by John Lutz
“Any witnesses turn up?”
Bickerstaff said, “Not anyone who saw the escape itself. It had to have happened lightning fast. A guy named Smith—actually Smith—who happened to be glancing out a window of a sleazy hotel near where the escape took place and said he saw someone in what he called prison garb leaving the scene on the run. Then Smith disappeared. Apparently doesn’t want to get involved. Wants to join all those other Smiths out there who aren’t really Smiths.”
“We’ve canvassed the neighborhood,” Paula said. “Doubled patrols in the area, buttoned up the airports and Port Authority, put a watch in the subway. And, of course, every minute and a half the media are showing that creepy photo of Mandle taken during the trial.”
She thought she might have heard the doorbell chime in the bowels of the house, some noise on the stairs. Horn didn’t seem to have noticed. Or care.
“Not that it’ll do much good,” Bickerstaff said, “but we’re keeping a watch on the building where Mandle rented an apartment under an assumed name. Maybe something’ll draw him back to his familiar neighborhood—a favorite item he left behind, unfinished business, an old love or something.”
“Somebody he forgot to murder,” Paula said.
Bickerstaff drew on his cigar and looked at it appraisingly the way cigar smokers do, as if pleased by it and wondering what it was going to do next. “It’s amazing—” he said. Paula thought he was going to comment on the cigar. “—the way Mandle just dropped out of the world without leaving tracks. He kills three men, then unlocks handcuffs and leg irons and strolls away dressed in a luminous jumpsuit. Right off the end of the earth. So far, a perfect disappearing act. How the hell did he bring it off?”
“It’s his training,” said a voice from the doorway.
And there was Colonel Victor Kray in full military uniform, his regulation coat slung casually over his arm. The medals on his chest gleamed as if he’d just polished them— or had an aide do it.
“I know because I trained him.”
“I feel somewhat guilty,” Kray said, stepping the rest of the way into the room. He draped his coat over the back of a chair but remained standing. “I don’t think I fully got across to you earlier how skilled Mandle would be in the lethal arts. And that includes the art of subterfuge. If he’s hiding from the police, from the world, he won’t be easily found. He’s trained to be elusive in countries where he doesn’t even speak the language.”
Horn’s only response was to offer Kray a cigar.
“I don’t smoke,” Kray said. “But I wouldn’t mind another glass of that single malt scotch.”
Paula was beginning to feel as if she’d wandered into a men’s club. What next? A pheasant hunt and billiards?
Horn got up from behind the desk and poured Kray his drink. Paula and Bickerstaff declined, and Horn put the bottle back in its cabinet then returned to sit behind his desk. Though there was a chair nearby, Kray didn’t make a move to sit down. Paula wondered how he could appear so relaxed while maintaining such an erect posture. Must be leadership.
“I came back,” Kray said, after sampling the scotch, “to offer my help. After all, the Night Spider is, in a way, my creation. I taught him how to move like a ghost and kill, and then hide.”
“And now you think you’re better qualified than anyone to find him,” Horn said.
“I think I might be the only one who can find him,” Kray said. “Or who can effectively help you find him.”
“How do you intend to help?”
“In any way you choose. Fill me in on what you know about his escape, keep me apprised, and as events unfold, you can contact me and I’ll provide any insights I can.
Obviously, you can accept or reject my suggestions. If nothing else, I’ll sleep easier knowing I made them. I’ll be staying at the Sheraton Towers. Not for an indefinite period of time, but as long as my absence from other duties permits.”
Horn thanked him. “I’m sure your insights and advice will be of value.”
“And of course,” Kray said, “I’d appreciate it if you’d view me as a kind of ace in the hole. To alert media or other agencies of my involvement would be to admit the SSF exists, which officially it doesn’t. The relatively few people who know about it get kind of prickly if they’re forced to go on record denying they’ve ever heard of it. Elections, promotions, and all might be at stake. Careers.”
“Such as your own,” Bickerstaff said.
Kray shot him a look that seemed to physically press Bickerstaff back in his chair. “Yes, such as my own.”
Horn said he understood, and that they appreciated the risk Kray was taking. They’d do everything possible to maintain confidentiality. Bickerstaff and Paula seconded the sentiment.
Kray finished his scotch, then smiled graciously and nodded to each of them in turn as he said his good nights. He abruptly did a kind of smooth about-face, scooping up his coat from the chair back as he spun, and showed himself out.
The room seemed to have been made smaller by his leaving. Paula thought you didn’t often meet somebody whose absence made almost as profound an impression as his presence. The man did have an effect. She felt as if she’d hear an order to charge up a hill any second, and up the hill she would go.
“Well?” Horn said, after about half a minute.
“He doesn’t waste our time with small talk,” Paula said.
“He said what he came to say,” Bickerstaff remarked in a tone of admiration, “so it was time to leave and he went.”
“How very military,” Paula said.
Bickerstaff puffed on his cigar. “You think about it, Paula, we’ve won some wars.”
* * *
Horn’s first night alone in the brownstone. Scotch straight up. Cuban cigar and the hell with the smoke and lingering tobacco scent. He was still bewildered and smarting from Anne’s departure, and knew he was indulging himself in a way that was almost childishly defiant.
Living alone. Old cop aging in an old house in an old part of an old city. It was a depressing thought, but at least it had some advantages. Like greater personal freedom.
Damn, the place was quiet!
He’d just returned from a steak dinner at a neighborhood restaurant he’d always liked but Anne despised. Full stomach, good liquor, and a quality cigar. He knew he should feel at least some sense of well-being if not contentment. What he had, what he was left with, was far beyond the means and luck of most people in the world. There was a reason why misery loved company. It was probably comparison.
But he felt no contentment, and it was no comfort that others had more reason for misery. In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man still had only one eye. He remembered a time long ago when fledgling TV journalist Nina Count almost touched a microphone to the nose of a young cop who’d just shot and killed a burglary suspect and asked, “How do you feel? Right now?” Then it became such a cliché that even TV journalists no longer asked the question. It was an interesting question despite its intrusive and often tasteless nature. Horn took a sip of scotch and asked it of himself.
Lonely, was the answer. Right now, I feel goddamned lonely.
He realized he hadn’t been lonely in years. Really lonely. The kind of lonely that grabs at your guts and makes you afraid to look into yourself.
He also had to admit he was feeling too sorry for himself. If there was any emotion Horn hated it was self-pity. It robbed you of everything worthwhile. It made you vulnerable.
He mentally castigated himself for falling into such a funk. Don’t be such an asshole. You’ve got a life to live. A job to do.
A job . . .
He tried to concentrate on the Mandle case: how the murderous bastard had escaped, what a capable killer he must be. A man trained to kill in the service of his country now killing in the service of his psychosis.
Was it a psychosis? Or was Mandle simply evil? The truth was that Horn had never much bothered himself about the distinction. His job, his calling, was to stop peo
ple like Aaron Mandle, to remove them from society. The world didn’t set itself right. For everyone who broke things material or human and upset the balance, someone had to repair and restore and realign. Horn wasn’t only working for the city; he was working for the victims. Justice was not an abstract to Thomas Horn.
Illness or malevolence or both, whatever fueled his intent, Mandle was certainly doing evil. And if he wasn’t found again and stopped, the evil would resume. That was enough motivation for Horn, enough reason to live and to rouse himself and confront each fresh new morning.
Or so he told himself.
He snuffed out what was left of his cigar, drained the last quarter inch of his drink, and trudged upstairs to bed.
Sleeping alone was nothing new. Because of the hours a cop kept and the hours a hospital administrator kept, Horn and Anne had often slept alone.
But going to bed alone wasn’t the same thing as going to bed lonely.
Getting up early wasn’t the same thing as waking up early, either. Horn had been awake for hours before finally climbing out of bed when dawn light began filtering into the room.
He put on a robe, stepped into comfortable lined leather slippers, and went down to the kitchen. After getting the
Braun coffeemaker clucking and gurgling, he padded into the foyer, expecting to hear Anne’s footfall upstairs or see a note from her on the hall table explaining where she’d gone. When she’d return.
Not gonna happen! Stop messing with your own mind!
Time to step outside and get the morning paper, if no one had stolen it. He knew that by the time he stepped back inside there’d be at least a faint scent of fresh coffee in the brownstone. He’d have a cup at the kitchen table while he scanned the news. Then he’d shower, dress, and walk down to the Home Away for a proper breakfast.
When he opened the door, he wasn’t surprised not to find a paper on the concrete stoop or within sight on the sidewalk.
But there was something on the porch. A chess piece. A plastic red knight about four inches tall.
Horn thought it was interesting the way it had been placed on the porch, tucked up against the inside of the wrought-iron railing so it couldn’t be seen from the street. Someone would have to walk up on the stoop and then turn almost all the way around in order to spot it. Or open the door and look out.
He bent over, picked up the piece, and examined it. Nothing unusual. Cheap plastic from a mold. The red knight was from the sort of set that could be bought at just about any store that sold games.
Horn carried the chess knight into the house and placed it on the kitchen table. He poured a too strong, half cup of coffee, then sat down at the table and looked at the knight, wondering what it might mean. Almost surely someone had placed it on the porch deliberately where he—or Anne— would notice it when leaving the brownstone.
Horn sipped and thought, while the bitterness of lukewarm coffee displaced the stale aftertaste of last night’s cigar. Some trade.
The thing about the knight, he mused, was that it was the only chess piece capable of moving above other pieces. It could drop straight down to capture an opponent’s piece.
Did that really mean something? Was he making too much of this? Had some homeless person or wandering kid simply found the chess knight on the sidewalk and placed it out of harm’s way on the stoop, thinking it might belong to whoever lived in the brownstone? A thoughtful gesture. Such things could happen in New York. Along with the brusequeness, mayhem, and murder, such things could happen.
The phone rang.
Setting down his cup, Horn twisted his body and stretched out his left arm to lift the receiver on the kitchen extension. He glanced at the microwave clock as he put plastic to ear and said hello, wondering who’d be calling him at 6:45 in the morning.
It was Anne.
She was screaming.
39
When Horn finally got Anne calmed down enough to be coherent, she told him over the phone that someone had been in her apartment.
“You’re sure?”
“I called, didn’t I?” Fear was becoming anger. But plenty of fear remained vibrant in her voice.
Horn fought down his initial alarm. Like him, Anne wasn’t used to living alone, and she was in a precarious mental state due to the hospital lawsuit, and the loss of her marriage and job. Who could blame her for overreacting to whatever it was that had scared her?
“How do you know someone’s been there?”
“Things aren’t the same as when I went to bed last night.”
It was a sublet apartment on East 54th Street; most of the furniture and incidentals belonged to the regular tenant. “A new place, Anne. Maybe you’re not sure yet where everything belongs.” Maybe you made a mistake, leaving. Maybe you belong here.
“I’m not an idiot, Thomas! It isn’t only that items seem to have been moved about. There are things that weren’t here when I went to bed.” Her voice broke and he thought she was about to lose control again. But she remained calm. “Some things on my dresser. To think someone was right here while I was sleeping a few feet away, unaware. Christ, it gives me the chills!”
But he knew how strong she was. What had set her off so! Rattled her so that she was screaming when she phoned?
“What was it you found on your dresser, Anne?”
“I . . . I’m not sure. Yes, I am. It looks like a tooth with . . . maybe part of the gum still attached.”
“A tooth? You certain?”
“I think that’s what it is.”
“Maybe from the previous tenant.”
“Sure, Thomas. That happens all the time, somebody moves out and leaves a tooth.” Sarcasm. Good.
“Could be there was a pet there and it’s a dog’s tooth. Does it look like an animal tooth?”
“Well . . . I guess it could be.”
“What else, Anne? Stay with what’s on the dresser.”
“Something not so disturbing. A little black figurine.”
“What kind of figurine?”
“Cheap, plastic. The neck and head of a horse.”
Horn went cold. “A chess piece?”
“Now that I hear you say it, yes, it could be. It probably is a chess knight. I suppose that’s something I overlooked last night. I should have known what it was right away.” She sounded peeved, as if he’d accused her of doing something wrong. “The previous tenant might have played chess and the piece got separated from the rest of the set. Something like that. Bounced under the bed and the janitorial service found it, and when the maid reached for it she slipped and struck her mouth on the bed frame and a tooth—”
“Anne.”
She recognized something in his voice and fell silent.
“So you’re cool enough to be sarcastic,” Horn said.
“Yeah, I suppose you’re right. But damn it, Thomas! . . .”
“Are you on the cell phone?”
“Yes. The phone service in the apartment hasn’t been switched over yet.”
“Is there a window in the bedroom?”
“Of course.”
“Go to it.” He waited only a few seconds.
“I’m there.”
“Is the window locked?”
“Yes. Just as I left it last night.”
“Don’t just glance at it. Look more closely. At the glass near the lock.”
“Oh, fuck! Thomas?”
“The glass is cut away so the lock could be worked from outside. Right?”
“That’s right. But . . .”
“Be calm and listen, Anne. Please.”
He heard her sigh, hoped it wasn’t a sob. Then: “I’m okay. What now?”
“Lock the bedroom door and stay inside until you hear the police or the voice of someone you know.”
“Thomas!”
“Will you do that?”
“Of course!”
“Someone will be there soon, I promise. I’m going to hang up now so I can make phone calls while I dress and drive.”
“I’m stepping into my pants. I won’t be the first one there, but I won’t be far behind.”
He called 911 before leaving his house and was out of the building and in his car within five minutes, driving fast and recklessly and one-handed while making his other calls. First, the governing precinct, to light a fire under their collective ass, then Paula. She could phone Bickerstaff.
When Paula had hung up, Horn called the precinct house again to make sure they were on the move. Thinking there might be something to that law against simultaneously driving and using a cell phone in New York. The drivers blasting their horns at him, gesticulating and shouting insults as he sped past or cut them off, sure were in favor of it.
By the time Horn reached Anne’s building and got up to her apartment on the twenty-ninth floor, it was crowded and buzzing with activity. His first impression as he approached the open door was that a party was going on there. His wife’s new apartment and she was throwing a party and he wasn’t invited. Jesus, what an inane, self-involved thought.
He walked in past the open door. Strange apartment. Modern furniture except for what Anne had contributed. Some things were familiar, most not. Did Anne really live here? He knew almost everyone at the party: Paula, Bickerstaff, a hulking plainclothes detective named Ellison; Johansen, one of several techs swarming the place, vacuuming for hairs and particulate matter; two uniforms, one of whom Horn knew though he couldn’t recall his name. He was a big guy with a deep scar on his face. It bothered Horn that he seemed to have lost some ability to put name to face. Advancing age?
Bullshit!
Anne saw him and came to him. “Thanks, Thomas.” At first she appeared ready to hug him, then stepped back, merely touching his arm.
“You back to your usual self?” he asked.
She managed a smile that was a little weak at the corners. “Pretty close. Thanks in large measure to you.”
Beyond Anne, Horn saw Paula standing in a doorway. She nodded and beckoned to him.
He left Anne talking to the patrolman with the scar, made his way toward Paula, and saw that the doorway led to the bedroom. Paula moved aside so he could enter.