Night Victims

by John Lutz

  “How exactly am I making it more difficult?”

  “I told you I was worried. I meant it.”

  “Why, Horn! If you weren’t married I’d be intensely interested.”

  “Playful doesn’t become you, Nina. And I’m too old for you. Too beat up. And too sane.”

  He hung up, burdened by the sad knowledge that what he’d said was true.

  Something else not to think about while he finished his beer.

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  But he found the beer flat and too warm to drink. It left a bitter aftertaste.

  He closed the office door so smoke wouldn’t filter into the rest of the brownstone, then sat back down and got an illegal Cuban cigar from the humidor on his desk. After preparing the cigar, using a cutter fashioned after a miniature guillotine, he fired it up with the lighter he kept in the desk’s top drawer. A cigar that cost what this one did, it burned smoothly and drew well immediately.

  As he leaned back in his padded chair and smoked, it occurred to him that the problems in his life, the many unan-swered questions, were beginning to hinder and entangle him more and more.

  Like a web.

  25

  The doorbell late that night made Horn sit forward in his chair, then snuff out his cigar in the glass ashtray on the desk.

  He left his comfortable den and trod through the hall to the foyer. For a moment he wished he were still carrying his service revolver. His uneasiness surprised him, even though circumstances were certainly conducive to apprehension.

  Not like him, after so many years of doing what he must despite fear that was sometimes terror. Maybe the Night Spider case was getting to him. And this was like something out of a mystery novel—a late hour of a stormy night, alone in the house, a stranger knocks on the door.

  Rings the bell.

  The rain might have stopped.

  And how do you know it’s a stranger?

  Horn put his hand on the doorknob and peered through one of the leaded glass windows. It was still raining. And his caller was a stranger.

  He opened the door to a tall, broad-shouldered man in a dark raincoat. He was standing partly in shadow and wearing NIGHT VICTIMS

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  some kind of cap like a delivery man’s, its cloth top covered by clear plastic to protect it from moisture.

  “Captain Thomas Horn?” the man asked with a smile. He had wide cheekbones, a hawk nose, and a broad, aggressive chin.

  Horn confirmed he was who the man was seeking, his body poised, his gut telling him something was wrong here.

  “I’m Colonel Victor Kray.”

  Horn stared at the man. He didn’t recognize him. Didn’t believe he was NYPD.

  “United States Army,” the man added, perhaps understanding Horn’s confusion.

  “Ah!” Horn said. “Come in, please!” He stepped back, offering his left hand, which the colonel shook. If he really was a colonel. Horn kept his right hand ready to knot into a fist.

  Once in the foyer, Kray unbuttoned his long raincoat, and Horn saw the uniform, which featured an impressive array of medals on the colonel’s chest. The colonel removed his garrison cap to reveal a head of iron gray hair, short and combed down in something like bangs that were high on his forehead. If Julius Caesar didn’t look like this guy, he should have.

  “I thought we might discuss a list someone gave you,” Kray said, as Horn was hanging his wet coat on a hook. A musty, woolly odor wafted from the coat.

  “Do you smoke cigars, Colonel Kray?”

  “Only when I have something to celebrate.”

  “Do you drink scotch?”

  Kray smiled. “More often than I smoke cigars.” Horn invited the colonel into his den, got him settled in an armchair near the desk, then poured two glasses of eighteen-year-old Glenlivet over ice, which he got from the small refrigerator that was concealed inside a cabinet just for that purpose.

  Colonel Kray sat, sipped, and looked longingly at Horn’s dead cigar propped in the ashtray. “Maybe I will,” he said.

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  Horn supplied him with a cigar and, when it was burning, relit his own. He didn’t mention that the cigars were Cuban and illegal, not knowing quite how a military man would feel about that.

  Kray puffed on the cigar and took another sip of scotch.

  “The pleasures of civilian life,” he said.

  “You can smoke and drink in the army.”

  “Not in a well-furnished den like this one. You’re a successful man, Captain Horn. Not just a lucky one.”

  “That, too,” Horn said.

  Kray fixed him with a steady stare that was, in itself, a reason for promotion. “What I do now in my duties wouldn’t interest you, Captain Horn. But you might find what I used to do important. I’ve been following the Night Spider murders, mostly through the New York Times on-line and Fox cable news. I struggled with the decision to come here but from the beginning knew I had no real choice. I think I might be able to help you.”

  “I could use it,” Horn said, sipping his scotch and watching Kray, admiring his charisma and mannerisms of command that only years in the military could provide.

  “In the armed forces of this country there is something called the SSF or Secret Special Forces. Its specialty is fighting in urban settings and mountainous terrain; the two have more in common than many people think. Its purpose is to undertake dangerous missions that must remain top secret whether they succeed or fail. These are brave men, Captain Horn, who can turn the suicidal into the doable, and who are ready to pay the supreme price of death in combat. They’re never captured. We don’t kid ourselves that some people can’t be made to talk.”

  “We?”

  “I helped to train these men,” Kray said. “And I’ve led them in battle. They can do what your Night Spider does.

  There is no vertical surface they can’t negotiate, and they know how to come and go secretly and kill silently.”

  “Our killer works silently enough that he doesn’t wake NIGHT VICTIMS

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  his victims until it’s too late for them. There’s never any sign of a struggle.”

  Kray smiled. “I’d be surprised if there were. The men I’m talking about are amazingly gentle and adept, as well as deadly. They’re trained to kill enemy troops while they sleep, one after another. And with this killer you’re chasing, the delicacy might be part of the thrill, the ritual, having them sleep as long as possible, then awaken already trussed up and helpless. Or almost. Certainly beyond escaping. He’d be ready to clamp tape over their mouths the instant their eyes opened. That might be what awakens many of them, the tape abruptly altering their breathing.”

  “Like a nightmare,” Horn said.

  “Oh, I think it is a fairly common nightmare. For women, anyway.”

  “How can he be sure they’re asleep before entering their apartments?”

  “Probably by observing them from outside their windows with a night scope or infrared glasses.”

  “So he can see in the dark,” Horn said, “like a real spider.”

  “And your killer’s a nocturnal predator, like a real spider.

  Or like a former SSF trooper.”

  Horn regarded Kray curiously. The colonel had to know what he was wondering.

  “I took a chance coming here,” Kray went on. “I’m going to have to trust you.”

  “Why?” Horn asked.

  “SSF troopers are the most skilled secret assassins in the world, but after they’ve served, and after psychological read-justment, they become—almost to a man—fine citizens in the military or in civilian life. But the fact is, one of the reasons I’m here is that I feel partly responsible for having aided in creating such capable killers.”

  “You said almost to a man.” Kray smiled again, sadly, as if he might break into MacArthur’s “Old Soldiers” farewell speech. “Nothing’s 184

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  perfect, Capt
ain Horn. That’s why the SSF exists. I’d like to think I can depend on you to keep what I’m about to reveal confidential, but I realize the risk; at some point you might have no choice but to pass on the information and its source.”

  About to reveal? “I can promise you I’ll try to maintain confidentiality, Colonel.”

  “I can’t ask for more.”

  “It’s obvious you think one of your SSF troopers might not have adapted well in his return to civilian life.”

  “I have to admit it’s possible.”

  “Do you have a particular man in mind?”

  “No. I’m going to leave that up to you. I’m a soldier, not a detective or criminologist.” He reached into a side pocket of his uniform coat and brought out a folded sheet of white typing paper. “I’m going to give you this list of names; all are former SSF troopers.”

  Perfect, Horn thought. Another list.

  “Those in present service don’t have the opportunity to commit such crimes.”

  Horn had heard that sentiment before. It was probably true.

  “I’m going to place the list on your desk, then finish my scotch and leave. I’m asking that you forget I was here, or how these names came to your attention.”

  “Agreed,” Horn said.

  Kray stood up, squarely aligned the list on a corner of the desk, then tossed down the rest of his drink. “There’s no need to show me out.” He smiled. “I’ll finish the excellent cigar on the street. Cuban, isn’t it?”

  “Cuban,” Horn confirmed.

  He thought Kray might do a smart about-face, but the colonel simply turned around in normal fashion, tucking his cap under his arm, and strode from the den.

  Shortly thereafter Horn heard the front door open and close.

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  He walked to the foyer and saw that Kray’s coat was gone from its hook. There was only a puddle on the floor beneath where it had been draped to indicate the colonel had ever been there.

  Horn went back into the den and picked up the list from the desk. Kray might have no idea that Altman had already contacted the police. These names might be duplicates of the ones on Altman’s list.

  But they weren’t.

  Horn didn’t recognize any of the names.

  He stood thinking. A lot of things were possible. The SSF

  units might be organized in cells, unaware of each other’s existence in order to retain strict secrecy. Or the names supplied by Altman might be cutoff names to deflect any investigation into the unit. If that was the case, Altman might not even be aware of it. Why would the federal government trust Altman?

  Because if he was CIA, Altman was the government.

  Either way, Altman the spook wasn’t supplying as much information and cooperation as he pretended.

  Horn decided not to inform him of Kray’s list and a secret unit beyond the one revealed by Altman and the military.

  He placed the list in his desk drawer, then glanced at his watch. 10:30 P.M. Anne was running some kind of late-shift efficiency study and wouldn’t be home for several hours.

  Horn decided to hell with today and went to bed.

  There was no shortage of concerns to keep him from sleep. This morning they had run out of suspects, and now they had a list of too many suspects, all of which probably wouldn’t pan out. Demonstrable progress on the case had stalled, another woman had joined the grisly parade of victims, and Nina Count was trying to force a showdown by publicly taunting the killer. Horn thought he could expect another call from Assistant Chief Larkin. And probably, before very long, another murder. It was a bewildering deluge of dread.

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  He fell asleep worrying about whether Anne would smell cigar smoke from when Kray walked through the ground floor of the brownstone and out into the night.

  Kray, who had never been there.

  Rainy nights depressed Paula and put her on edge. She was exhausted but knew she couldn’t sleep, so she hadn’t gone to bed. She’d gotten home late, managing to step in a puddle just outside her building, and scarfed down a deli Chinese dinner she’d picked up on the way. Now she had indigestion, one foot still felt wet despite the fact that she’d taken off her shoes and dried it, and she suspected she might be nurturing an ulcer.

  The Job. Was she an idiot to continue doing this for a living? Why did a monster who crept through bedroom windows and tortured and killed women have to be her personal responsibility? What would it be like to keep regular hours?

  Have a circle of friends who weren’t intimate with the darker side of life? Not carry a gun?

  What would it be like to have a date?

  Sitting on the sofa with her bare feet propped up on the coffee table, she studied her lower extremities. Ankles puffed from too many hours on her feet. Toenails trimmed short and threatening to become ingrown and painful. She could only dream of pedicures, elegant pink toes beneath her black cop’s shoes.

  Fuck it!

  She made the effort to reach out and get a hand around the half-drunk can of beer she’d left on the table. On the TV

  screen that flickered beyond her tortured feet, a promo for an upcoming movie had ended with a matchstick-thin former model, wearing skintight bicycle shorts, standing and waving triumphantly on the rocky plateau of some mountain even the Night Spider couldn’t climb. Sure. Cut to lots of quick shots, a montage of one ludicrously smiling face after NIGHT VICTIMS

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  another, between snaps of fires, murder scenes, and traffic accidents. The eleven o’clock news was coming on.

  Leaning back, Paula took a pull of beer, then with her free hand picked up the remote and pressed the volume button so the sound she’d muted would return.

  There was a flawlessly coifed Nina Count looking glamorous and serious as the camera moved in on her icy perfection. Her elegant hands were folded before her, bejeweled and beautifully manicured.

  “More trouble in the Middle East,” Nina said. “Today a Palestinian . . .”

  Paula figured the woman probably had pedicured feet that would drive a fetishist wild.

  “In local news—”

  Paula began paying attention again.

  “—serial-killer-hunter NYPD captain Thomas Horn came close to apprehending the murderous psychopath that is the Night Spider. In a dramatic morning chase on Manhattan’s East Side . . .”

  Paula sat listening to the news anchor’s account of Horn’s desperate attempt to catch up with the man who might have been the Night Spider.

  Nina Count embellished the story so Horn seemed almost a mythical nemesis of the killer, as if it were just the two of them—Horn and the Night Spider—in deadly macho combat. At the same time, the haughty blond anchorwoman made disparaging remarks about the killer, using terms like sick, pathetic, sexually stunted, cowardly, full of doubt and self-hatred . . .

  Paula wondered, what about psychotic, skillful, and lethal?

  It wasn’t much of a surprise to Paula that a canny newswoman like Nina Count would have the police contacts to learn so quickly about Horn’s pursuit of the Night Spider.

  And ratings being essential to TV news, Paula wasn’t shocked to hear Nina trying to develop a story line with recognizable 188

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  and fascinating characters like Horn and the Night Spider.

  Viewers would soon become addicts of her nightly install-ments of the part-soap opera and part-mystery playing out among them in their own city. Never mind that to the people directly involved, it was a tragedy.

  But this wasn’t the first time television and tabloid news had trivialized terror, torture, and death.

  What bothered Paula was how Nina Count talked directly and insultingly, even tauntingly, to the Night Spider, the camera in close on her model-like made-up features. Paula understood the message in those challenging blue eyes, the red lips and pink tongue sensuously wrapping themselves around every degrading remark.

  Does Horn k
now what Nina Count is up to?

  Tape of a derailed train somewhere was playing now, he-licopter shots of angled and stacked boxcars in a wooded area.

  Paula pressed the Off button on the remote, leaned back, and closed her eyes.

  Horn and Bickerstaff were men. Would they fully realize what was going on with Nina Count? Where she wanted it to lead?

  She wasn’t sure about Bickerstaff, but Horn might have a chance. The more she saw of Horn, the more she understood how he’d gained the respect of some of the most cynical and brutally practical men on the planet.

  And women. We’re—I’m—not immune to cynicism. The things we learn about ourselves! The things we don’t want to know . . .

  Paula finished her beer and placed the empty can on top of a Newseek on the coffee table. Finally tired, she slid sideways to curl on the sofa; her bare feet were pressed together and burrowed beneath a cushion for warmth.

  She knew she should get up before she dozed off, but she was so comfortable she decided to stay where she was.

  Nights like this had become almost routine. Around 3:00

  A.M. she’d wake up enough to rise and stumble into her bed-NIGHT VICTIMS

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  room, crawl gratefully into bed, and sleep till the alarm woke her.

  That process was preferable to getting up now, brushing her teeth and undressing, and lying in bed for hours before sleep came. She actually got more rest this way.

  Experience had taught her. What she learned from experience helped her to survive, while the knowledge of increasing odds against her gradually sank into her consciousness.

  Would she learn fast enough to continue staying sane and living through the stress and dangers of her work, what she used to think of as her calling?

  It was a race between what she learned and the risks encountered in her job.

  And every day, in ways large and small and often unrecognizable, she bet her life on it.

  26

  Arkansas, 1978

  They were leaving. He’d thought they never would, but now they were going.

  Twelve-year-old Aaron Mandle could hear them from where he lay almost naked in the dark closet. He’d be out soon, away from the closeness and the smell and the heat and the sticky sweat. And the spiders.