by John Lutz
When Ida saw her, she stopped typing and turned away from her computer keyboard. She and Anne had worked together for five years. They’d reached the point where they communicated silently if there was anyone nearby they might not want to overhear them. With a sideways motion of her head, Ida let Anne know that someone was waiting in her office. Anne knew it would be hospital personnel or somebody she was expecting. Probably the rep from Central Medical who wanted to talk to her about the new PET scan equipment the hospital had on order.
But her caller was a tall, long-jawed man with flowing gray hair and wearing an elegant brown silk suit. Dr. Herbert Finlay, Kincaid’s chief of administration—hospitalese for CEO. He was half sitting with his rump against the edge of Anne’s desk and leaning back. His arms were crossed so his marble-sized gold cuff links glinted in the sunlight streaming through the window. When he looked up from studying his polished oxblood loafers and saw Anne, he smiled.
Anne wasn’t fooled by the smile as she said good morning.
“I hate to make it not such a good morning,” Finlay said, standing up straight and turning to face her as she laid her attaché case on her desk and pulled out her chair. She hadn’t sat down.
“The Vine complaint?”
“I’m afraid so, Anne. It’s no longer a complaint. Now it’s a lawsuit. Our attorneys called. The family filed this morning.”
Now Anne did sit down. She felt flushed, resentful. And, God help her, at the same time guilty. I’ve done nothing. Why can’t I shake this? Why can’t I escape the guilt? “Do they really think a momentary, after-the-fact mix-up in CAT scan images caused their son to be comatose? The operation was completed when the mistake was noticed and mentioned. It might have been a serious screwup, but in this case it wasn’t. It simply wasn’t a factor.”
“It doesn’t matter what the family thinks,” Finlay said. He was standing with one hand in his pocket now, weight on one foot. A familiar casual pose. Finlay’s posturing often irritated Anne. “It’s what the family says that’s important.”
“The boy had a reaction to the anesthetic,” Anne said. “It’s rare, but it happens. If they want to sue someone, it should be the anesthesiologist.”
“You know anesthesiologists here aren’t on staff, Anne. They’re contract workers. Besides, hospitals have deeper pockets.”
“Justice!” Anne said disgustedly. “My husband used to be in the justice business, and he tells me it’s rare and often occurs outside the system.”
“Yes, I suspect he’s right.”
“Outside the family, no one feels worse about the boy than the people who were in the OR during the operation. No one feels worse than I do. But it isn’t a perfect world. Those infrequent side effects listed in fine print actually do happen to some people.” Listen to me . . . Don’t I sound like a coldhearted bitch? But I’m not! I’m not! I went to visit the boy! He didn’t know I was there!
“I don’t need convincing, Anne. And I certainly don’t hold you or anyone else on staff even slightly responsible.”
“We offered the family a fair settlement even though it isn’t the hospital’s liability.”
“That was a mistake,” Finlay said. “The Vines’ attorneys are now characterizing our offer as an admission of guilt.”
Anne sank farther back in her black leather desk chair and sighed. “Once the lawyers get hold of something like this, compensation can become financial rape. What does Legal say about it?”
“They haven’t had time to study it yet.” Finlay smiled slightly. “Their preliminary observation was something like yours.” He uncrossed his arms and smoothed his coat sleeves down over the bulky cuff links. Anne now saw that they were in the form of elaborate lions’ heads and had tiny rubies for eyes. “Something else you should know, Anne.
The complaint names the hospital, attending surgeon and additional OR personnel, and you.”
She looked up sharply. “Me?” She’d expected to be named in a potential lawsuit but hearing that she had been was still a shock.
“As the chief administrator of radiology, you would be technically responsible for anything that happens in your department, including imagery mix-ups. At least the Vines’ attorneys hope the law will define it that way.”
“You didn’t mention the anesthesiologist,” Anne said.
Finlay shrugged like an actor onstage, a gesture he’d long practiced and made elegant. “The other side wants to remain on good terms with the anesthesiologist.”
“Of course! They don’t want what happened to be his fault.”
Finlay used his shrug again. “Legal maneuvering, Anne . . . ”
She rocked this way and that in her chair for a moment. The other side. Battle lines had been drawn. “The sad part is I actually feel as if I’ve done something wrong, that I should pay for it.”
“You mustn’t feel that way. It was the anesthetic reaction, Anne. We all know that.”
“You mean the anesthetic administered by the doctor who wasn’t even named in the suit? Who’s cooperating with the plaintiffs so he won’t be sued himself? Who’ll probably be out of the country during the legal proceedings?”
“We’ll subpoena him, Anne.”
“We probably won’t have to. He’ll probably testify for the prosecution.”
“These matters usually don’t even reach court. Legal will handle it. You’ll see. I just thought I ought to let you know about it soon as possible so you can be careful of who you talk to, what you say.”
Anne nodded. “Thank you for that.”
“We’ll all have to be on our guard,” Finlay said. He went to the door, then turned and smiled before going out. “Let’s try to make it a good morning anyway.”
Alone in the office, Anne folded her hands in front of her on top of her attaché case and felt like sobbing, unable to help what she was thinking. She wondered what kind of morning it was for the four-year-old boy who’d been moved to Roosevelt Hospital and was lying in a coma. Was Alan Vine seeing the same brilliant sunlight streaming through his window? Was he thinking how wonderful it would be to climb out of bed the way he used to and jump and run in its golden warmth?
Was he thinking anything at all?
After leaving the Home Away, Horn walked and talked. Unlike many people acting similarly in New York, he was using a cell phone. It was almost ten o’clock, and pedestrian traffic on the wide sidewalk was relatively sparse. No one paid any attention to the big man with the tiny phone tucked to his ear. The sun was higher and brighter, and passing in and out of the shadows of buildings brought noticeable contrasts in temperature.
“What about Gary Schnick?” Horn was asking Bicker-staff.
“We cut him loose. He couldn’t kill anything but time, and he’s got an alibi for the night of one of the Night Spider murders. He was with a woman in her apartment in Queens. She swears to it. He was with another woman in his apartment the night of one of the other killings, but she’s married and a little shy about talking. This guy, I tell you, is a pussy magnet.”
“That’s not his reputation.”
“His reputation is wrong. My impression is, he’s one of those guys who doesn’t kiss and tell so he gets a lot of stray.”
“You sound jealous.”
Bickerstaff laughed. “Maybe ten years ago. Now what I wanna do is catch this asshole we’re after so I can go fishing.”
“You really see it that way?” Horn asked.
“About fishing?”
“No. That the bartender at Brook’s Crooks regards Schnick as an obvious loser, but women see him as just the opposite.”
“It only takes one woman to see him as the jackpot: the woman we’re talking about.”
Horn supposed that was true.
“Where’s Paula?”
“I’m on the line,” she said. “Thinking about Bickerstaff ‘s pathetic sex life.”
“You two get anything fresh from Redmond’s neighbors?” Horn asked.
“Nothing yet,” Paula said. �
��But there’s something that mighta been missed on the roof—”
“At least Paula thinks it’s something,” Bickerstaff interrupted.
“There’s an irregularity in the blacktop where there’s no gravel mixed in. Looks to me like the heel print of a bare foot.”
“Or a dent in the roof underneath the tar,” Bickerstaff said. “Or it’s where somebody dropped something, or maybe some kid ran barefoot a long time ago.”
“It looks fresh,” Paula persisted. “I photographed it.”
Horn dodged a posse of chattering teenage girls taking up half the sidewalk and waited for Bickerstaff to chime in, but Bickerstaff remained silent.
“That’s good work, Paula,” Horn said. “What I want’s for you two to stay on the neighbors, maybe shake something loose.”
“The neighbors are scared,” Bickerstaff said. “Especially the women. It don’t help us that this guy’s killings are all over the news now. I’ll bet the prick loves it, reads all the papers and watches all the TV news.”
“It’s almost a sure bet he enjoys it,” Paula said.
Horn filled them in on what he’d been doing, including his phone call to the number Sayles had given him.
“The military has a way of clamming up,” Bickerstaff pointed out. “Secret weapons and all that.”
“I don’t know,” Paula said. “Could be promising.”
Horn was only half a block from home. “I have to hang up. Let me know if you come across anything else that might mean something.” The else was for Paula and her potential bare heel print.
“I’d just as soon stay off roofs for a while,” Bickerstaff said, catching Horn’s meaning. “I might catch vertigo, like in that movie.”
“You’ve been dizzy since I’ve known you, Roy,” Paula told him.
“Stay on it,” Horn said. “We’ll meet later and discuss.”
He replaced the phone in his pocket and started up the steps to the brownstone’s door.
A male voice made him pause and turn. “Thomas Horn?”
Horn looked down at the man from his vantage point two steps higher. He was average height but with a compact, muscular build that somehow made him appear smaller. His gray suit was well tailored, blue tie neatly knotted at the collar of his white shirt. He had precisely cut and parted dark brown hair. The bland, innocuous features of a man whom you wouldn’t mind dating your sister. Harmless looking, with his balanced stance and amiable smile.
“Thomas Horn?” he asked again.
You know I am.
“I’m Luke Altman. Can we talk?”
“What would be the subject of our conversation?”
“Mountain climbing.”
Horn decided not to invite Altman in. He stepped down off the concrete steps and faced him on the sidewalk. Altman was surprisingly tall and broad, when you got up close to him. “Are you with an agency, Mr. Altman?”
“Yes. A government agency.”
Not good enough. “That would be the CIA?”
The friendly smile. “Or something like it. We were curious about your inquiry concerning Special Forces mountain-terrain groups.”
“One particular group.”
“Yes. That’s what made us curious.”
“Why I want a list of members should be no secret,” Horn said, suspecting he was talking to a man who assumed secrets everywhere. “I think the serial killer the news media are calling the Night Spider might be, or once was, a member of a secret and elite mountain-terrain fighting force.”
“Why would such a force be secret?”
“To do the kind of dangerous, undercover wet work no country can afford another country to know about.”
Altman shook his head. “Wet work. That sounds like something out of a spy novel. And the operatives you describe sound like dishonorable men.”
“Only the people who send them on missions could make them act dishonorably. They’d be soldiers, defined by their orders.”
“Wouldn’t they also be assassins?”
“At times, I suppose. Very efficient ones. And skilled climbers. It’s possible that among these almost exclusively honorable men is one who lost his way—one who learned too well how to stalk and kill, and came to like it. It happens. I’ve seen it with cops.”
“So have I, with soldiers. I served in the marines, and there’s no finer outfit than the corps. But still, experience can shape the man.”
“If I’m to stop this killer, Mr. Altman, I need to see the roster of that elite unit. Past and present members.”
“That would be a difficult thing to supply even if there were such a unit.”
“You’re telling me there isn’t?”
Again Altman’s car-salesman smile. “I’m defined by my orders, too, Captain Horn. And they are to inform you that there is no such unit. Oh, we know about the rumors, and that’s exactly what they are—rumors.”
“The CIA actually sent you here to tell me that?”
“I didn’t mention the CIA.”
“You’re telling me you’re not a spook?”
“Spook? Oh, you mean a spy. A secret agent. That’s a quaint term.”
“It’s a quaint business.”
“If only that were true, especially these days. But, no, I’m not a spook. I can see where it might be fun, though. Maybe in the next life I can be a romantic figure like that. But back to your question: Yes, my superiors did send me to tell you that. Also to show you the light so you’d stop assuming this secret elite fighting unit exists.”
“I guess if I knew for sure,” Horn said, “it would no longer be a secret unit.”
“That would follow,” Altman said. “But it doesn’t exist, so there’s no list of names for you to possess. Therefore, we’d like it if you forgot this particular avenue of your investigation.”
“We?”
“My superiors. The ones who sent me here. If I were the sort of agent you assume, I would assure you that if there were anything amiss in this imaginary unit, my department would deal with the problem and maintain secrecy. With that assurance, you could eliminate an unnecessary phase of your investigation.”
“What if I persisted?”
Altman shrugged. “Then you’d waste your time.”
Horn studied him, knowing Altman, behind his smile, was studying him right back. He changed his mind about inviting Altman in. The more he could keep him talking, the more he might learn.
Pulling his key ring from his pocket, Horn turned and took the steps to the stoop and the brownstone’s front door. “Why don’t you come inside, Mr. Altman?” he asked over his shoulder, as he keyed the lock.
But when he turned around, Altman was gone. Here and then gone.
Horn couldn’t help smiling as he opened the door and went inside.
Presto-change-o!
So like a spook.
15
He had to walk fast to keep up with her, this long-legged, boldly striding woman who’d tripped a tendril of his web, who’d sent a subtle tremor of interest and intrigue across the void between them.
He’d seen her across the street. That was all it took, really, a glimpse, a connection.
He always knew when he found the one. She would suddenly become the only woman before him even if she happened to be part of a crowd. Deep in the sacred cruel center of his being there would be a stirring, then an irresistible tugging at his mind and heart toward his core. Ancient voices and instincts would take over. Predators’ instincts. His mind, his desire, his every fiber, would focus sharply on his prey.
He was never wrong about these women. It was almost as if they emanated signals. Toward the end, when he was very near them, through all the odors of their fluids and fears, he could smell their need.
Theirs had been a holy covenant from the beginning, from every beginning, and finally they understood that and surrendered to death. He always could see by their eyes that they understood.
At first they weren’t trapped—constricted and helpless— and his.
That took time, delicate spinning, and careful preparation. He would learn more about them, including where they lived and whether it met his expectations. That wasn’t much of a problem, as most single and attractive women in New York lived in apartments, and usually on high floors for their so-called security. He traded on his victims’ false sense of security. It lulled them like a drug until they realized in their silent terror that it had failed.
She’s slowed by that knot of pedestrians near a street vendor. Fall back, keep pace, not so close . . .
This one was tall and had red hair. How it must confuse the police that his victims were of no particular type, or no particular type they could perceive, anyway. Even he couldn’t predict which would be the chosen one, so how could they? It was as if he sent out trailing threads of the mind that were extremely sensitive to willing victims—and there was something in these women that made them want to be his. He could feel the tremors of connection, and he knew that on some level they could feel them. But they didn’t understand until it was too late, until he was on them and they realized that their destiny and his destiny were locked together. When he saw them on the street, on a bus or subway train, in a restaurant, or through a window, he knew everything in their futures was his will because, on a whim, he could take away their futures.
Over time he followed and watched them, wrapped them secretly and softly in layers of knowledge that would make the consummation of their affair sweet and inevitable. Eventually . . . eventually . . . Everything would be revealed to them and to him through their pain, through their passage. Through their pain.
It was necessary for them. For him.
Seeing the tall, fiery redhead walking angrily toward them prompted people on Third Avenue to move out of Neva Taylor’s way.
She was plenty pissed off. Handleman, the asshole account executive at Massmann Container, had made it clear that if she wanted to grow their advertising arrangement, she might consider sleeping with him.