "I'll gut you, lawyer," he said through clenched teeth.

  "No!" Pam shouted.

  I skimmed forward some more, then lunged, aiming at his heart, the prime quarte. If he'd been a tarpon, I'd have nailed him. But Carruthers parried with his free arm, taking a glancing shot. He flexed his knees and came forward, going for the throat. I leaned to the right, lengthening the distance he had to go to reach me with his right hand. When his knife shot forward, I sidestepped, letting the blade go by my neck, and at the same time I swung the gaff up and bounced one off his right hip, quinte septime. Carruthers brushed it off and said something impolite, accusing me of intimate relations with a close family member.

  He squared up again, and I resumed the fencing position, right foot forward. He slashed downward, going for my front leg. Unsporting. I skimmed backward, then, as he advanced, brought the gaff up hard, slapping the steel blade of the knife. The screech of metal on metal. He didn't lose his grip, but I did, the gaff skittering across the floor.

  Oh shit.

  He had a knife and I had two hands and a gimpy knee. There are ways to disable someone with a punch. A good shot to the ear can burst an eardrum, cause nerve shock or a concussion. A solid punch to the weak bone of the temple can cause unconsciousness and even death if a hemorrhage results. A blow to the throat can sever the windpipe. But you have to get close enough, and if the other guy has a survival knife with sawteeth, you have to avoid spilling your guts on the floor.