Peregrine

by William Bayer

  Now they were sitting together a dozen feet apart. Her shrewdness, her unwillingness to make a verbal solicitation, was working now for him as he had planned. She was sitting there patiently waiting for him to speak, ask her price, tell her his preferences. And that was perfect, for he didn’t speak to her, and so they sat in silence side by side.

  Now she was tantalized, perhaps even confused. The wind carried her perfume across his face. He glanced up, let the sun catch his glasses, shook his head quickly to flash the light. Then he stood up and walked rapidly away.

  She was disgusted. He’d made a fool out of her, and now she was too weary to strut again. She just sat there, demoralized, dejected, and vulnerable, tired of his game, which she didn’t like and didn’t understand.

  It was important that he see the attack. He strode to a row of benches fifty feet away. He sat down, looked at her. She avoided his stare, then suddenly stared back at him enraged.

  He raised his head as if to catch the sun for warmth and then he saw the falcon in her stoop. What ecstasy! She was falling at an enormous speed. A hundred fifty miles an hour, maybe more, falling, falling, wings swept back, head down pointing at the ground.

  She was seconds from her strike and no one had noticed yet. She was making that wonderful half twist in the stoop which was her specialty, the trademark of her attack. A half twist two hundred feet above the victim, final corrections depending upon the wind, lining up her talons with the head, preparing for the close. Yes, the close! It was magnificent! The best one yet—by far the best. When she hit the girl, knocking her off the fountain ledge, it was he, too, who hit her; her talons were his; he was Peregrine.

  At last he felt free, free of his earthboundness, sharing the thrill of the flight, the ecstatic moment of the hit and now the kill. The kill! He was with the falcon as she made it, raking her claws against the girl’s throat. He felt delirious, burning, and then all at once, when he saw the blood, he felt requited, as if a terrible knot had been untied and warm liquid could flow free at last….

  Hours later, having returned to the aerie to tend and feed and compliment his bird, Hollander was drawn back into the city to walk its streets at dusk.

  This was a different sort of walk from the stalking march he’d taken at midday—the tension of that earlier outing was replaced now by the tenderness that always filled him after a kill. He was out on an inspection trip to survey the damage and to revel in the forces he’d unleashed.

  Now when he noticed pretty girls he did not think of them as prey—they were people who had hopes and dreams—flesh, too, of course, but more than that; they were not just creatures of the city but persons, individuals, each one precious and unique. He did not believe he was better than they, though, of course, he was more powerful. But underneath they were the same: blood and bones, living cells arranged in a certain way, full of needs and desires, joys and fears—fears, most of all, for he, too, now was afraid.

  Hollander understood his fear, believed it was the background fear all living creatures feel. The city was as dangerous as any wilderness, and those who lived in it, millions of people, were no less in danger from predators than any other wildlife living any other place. That was the way of the world: Kill or be killed. There was a chain of predation: The strong feasted on the weak, and in the end even the strong fell and died, and then the chain began again. Walking now among others of his species, noting the fear on their faces, centered in their eyes, he felt at one with them, for he knew that eventually they would hunt him down.

  He would have his moment of glory as a hunter, but in the end he would be prey himself.

  It was nearly six o’clock. The rush hour was at its peak. The sidewalks were mobbed with people moving rapidly toward bus and subway stops.

  Curious about a crowd assembled before an appliance shop, he pushed forward to see what had attracted them.

  It was Pam. All the TV sets in the window were tuned to the same channel, so that her image was visible on all the screens. She was speaking in that special agitated way of hers, that excited passionate way, as if she were radiating heat. He could feel the energy coming off her, could feel it transfix the crowd. As he pushed closer, so he could hear what she was saying, he felt the pressure of other viewers pushing him from behind.

  He felt warm among these onlookers.

  And her broadcast was sensational— he could feel waves of emotion all around. She was a powerful force, as powerful in her way as he was with his falcon, for though he dealt in death, she dealt in emotion—hers was a power that could move a crowd.

  Listening to her describe the Bryant Park attack, read excerpts from his letters, smolder as she read, he was pleased he’d chosen her as the medium through which he addressed the city, as much his instrument in her way as his falcon, Peregrine.

  “So,” she said, finally, “there is a man behind all of this. But who is he? What does he look like? What does he really want? To punish us? Or is there something else, a private madness he has yet to reveal, a satanic need to kill? There are so many questions. Why are all his victims attractive young women? How does he make his bird attack? Who chooses the victim—the peregrine or the man? Where does this huge bird live? How can such an animal inhabit our city, terrorize us and never be seen? Finally, is there a defense, something that can be done to end his reign of terror? The police need your help. A special squad has been assembled to deal with these terrible crimes. Anyone listening, anyone who has any information—I urge you to call this special number ….” And at that, the number was superimposed upon the screen.

  Hollander was pressed now up against the window, only inches from the sets behind the glass. Pam was in close-up. Her eyes locked into his. She was speaking to him directly now, speaking straight to him.

  “I know you’re watching. I know you’re listening. Who are you? How long will this go on? I’ve read your letters. You’ve made your point. It’s senseless to persist. You need help. Please seek it. And please, please give up this awful scheme. Restrain your bird. You must know that the innocent lives you have taken cannot help you in your cause. Write me. Tell me what you want. Let me help you. But please, please stop the killing now.”

  He smiled as her image faded from all the screens. The news show went into a commercial; he turned and fought his way out of the crowd. She was something, that girl, extraordinary, absolutely extraordinary. He could no more shake away her image than he’d been able to shake off the taste of her that time he’d touched her forehead with his lips.

  What was it about her that fascinated him? Her passion, her fire—no question that was part of it. He thought with pleasure of what a bird she’d be.

  Pambird. Yes! She’d be marvelous as Pambird. What fun it would be to tame her, to hood her and starve her and train her and make her his pet. But not too tame, of course—not so tame as to extinguish her wildness. A huntress concentrating ecstasy and violence released to kill and then return—to him there could be no greater beauty on earth. Pambird could be like that. She could be his huntress like Peregrine. If she were worthy, she could be.

  He stopped on a street corner, imagined it, and smiled. Perhaps he could trap her, he thought, the way so many times he’d trapped a wild bird in the field.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Celebrity was new to Pam. She was used to being recognized, as anyone who appears on television is, but celebrity meant stirring up deep emotions in people, inspiring their love, hatred, anger, and adoration, being gazed at, too—not looked at, but gazed at in a certain way.

  The peregrine story was only nine days old, but in that time she had become so closely associated with it that as the story unfolded, became the focus of the city’s collective fantasies and fears, her personality had also taken hold. Gossip columnists called her, asked questions about her personal life. Other reporters—even Hal Hopkins, the anchorman—behaved as if she were a star. When she walked outside her building and searched for a cab, she found people stopping and staring at her an
d even calling out her name. What was it, she wondered, that had earned all this attention: Her reporting? Her broadcasts? Or was it something more, an illusion about her, an exaggerated sense of her as a character in a drama in which she had become as much a focus of interest as the bird?

  She discussed this with Paul. He called her late the night of her plea to the falconer. He told her she’d been terrific, but being Paul, master of the needle, he laid on the sarcasm, too.

  “So—how does it feel to really make it?”

  “I don’t feel that I have, Paul. Not yet.”

  “Sure you have. Tell me about it. Let me bathe in your reflected glory. At least let me take a dip.”

  She imagined him making a characteristic gesture, pushing back the shock of black hair that hung across his forehead as if he were an English man-of-letters from the period between the world wars.

  “There’s nothing to tell. I get recognized. Some teenage girls came up to me outside the station this afternoon, crowded around and asked for my autograph. I was in a hurry, maybe a little short with them.”

  “Better watch that, Pammer. They’ll turn against you fast.” He paused. “Come on! Tell more. I want to squirm with envious despair.”

  “You’re impossible.”

  “I’m serious. It accrues to me. Remember—I’m the ex. Ex Mr. Pam Barrett. I can dine out on that. I might even get some sympathy votes. You know: ‘She got too big for him, career competition and all, so they had to split. He’s just not in her league, poor guy. He’s a photography critic— cripes! Not a bad one, by the way, but small-time compared to her.”

  He stopped, suddenly. She knew he was waiting for her reaction. Maybe he wanted her to hang up. Then he’d feel as though he’d accomplished something, still had the power to make her mad. She decided to stay silent.

  She wondered why he had to act like such a jerk. His sarcasm was so transparent, his envy so wretched and mean.

  “Well?”

  “Yeah?”

  “No rejoinder?”

  “Too tired, Paul.”

  “Look, you’re making it. I’m so glad for you I could scream. Forget all that crap I uttered. You know how I get. But really, sincerely—”

  “Ah, sincerely—”

  “Yeah, sincerely, I want you to watch yourself, because now you’re at the danger point. I don’t mean you’re going to blow the story. You won’t, and, anyway, I couldn’t give less of a shit about that. I mean just watch it because it’s dangerous up there. You’re on the high wire, and the fall is long and hard. It happens to people. They get to be stars and then they start boozing and playing around with drugs and pills. Garland. Elvis. You know what I mean. So watch it, keep your head. You’re strong underneath—I ought to know. And I’m here to help you if you feel you need me. So if you feel yourself falling, just give you-know-who a call.”

  He laid on the sincerity the way he laid on the put-downs. Garland? Elvis? Drugs and pills? But still she knew he cared about her and that there might be something to what he said. Sometimes she did feel as if she were on a sort of tightrope and about to fall.

  “Thanks. That’s a good offer, Paul. Thank you very much.” He turned meek when he said good-night, as if ashamed he’d called. Afterward she thought about him. She didn’t like to because of all the pain he’d given her through the years, but she thought about him anyway. They had loved one another. He used to say, “It’s just the sex that keeps us together,” but he had loved her, and career frustration had had a lot to do with their divorce. She wanted to push forward, work in the mass media, earn herself a name, and he wanted to stay an elitist, write for a small discerning audience. But there was a side of him that envied her ambition and that made him hate himself for being afraid to seek success. So he’d turned bitter and nasty. He couldn’t stand himself, and she couldn’t stand him either, and so they had decided to do “the grown-up thing” since “the sex had gone bad” and “we’ve entered our baroque” and “it’s splitsville time” and all the other little phrases that he’d used. And so they’d gotten themselves a cheap Dominican divorce, had a drink together in the Oak Bar of the Plaza to celebrate, resolved they’d be kind with each other now and would be “best friends for life.”

  But of course he’d broken all his resolves. He’d told all their old mutual friends how ambitious and pushy and corrupt she was, and made sarcastic remarks whenever he ran into her, and called her up late at night and told her he was horny for her even though he’d just gotten laid with someone else.

  She’d expected that, in fact was pleased he’d lived up to her expectations, because that vindicated her decision to leave him and live alone. Now when he talked she merely listened—sometimes touched, sometimes irritated, but mostly sad that their love had failed.

  The next afternoon she went to see Jay.

  Now that she’d gone public with the letters, she could be level with him at last. Their previous discussion had been “theoretical”; now she could quiz him directly about how a falcon could be trained to kill a woman.

  She taxied up to his house, and when she got there she saw a police car parked in front. And then, when she paid off the cabbie, she saw Janek coming out the door. He saw her and waited for her on Hollander’s front steps.

  “How’s it going, Lieutenant?” she asked in a brassy, one-of-the-boys, reporter-to-cop tone of voice.

  “Thanks for putting me onto Hollander,” Janek said. “You’ve got good sources, I’ll give you that.”

  Finally a concession—did he recognize she wasn’t a total amateur?

  “You’re not a competitive station,” she said. “Always happy to help the police.”

  “Well, thanks, Pam. I really appreciate that.”

  “You’re being sarcastic.”

  “Cops are always sarcastic. That’s just the way we are.”

  There was an edge to his voice. He still associated her with Herb. She wanted now to dissociate herself, show him she was different and nice.

  “I really would like to share with you,” she said. “I’d like to work something out.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “Are we going to share? Wasn’t that the deal?”

  He paused. “I didn’t like your broadcast.” He said it quietly, almost offhand.

  “Sorry to hear that. What exactly didn’t you like?”

  “The way you read the letters, and your plea. I thought that was just a little overdone.”

  “Oh, come on. We gave out your number. I urged people to call in to you.”

  “They’re calling. God, they’re calling. Look, I may be wrong, but I thought you were inflammatory. But very sincere, of course. Terribly, terribly sincere.”

  She was stunned. He’d flung a tough criticism at her; now he seemed to be waiting for her to respond. “Okay, Janek,” she said, angry now, and hurt. “What’s the real problem? Why don’t we have it out?”

  “No problem. I’m trying to catch a murderer, and I have the feeling that may not be in your interest just now. The longer this thing goes on, the more time you have to play with it. You’re interested in your career, I don’t much care about your career, and I’d say that leaves us at odds.”

  “I won’t bother to defend myself. I don’t have to, thank God.”

  “Good. Save your breath.” He turned, strode down the steps. As she rang Jay’s doorbell, she heard him drive away.

  “That detective isn’t too happy with Channel 8.” They were in the library; Jay was pouring her a drink. “What’s going on between you, anyway?”

  She shrugged. “He doesn’t like us. I guess that’s what’s going on.”

  “Don’t let it bother you. He’s down on the media generally.”

  “What exactly did he say?” Jay hesitated. “Tell me, Jay. Come on.”

  “Well, among other things, he said you were all a bunch of vultures.”

  “That’s nice. I like that. The numskull’
s thinking in terms of birds.”

  They laughed but she felt stung.

  Vultures—vultures fed upon the dead.

  Jay sat facing her. “Janek asked me to be his expert on falconry.”

  “Did you agree?”

  “Of course. But I’m still your expert, too. No problem separating the roles. He asks different kinds of questions. He’s got his own approach.”

  “What is his approach, anyway? I suppose he wants to kill the bird.”

  Now she was sorry she’d been so helpful. Janek probably would have found Jay on his own; she just wished she hadn’t delivered him.

  “No. He’s much more interested in the man. And he’s not dumb, Pam. In fact he struck me as being pretty intelligent. A classical detective—you know: interested in narrowing things down, focusing his search. He asked me how you keep a hunting falcon, what you feed it, that sort of stuff. You know, I shouldn’t be telling you this. The relationship’s confidential. But so is our relationship.” He smiled at her. “I like my new position, in the middle between the media and the cops.”

  She could understand why he would like it, an expert on an obscure sport who’d suddenly become a central figure in the story of the year. She didn’t want to lose him, either as a source or as a friend. She apologized for not telling him earlier about the letters, explained how Janek had extracted her promise on the pretext that there’d be a panic if word of them got out.

  “I feel kind of bad about our dinner,” she said. “The way I sort of tricked you into theorizing.”

  “No need to feel bad. I knew you had something up your sleeve.”

  “For a while that night I thought—I don’t know. You seemed to be looking at me very hard. I thought maybe you were afraid my angle was to come down on falconry.”

  “I wasn’t afraid,” he said. “If I was looking at you, it certainly wasn’t because I was afraid.”