New York Night

by Stephen Leather

  ‘You don’t know that for sure. You have to ask it a question that only Eric would know.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Your wedding anniversary. Your birthday. Something like that.’

  ‘Do you want me to ask him?’

  ‘Sure.’

  She looked up at the ceiling. ‘Eric, honey, please tell him our wedding anniversary.’

  The planchette began to move almost before she had finished speaking and Nightingale was more sure than ever that she was pushing. The planchette scraped across the two rows of letters towards the numbers, but then it stopped, seemed to hesitate for a second or so then headed across the letters, stopping so that B was centred in the planchette’s hole.

  ‘No, honey, we want the date. The date of our wedding.’

  The planchette moved to the right and stopped over the L. Nightingale realised she wasn’t pushing, she was frowning as she stared at the L, not understanding what was happening. The planchette moved three letters to the left I. Perez wasn’t pushing, Nightingale was sure of that. But he was equally sure that it wasn’t her dead husband who was communicating with them. If it had been him the planchette would have gone straight to the date. It moved again, this time down to the lower row of letters, and across to the far left. It stopped over N.

  It was moving faster now, and with more confidence, and quickly picked out eight more letters. F-O-L-D H-I-M.’

  Perez swallowed nervously. The planchette began to vibrate over the letter M.

  ‘What does it mean?’ she asked.

  ‘You know what it means. It wants you to blindfold me so that it can to send you a message that only you can see.’

  ‘Eric, is that you?’ she asked.

  ‘Let me ask the questions,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Eric, is that you?’ said Perez again.

  The planchette jerked across the board and stopped at YES.

  ‘It’s him,’ said Perez.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Just let me blindfold you and I’ll see what Eric has to say,’ she said.

  ‘That’s not how it works.’

  The planchette moved back and then lunged at the YES again.

  ‘What harm could it do?’ asked Perez.

  ‘Cheryl, think about it. Why would Eric want you to blindfold me?’

  ‘Because there’s something private he wants to tell me.’

  The planchette was twitching from side to side now.

  ‘That’s not how to do it. Everyone on the board has to be aware of what’s going on.’

  ‘You heard what he said. He wants to talk to me.’

  ‘You’re assuming it’s Eric. Let’s ask him for proof first.’

  The planchette lunged to the right and stopped over the word NO.

  ‘See?’ said Nightingale. ‘He doesn’t want you to test him. We have to stop now. Before this goes any further.’ He looked up at the ceiling. ‘Goodbye,’ he said firmly. He looked over at Perez. She was glaring at him with undisguised contempt. ‘Cheryl, you have to say goodbye.’

  She shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘Listen to me. Just say goodbye and we can talk about it. Something’s not right here.’

  The planchette jerked away from NO, shot to the bottom of the board and then shot back to NO. Nightingale could feel his fingers burning.

  ‘Why won’t you just do as Eric asks?’ she shouted, her eyes blazing.

  ‘Because it’s not, Eric. Can’t you see that? Why would your husband want to put you through this.’

  ‘Liar!’ screamed Perez. She took her hands off the planchette and as she did it span from under Nightingale’s fingers and flew through the air before crashing against the wall. The board span in the other direction and slammed against the kitchen door before falling to the floor. The candles blew out and the three crystal bowls flew off the coffee table and smashed on the floor. Perez sat back, her eyes and mouth wide open.

  Nightingale stood up and switched on the lights. He picked up the planchette and the board and put them back on the coffee table. He sat down and held Perez’s hands. ‘Cheryl we have to say goodbye to the spirit. This has to end properly.’ She didn’t resist as he put her fingertips on the planchette. He did the same. He pushed the planchette towards GOODBYE but Perez’s fingers slipped off. She was staring blankly at the board. Nightingale cursed and he stood up. ‘You’ve no idea what you’ve done,’ he said.

  She didn’t appear to hear him. ‘Cheryl?’ When she didn’t reply he gathered up the board and the planchette, put them back in the box and left with it. Perez stayed where she was, staring at the coffee table.

  CHAPTER 45

  Nightingale stood in the street and smoked a Marlboro as he considered his options. Eventually he pulled out his cellphone and called Joshua Wainwright. Wainwright sounded sleepy when he answered so Nightingale guessed he was in a different time zone. ‘What’s up, Jack?’

  ‘I need a gun,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘That’s not like you.’

  ‘I know. But I don’t see any way around it.’

  ‘What sort of gun?’

  ‘Powerful but concealable. And ideally with a history that’ll muddy the waters.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Manhattan.’

  ‘How urgent?’

  ‘The sooner the better.’

  ‘Okay to use this number?’

  ‘Sure. I’m going to be ditching it soon anyway.’

  ‘I’ll get someone to call you back.’

  ‘Cheers.’ Nightingale put the cellphone back in his pocket and walked slowly down the street, deep in thought. Wainwright was absolutely right, Nightingale wasn’t a big fan of guns but sometimes he had no choice other than to use them. In a former life he’d been an armed cop in the UK and he’d been a bloody good shot, but that had been years ago. Walking around New York with a loaded weapon was just asking for trouble, but under the circumstances Nightingale didn’t feel he had many options.

  He had just finished his cigarette when his cellphone rang. He took it out but didn’t recognise the number. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘You Jack?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I’m to give you something you need. Where are you?’

  ‘Manhattan.’

  The man laughed harshly. ‘I know that. Where?’

  ‘I’m not sure. All these streets look the same.’

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘Not here,’ said Nightingale.

  The man laughed again. ‘Walk to the nearest intersection and tell me what signs you see.’

  Nightingale walked to the corner and looks up at the road signs. ‘Second Avenue and 80th Street.’

  ‘Upper East Side,’ said the man. ‘Stay where you are and I’ll pick you up in half an hour. Forty-five minutes at most. Blue minivan.’

  Nightingale whiled away the time smoking and pacing up and down the sidewalk. The minivan turned up after forty minutes. It had blacked-out windows but Nightingale could make out the driver, a grizzled grey-haired man wearing dark glasses. The side door opened electronically as he walked up to the vehicle. There were just three armchair-sized seats inside and a large screen TV behind the driver. There was one man sitting in the back, young with slicked-back hair and wearing a shiny blue suit and a bolo tie with a turquoise stone in the middle. ‘Get in,’ he said.

  Nightingale climbed in and took one of the seats opposite the man. The door closed automatically. ‘I’m Jed,’ said the man, offering his hand. He had a gold ring in the shape of a steer’s head and Nightingale realised the man was wearing cowboy boots with rattlesnake heads on the toes.

  ‘Jack,’ said Nightingale, shaking his hand.

  ‘Mr Wainwright said I’m to give you anything you want, up to and including an RPG.’ The minivan pulled out into the traffic and headed slowly south.

  Nightingale smiled. ‘A rocket-propelled grenade is more than I’ll need,’ he said, ‘I just want a revolver.’
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  ‘Don’t want to leave casings around? I hear you.’

  ‘Something small, but powerful.’

  ‘How does a .38 Smith and Wesson Special sound?’

  ‘Like music to my ears.’

  ‘I’m guessing you want something clean, something that can’t be traced.’

  ‘Actually I’d be happier with something that’s got a very messy history. I’m going to be dropping it when I’m done so anything that muddies the waters will be a bonus.’

  The man grinned. ‘Then it’s your lucky day, my friend. I might have exactly what you want.’ He pulled a pair of latex gloves from a box and put them on, then twisted around in his seat and opened a toolbox in which there were a dozen or more cloth-wrapped packages. He pulled out one and unwrapped it to reveal a .38 Smith and Wesson snub-nosed revolver. ‘Not great at distance, it has to be said. But it’s a reliable weapon and easy enough to conceal.’ The handle and the trigger had been wrapped in grey tape. ‘Supposed to prevent fingerprints but I figure there’ll still be DNA so if I were you I’d be gloved up,’ said the man. ‘This has been used in a couple of drug-related shootings in New Jersey and one of them ended up with an undercover cop in the ICU so you really don’t ever want to be caught with it in your possession. But in terms of muddying the waters you couldn’t do any better.’

  He handed the box of gloves to Nightingale. Nightingale pulled out a couple of gloves, slipped them on, then examined the weapon. It wasn’t new by any means but it was in good enough condition. He flicked out the cylinder and sniffed it, It hadn’t been fired recently but there was still the acrid tang of cordite. He snapped the cylinder back in place and sighted along the barrel. ‘Perfect,’ he said.

  ‘How many rounds do you need?’

  Nightingale rubbed his chin. The .38 Special took six rounds in the cylinder but only an idiot carried one with a round under the hammer which meant loading it with just five. Nightingale planned to make every shot count and he intended to be up close and personal which meant he doubted he would get a chance to reload. But it was always better to have too many rounds rather than too few. ‘Let’s make it an even ten,’ he said.

  ‘As you’re not worried about wear and tear, how about using P plus ammo? As used by the FBI.’

  Nightingale nodded his approval. The P plus ammo was designed for the FBI after their agents came off worse in several shoot-outs. The experts came up with higher pressure loadings for the .38 ammunition and initially it became known as the ‘FBI load’. It used a hollow-point bullet designed to rapidly expand and do more damage when it hit the target. Newer versions, using a jacketed soft-point round, had proven to be even more effective. ‘Sounds like a plan.’

  The man opened a metal briefcase, took out a box of shells and counted out ten which he placed in a small plastic bag and gave them to Nightingale.

  ‘How much do I owe you?’ asked Nightingale.

  ‘It’s taken care of,’ said the man. ‘Now where can I drop you?’

  ‘Anywhere near 96th Street,’ said Nightingale. ‘East.’

  CHAPTER 46

  Camilla Rodriguez fumbled the key from her bag and inserted it into the lock. It was eight-fifteen in the morning so she was a quarter of an hour late but with any luck her employer would have already left for work. She pushed open the door and dropped her bag by the hall table. She closed the door and hung up her coat, then picked up her bag and headed for the kitchen. She heard voices and she frowned. Mr George didn’t usually have guests. His mother came to stay twice a year, at Christmas and at Thanksgiving, but other than that he stayed alone. He was an easy man to take care of as he was very tidy and loaded the dishwasher himself every time he cooked. He was a stickler for cleanliness but so was Camilla so they were a good match.

  She walked into the kitchen. There were two boys and a girl sitting at the centre island, which was covered in fast food containers. There were half a dozen pizza boxes, cartons that had contained Chinese food, burger wrappers, foil dishes that still had pasta in them. They seemed to be teenagers though there were opened bottles of wine and beer on the island.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked.

  ‘We’re friends of George,’ said one of the boys. He had a smear of ketchup across his cheek.

  ‘Good friends,’ said the girl.

  ‘Did he have a party last night?’

  ‘Sort of,’ said the girl.

  Camilla didn’t understand who the teenagers were or why they were in Mr George’s house. She wasn’t aware of Mr George having any young relatives, at least none that he would invite to his home. He was an only child and while he had been married for ten years he hadn’t had any children.

  ‘Where is Mr George?’ she asked.

  ‘Upstairs,’ said the girl. ‘In the bedroom.’

  Camilla frowned. ‘Are you relatives?’

  One of the boys shook his head. ‘Dinner guests,’ he said, then he sniggered at the girl.

  ‘He’s a very good host,’ said the other boy. He reached into a KFC bucket and waved a drumstick in the air. ‘Tastes like chicken,’ he said, and they all laughed.

  Camilla headed for the stairs. They were all laughing and as she walked down the hall it felt as if the whole house was shaking. She looked over her shoulder and the laughter stopped. She held onto the banister as she went up the stairs. The door to Mr George’s bedroom was closed and she knocked on it. ‘Mr George? Mr George?’

  There was no answer so she turned the handle and gently pushed it open. ‘Mr George? It’s Camilla. Are you there?’

  The curtains were drawn and the room was in darkness. She groped for the light switch and flicked it on. Her eyes widened when she saw what was on the bed and her mouth opened though no sound came out. She clasped her hands to her chest. What was left of her employer was sprawled across the duvet, covered in blood. His arms and legs were spread-eagled and she realised that he had been tied but the rest of his body was a mass of ruptured tissue. Her whole body began to tremble and she took a half step back. ‘Mr George…’ she mumbled.

  There were bits of flesh on the floor around the bed, as if wild animals had been disturbed while feeding. One of his eyes was hanging from its socket. An ear had been ripped away from the side of his head and was hanging by a small strip of flesh. Camilla felt the strength seep from her legs and she reached out to hold the door to steady herself.

  She heard the scrape of a shoe against the stairs and she looked over her shoulder. One of the boys was there, a vicious grin on his face. ‘Still in bed, is he?’ he asked.

  Camilla opened her mouth to speak but it felt as if there was a vice around her throat.

  The second boy appeared behind the first. He was holding a knife. Camilla pushed the door closed but the first boy moved quickly and slapped his hand against the wood. ‘Now that’s just rude,’ he said. He pushed the door and Camilla took a step back.

  The two boys stood staring at her, grinning. Their eyes were blood red, she realised. No pupils, no whites, just red. Blood red. She took another step back.

  The girl appeared behind them. Her eyes were red, too.

  ‘Please, I want to go home,’ whispered Camilla.

  The two boys moved apart so that the girl could walk between them.

  Camilla moved back, two or three small steps, then the bed hit the back of her legs and she stopped. She tried not to think about what was behind her.

  ‘That’s not going to happen,’ said the girl. She smiled and her teeth looked sharp, like a cat’s.

  ‘Don’t hurt me, please,’ said Camilla.

  ‘Honey, I can’t lie to you. We’re going to hurt you, a lot.’

  ‘What do you think,’ asked the boy on her left. ‘Leg or breast?’

  The other boy laughed. ‘Oh, breast. Definitely breast.’ The two of them looked at each other and chuckled.

  Camilla felt the floorboards vibrate under her feet. She backed away from them. She crossed herself and muttered a prayer.

  T
he girl grinned. ‘Oh yeah, that’ll work,’ she said, moving towards her.

  CHAPTER 47

  Nightingale was shrouded in a fog so thick that he could barely make out his feet as he walked across the rugged terrain. The fog was warm and wet and sweat was beading on his face. He’d lost track of time but it felt as if he had been wandering in the fog for ever. He stopped and listened but there was no sound. He rotated through three hundred and sixty degrees but everything looked the same. There was nothing to see, nothing to hear, nothing to smell. He concentrated on the person he was trying to find but he felt his thoughts slipping away. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and steadied himself. ‘Mrs Steadman,’ he whispered to himself. ‘Mrs Alice Steadman. I need to speak with you.’

  He felt an almost imperceptible tug to his left so he walked in that direction. The ground was one sheet of stone but his shoes made no noise when they came into contact with it. He lost track of how long he walked. After a while he stopped looking at his feet and just stared straight ahead into the cloying mist. He blinked his eyes and felt drops of water run down his face. He wiped them away with the sleeve of his raincoat. He stopped for a few seconds, listened, and then started walking again. Was he wasting his time? Was it time to call it a night and go home? He looked at his watch but it was blank, just a metallic circle on a brown leather strap. He groped in his pockets for his cellphone but his pockets were empty. No phone. No cigarettes. No lighter. No wallet.

  ‘Is there anybody there?’ he called, but there was no reply.

  He carried on walking. Then he saw a dark patch in the fog ahead of him. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve and carried on walking. The dark patch grew bigger in size but it was still just a shapeless blob. Then he realised the fog was thinning. It was still there, all around him, but he could see further than before, six feet, maybe eight. The dark shape became clearer. It was a bench. And there was a figure sitting on it. Three more steps and the fog was even thinner As he got closer he saw Mrs Steadman. Purveyor of all things Wicca and a font of all knowledge when it came to magic. She was sitting on a wooden bench, her legs crossed in a yoga pose. Mrs Alice Steadman. She was in her late sixties, a tiny pixie of a woman. She was wearing a black bobble hat pulled down low over her face, a black fleece jacket and black tights. Her black boots had pointed toes and little silver bells on the end. The eyes that looked over at him were the greenest he’d ever seen. ‘Why Mr Nightingale, this is a pleasant surprise.’