Already she was imprinted—of that, now, he was sure. From their first meeting, when he had dazzled her with talk of falconry, he had sensed that it would be possible to imprint his mastery. Later, when they dined together, and at their third meeting, when he had persuaded her she might solve the case, a vague scheme began to form, a plan that tantalized.
Perhaps it had always been there, his plan for a defined and ordered masterpiece. Why else had he dropped hints about Carl and pushed her to find Hawk-Eye? To whet her greed for the solution, of course, to lure her toward him with clues. For she was hungry for the story, as hungry as a falcon, and he knew that if he properly baited his trap she would fall into it, inevitably.
Entrapment—that was the key. It would not do to snatch her off the street. Too direct, too easy, too much force involved. No—she would have to come to him lured by her own need, reckless to danger, like a wild falcon trapped by a falconer in the field. That was the beauty of it—that there would be no force involved. Only the forces within herself which now were pushing her and which, perhaps with a little help from him, would propel her ever closer to her fall.
So far, he thought, he had manned her well, deliberately holding back, kissing her on her forehead when she had made it clear that she longed for so much more. There would be more, he thought; in time there would be much more. But his way, his kiss, and on his terms. For when he caught her, she would be Pambird.
That was his dream, a possession so total that she would be nothing if she would not be his, that he would possess her in so unique a way as to make all other examples of love seem tepid and insincere. The dream had grown from a longing for her throat to an obsession with her total being.
While before she had been his spokesman, now she was the object of his rapture, and falconry the means by which he would ensnare her, make her his falcon—Pambird.
All of this swirled within him as he began to follow her that Thursday afternoon—so subtly, so cleverly that if she were being watched by others he would see them before they noticed him. He looked for intersections, cross streets down which he could glimpse her as she passed. The city was a grid, a maze, a stylized forest of hiding places. He used the sun, kept it behind him so if she should look up suddenly she would be momentarily blinded and he could disappear.
It was a wearying process, but despite his fatigue he felt his excitement rising all the while. She needed a push—he would give her one; he had something amusing in mind. And as he watched and planned he dreamt of what he would do with her, how he would possess her, the various routes his possession would take and the various ways it might end.
And it was an added pleasure all the while for him to know that even as he was following her, in her mind she was also stalking him.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Late Sunday night Pam Barrett sat in her bed, her back propped by pillows, her knees up, a yellow legal-sized writing pad resting on her thighs. She felt frustrated: Except for her talk with Hawk-Eye and her discovery that Carl Wendel had bred the bird, she had made no progress at all.
But that was progress if she could figure out what to do with it. Since Wendel was secretive about his breeding methods and results, the field could be narrowed to people who were close to him or had his confidence.
She started making notes on her pad:
“Hawk-Eye the dealer. Wendel the breeder. Who knew? Friends?
Colleagues? Kid who works for him?
Rumors: Falcons ‘siphoned off’ …”
It seemed to her now that the only way to pursue the story was to confront Wendel, force him to admit he’d been the breeder, then make him give her a list of people who could have known he’d bred a large female peregrine. It would not be a pleasant meeting, she knew, but what else could she do? She had to pursue it. It was her only lead. If she really cared about the story, and she did, then she would have to have it out with Wendel face to face.
She lay back against the pillows, let her mind wander over the whole affair.
She’d given herself up totally to Peregrine, had let it take over her life.
Now she wondered if she was wasting herself on a bizarre murder case, a curiosity. But to her it meant more than it seemed, far more than the aspects she’d sensationalized. There was something deeper in it—her fear, of course, and also her need to transcend—that transcendence she felt when she was on the air. And there was still more, something she could feel but couldn’t quite define, something in the situation that drew her to it, some hidden weakness in herself. She didn’t know what it was, couldn’t figure it out. It was as if she felt pulled, pulled along toward some hidden destiny which she anticipated with a pleasureful erotic fear and which she felt powerless to resist.
These thoughts confused her, and confusion made her tired. She set aside her writing pad, turned off her bedside lamp, pulled up her blankets, closed her eyes, and tried to sleep.
A minute later she heard a noise. It seemed to come from overhead. She lay still and attentive, heard the noise again, wondered who was on her roof climbing around.
It was after midnight. She was worried, thought of Janek’s warning, wondered if she ought to call him now.
But the noise stopped. Anyway, she thought, even if there was someone climbing around up there it was probably just a kid or, at worst, an appliance thief. There was no way into her apartment except through her door, and that was bolted shut. Whoever it was, if there was somebody, would probably go away.
Then suddenly she saw something—a black shape, a silhouette upon the skylight above her bed. What was it?
She couldn’t make it out. At first she thought it might be a human arm, but then as it moved, settled down, she saw the shape of an enormous bird.
She lay rigid, terrorized. She was afraid to move, afraid the bird would crash down upon her through the glass.
It lay still and then every so often it fluttered. Its wings were extended. Its body seemed poised for flight.
It couldn’t be the peregrine. Maybe it was just an ordinary bird made huge, distorted by the glass. It was hovering there just above her. She blinked—was she seeing things, a bird shape in a branch, a lost kite or rag or towel that had blown off somebody’s laundry line? She peered at it. It was a bird, and, no matter the distortion, she knew it wasn’t of ordinary size. She’d studied that silhouette in birdwatcher’s guides, knew that shape, the huge powerful wings notched at the ends, the head, which poked out like the tip of a bullet, the contracted tail that was notched. And she knew that size, too, had seen it before, nearly as large as the golden eagle in the diorama at the museum. It was the peregrine, and it was perched up there right above her bed.
How had she gotten there? What was she doing? Had the falconer dispatched her? Impossible—that didn’t make any sense. But then all sorts of terrifying thoughts made her sweat and shake. The bird moved, seemed to waver, moved as if she might take off. Perhaps she would fly, spiral up into the sky then crash down, crash down right through the skylight, descend upon her in a rain of shards of glass.
She couldn’t stand it, knew she couldn’t just lie there with that huge bird sitting just ten feet above her head. She reached for her phone, dialed Janek, was surprised when he answered—it was so late.
“Janek! Pam Barrett. She’s above me now. She’s here.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The peregrine. She’s on my roof. She’s on the skylight just above my bed.”
“You’re sure?”
“Goddammit, Janek, she’s right above me.”
“I’m coming over.”
“What should I do?”
“On my way.” He hung up.
She looked up again. The bird was still now, resting, as it had been before. She could hear her heart booming in her chest and her breath coming out in gasps. If she rolled over quickly onto the floor she could roll under her bed and hide.
The phone rang. She snatched it up.
“Hello,” she said. “Janek?
Hello?”
“Don’t be afraid.”
“Who is this?” The caller’s voice was strange, a whispering voice, scratchy and deep, clearly disguised.
She sat rigid, her eyes fixed on the skylight. It was the falconer—she knew. It was the falconer talking to her now on the telephone, as his bird, his huge peregrine, lay above her, guarding, threatening to attack.
“… she won’t harm you. She’ll caress you with her wingtips, then bring you to the aerie where we live.”
“You’re—”
“Shhh, Pambird. Imagine yourself my falcon, my peregrine, flying out obediently from my wrist. I could train you. I could harness all your wildness. We could have such hunts together, you and I. You could be my huntress, and I could be your falconer. We need each other. I know.”
She could hear sirens now, far in the distance, maybe twenty blocks away.
The bird hadn’t moved, lay still, and in its restfulness, its stillness, it seemed all the more threatening, for she had seen its explosive power.
Now she could hear the sirens on the telephone. That meant the falconer was close to her, perhaps in a phone booth down the street. He could signal the bird, order her to attack. The sirens grew louder in the night.
“Well, Pambird, Peregrine promised you a surprise. You are surprised, aren’t you?” He paused. “Aren’t you?”His voice turned hard.
“What do you want? Why are you doing this?”
There was a long silence, and all the time the sirens screamed closer block by block. When he spoke again his voice was different. The hardness was gone from it; there was something else, something that moved her—sorrow, anguish—she wasn’t sure, except that there was something pitiable in his voice.
“Oh, Pambird,” he said, as if crying out to her in pain. “If only we could fly, Pambird. If only we could fly together and escape.”
There was a click. “Hello? Hello?”
The dial tone—he’d hung up.
Her buzzer rang. She looked up at the skylight. The bird was still perched there. She rushed from her bed to the intercom by her door.
“Police.”
She buzzed them in, heard them thundering up the stairs. She opened her door. There were two officers. She could hear more sirens. Patrol cars were arriving fast.
“On the roof!” She pointed up. “Door should be bolted at the top.”
The officers rushed on. She heard them fling open the door and then their steps upon the roof.
More police came and then Janek.
She pulled him into her room and pointed at the skylight. The bird was still there, and then the silhouettes of the officers.
“He telephoned,” she said.
“Who?”
“The falconer.”
“How do you know?”
She watched dumbfounded as the officers approached the bird. To her amazement, it did not move. She saw the shadow of a human arm reach out, grab hold of a wing. The bird didn’t flap or try to fly. The officer just seemed to grab it off the glass.
“Maybe she’s dead,” said Janek. “Or maybe—”
“What?”
He turned to her. “It’s not Peregrine.”
“Then what is it?”
“We’ll see.” Janek went out to the hall. She heard him talking to the officers, thanking them. When he came back he was smiling. “Here she is.” He offered her a huge cardboard cutout.
“Paper. A paper bird. Someone tried to scare you—that’s all.”
She gasped, sat down, felt relieved but uneasy, too: She’d been set up.
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to be. You didn’t pull this stunt. It’s not your fault.”
“Sorry I called you.”
“You were right.”
She looked at him. “Want something—something to drink?”
He shook his head. “Can I sit down?”
“Of course.” She made room on the couch. “I’m going to have a drink.” She wrapped her bathrobe closer, went to the kitchen, poured herself a vodka.
“Sure you don’t want anything?” He shook his head. “I’m sorry I panicked. It looked so real, like it really was a bird up there. Just the outline, the blackness. I should have known. But then it seemed to move.”
“Probably the wind,” he said. “The wind made it rustle. I thought it looked real, too, when I came in.”
She sat down beside him, drank a little. “And then when he called—”
“When was that?”
“Just after I talked to you.”
“About how long from the time you first saw the bird?”
“About a minute. Maybe two.”
Janek nodded. “That would have given him time,” he said. “He could have climbed back down and gone to a phone booth and called you up to put on the screws. What did he say?”
She told him.
“Not very nice.”
“I know it was him.”
“There’s no way you could know that, Pam.”
“I know.” She described the voice.
“It could have been anybody. Unless …” he looked at her. “Has he ever called before?”
She shook her head.
“Then there’s no way you could know it was him.”
“I’m sure. That thing about the ‘surprise.’ You read that in the letter, Janek. It had to be him. Nobody else knew about that.”
Janek lowered his eyes, as if he were studying the fabric on her couch. When he looked up, he showed her a gentle smile.
“Want to know what I think?” She nodded. “I think this was a practical joke. Not very funny for you. Not funny at all. Maybe the sort of thing Mr. Greene would think up, to get things going, you know, get his ace reporter in jeopardy or make it look that way.”
His theory angered her. “Herb would never do a thing like that.”
Janek shrugged. “He read the note, didn’t he? How many other people read it? Five? Six? How many people did they tell? It was a joke, a cruel joke. You probably have enemies around the station, people jealous of your success ….”
She hated his theories and his studied patience. She knew it was the falconer, that he’d put the cardboard bird up there and then had called. “That’s so dense. Why don’t you believe me? Why do you have to think up something like that?”
“That’s what happened. The falconer doesn’t play practical jokes. He’s a killer, Pam. He doesn’t play around. Whoever did this tonight was playing games.”
“I know it was him. I know I talked to him.”
“I asked you: How do you know? There’s no way unless you heard his voice before.”
She looked at him. Was he ridiculing her? He seemed gentle, spoke softly, didn’t seem to mean her any harm. But he didn’t believe her. Should she tell him about Hawk-Eye? She couldn’t do that, had promised to keep that in confidence. If Janek was so dense as to think this was just a stunt, why should she give him the only thing she had when she could follow it up herself, confront Wendel, maybe solve Peregrine on her own?
“I just know,” she said quietly.
He stared at her again, studying her face. “Well,” he yawned, “that’s just wonderful. Yesterday you were an investigative reporter. Tonight you’re a parapsychic. Maybe tomorrow you’ll be Commissioner of Police.”
Stung by his ridicule, she felt tears welling in her eyes. She asked him if she could have a bodyguard. He thought a moment, then shook his head.
“I’d like to give you one, Pam, but honestly I can’t spare any men. Anyway,” he said, standing, “I don’t think you need to worry. We’ll run down this piece of cardboard. I’ll call you if we come up with anything.” He looked down at her. “You know, Pam—I can tell you’re holding something back. What was it Mr. Greene said to me that day? Oh yeah—’each man for himself.’ Well, I guess that’s the way you feel now.” He started toward her door.
“God, Janek,” she yelled at him. “I can’t believe you’re such a shit.”
“You’ve had yourself a terrible fright, Pam. Take a pill—you’ll feel better in the morning. You know where to find me if you change your mind and want to talk.”
He left. She could hear him talking to the police downstairs, telling them to go home. She chained her door, shook her head. He was trying to blackmail her—no protection, no bodyguard unless she told him what she knew. She hated him. She felt angry and then she wanted to cry. The falconer was toying with her. What did he want? God, what did he want?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“It’s the toughest kind of tail job there is,” Janek said. “She can’t make you, and the falconer can’t make you either. Since he’s probably following her, at least part of the time, you can’t get too damn close. But you’ve got to stay close enough so that if he makes his move you can protect her and make the collar, too.”
“What gets priority?” asked Stanger.
It was two in the morning. Janek was sitting in the squad room with eight of his men, briefing them on what he wanted them to do.
“Both.”
“And if we have to make a choice?”
“Protect her, of course. But I don’t want you to have to make a choice.”
A couple of them exhaled. Stanger looked at Marchetti, who stared up at the ceiling and rolled his eyes. Janek understood how they felt, hauled out of bed and handed such a job.
“I don’t see why we can’t tell her what we’re doing. She could help us. What’s the difference if she knows?”
“First, she’s not that good an actress. She could give the whole thing away. Second, she’ll resent it. She’s interested in her story. If things start getting hot and she knows you’re there, she may try and give you the slip. Third, there’s the psychological thing: She’s got to be convincing. She was scared tonight, asked for protection, and I deliberately turned her down. I want her to feel isolated. She’ll start acting funny now, and that’s just what I want. The falconer likes her scared. If he sees she’s scared, he’ll be convinced she’s not being tailed. Then, maybe, he’ll move.”
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