Night Victims

by John Lutz

  Horn turned and looked.

  One weird looking big toe.

  The decomposed body in the shallow grave was Aaron Mandle’s.

  Which meant Mandle had died before Alice Duggan.

  The second gun! The missing second gun!

  It took Horn another ten seconds to figure out what it meant.

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  He strode past Paula and Bickerstaff and barely glanced at them. “Let’s go! Fast! I’ll explain later.”

  “Go where?” Bickerstaff asked, picking up the pace and catching up with Horn.

  “To Kincaid Memorial Hospital. Where Anne is.”

  “But that right foot,” Bickerstaff said. “If this is Mandle’s body . . .”

  “Since the escape from the van,” Horn said, “we’ve been hunting a different SSF member. A second Night Spider.” As they sped through crowded streets toward the hospital, Horn got back on his cell phone. First he called the hospital and told them to be on high alert. Then he phoned Rollie Larkin. He needed something sensitive done quickly by someone with pull.

  He explained to Larkin what had happened and what was needed.

  Larkin called back even before the car reached the hospital.

  “Public records,” he said to Horn. “Easy enough to get, and fast, if you have the clout. Joseph Arthur Vine joined the army in late ’94, did his basic training at Fort Leonard Wood in ’95. The odd thing is, no posting after basic training is listed for him.”

  “That’s when he began his SSF training,” Horn said.

  Bickerstaff, driving the unmarked, had to swerve to avoid a double-parked cab. Paula, in the front passenger seat, cursed loudly.

  “What was that?” Larkin asked.

  “Just New York. Can I ask another favor? Will you check with your sources again and find out if Aaron Mandle and Joe Vine ever crossed paths in the service?”

  “We’re going beyond public records, Horn. It would have to be just between us, whatever I told you.”

  “That’s how it’ll be.”

  Larkin said he’d get back to Horn and hung up.

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  Horn saw that Paula had both hands on the dashboard, squeezing it.

  He looked down and saw the fingers of his left hand digging into his thigh.

  A woman about to cross the street almost fell backward.

  She screamed at the speeding unmarked. A delivery van screeched to a halt coming out of a building garage, braking so hard that several cartons bounced from an open front door. The driver leaned on his horn and shouted at Bickerstaff, who ignored him.

  Paula glanced back at Horn, wide-eyed. Horn shrugged.

  He decided Bickerstaff had been away long enough that his driving skills were rusty. But they’d reach their destination. With luck.

  They were in the hospital elevator when Larkin called back. Horn stood listening with the cell phone pressed to his ear. Reception wasn’t great in the elevator, but he knew it wouldn’t be good at all when they got to Radiology, Anne’s department.

  “Aaron Mandle and Joseph Vine trained in the same unit at Fort Leonard Wood in the spring of ’95,” Larkin said,

  “after which they don’t appear in official army records. Like they never were. When we reached that point I lost my source. He sounded scared.”

  “Thanks. The information means a lot.”

  “I hope so, Horn. I hope it takes us where you think it will.”

  The elevator lurched to a stop. Horn thanked Larkin again and broke the connection.

  Larkin’s information meant Mandle and Vine knew each other before volunteering for their special units.

  And maybe later.

  Anne was at her desk. She knew what Horn would want and was already cleaning out some of her drawers, stuffing things into a large brown valise.

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  When she saw Horn enter, trailed by Paula and Bickerstaff, she had to smile. She felt a bit like a princess in a fairy tale who at any cost mustn’t be harmed by a dragon—or a spider. Right now, she didn’t mind the feeling.

  She said hello to the trio and closed her desk drawers.

  “I thought I’d have to do some work at home,” she explained.

  Paula looked into her blue eyes and saw fear but no panic.

  So cool under this kind of pressure. Paula could understand why Horn had married her, why her marriage to a cop had survived so many years.

  “Not exactly at home,” Horn said.

  Anne paused and looked at him. “You’re calling in that promise I made to you?”

  “It has to be that way.” He explained the situation, watching her expression change as he did so.

  Paula watched, too. Almost panic in those eyes now. For only an instant . . .

  “That makes it intensely personal,” Anne said.

  “And intensely dangerous.”

  “What about the dead guard’s tooth that was left on my dresser?”

  “Mandle’s grisly souvenir, but to his killer it looked like a calling card he could leave to establish the false impression that the Night Spider was on the hunt again.” Anne rested a hand on the desk as if for support but didn’t actually lean her weight on it. “I’ll do what you say. Where am I going?”

  “I’m thinking your brother’s cabin in upstate New York.

  He only uses it in the winter, for hunting. If we can get you there without anyone following, you should be safe. You’ll be heavily guarded there, too, of course.”

  “I can call him,” Anne said, “find out where he hides the key.”

  “Don’t call him. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going.

  We’ll get you into the cabin even if we have to force a lock NIGHT VICTIMS

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  or break a window. We’ll explain it to your brother later; he’ll understand.”

  “Jim’s in Philadelphia. And he’d never tell anyone where I was.”

  “He would if they started snipping off his fingers.” Anne looked ill. “Jesus, Thomas . . . Can I go to my apartment and pick up some clothes?”

  “Of course. Paula and Bickerstaff will drive you. Then they’ll take you to the cabin after making sure nobody’s following. Do you have your Ladysmith thirty-eight here, or at your apartment?”

  “Neither. I left it. I didn’t want to live with guns anymore.”

  “Swing by the brownstone and get it,” Horn said to Bickerstaff. “She’s qualified and can shoot both eyes out of a gnat.”

  This seemed a bad idea to Paula: maybe the gnat had to be sitting still: maybe one of the cops guarding Anne would be mistaken for a gnat.

  Anne started to hoist the big valise down from the desk, but Bickerstaff hastily stepped forward and took it from her.

  He wheezed and was obviously surprised by its weight.

  “When you leave the brownstone,” Horn said to Bickerstaff, “give me a call.”

  He watched them leave, Anne walking between Paula and Bickerstaff, who was leaning sideways, the heavy valise bumping against his knee with every step.

  When they were gone Horn talked to the security cops at the hospital, then called Lieutenant Burton to arrange for reassignments.

  Then he took an elevator to a floor where he knew there was a large waiting area with public phones in insulated stalls, where people had privacy to inform friends and family of joyous or tragic news. Either way, they could shed tears without anyone watching.

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  unoccupied. No one was near the phones, and the TV

  mounted on the wall was showing a muted Law and Order rerun with Jerry Orbach as Detective Lenny Briscoe. Horn’s favorite.

  He used one of the phones to call Victor Kray at the Rion Hotel.

  “There’s news?” Kray asked, when Horn had identified himself.

  “The news is your list of SSF members was incomplete.
r />   You left off Joe Vine.”

  “What’s Vine got to do with Mandle?”

  “Why did you leave him off the list?”

  “Ah, a question in answer to a question.”

  “Cop stuff,” Horn said. “We also demand answers that aren’t questions.”

  “I knew Vine lived in the area, and I learned about his family situation. His son’s in a coma and might not recover.

  He has money problems. In fact, I think he’s suing a hospital, or is being sued. I liked Joe. He was one of our best. I was sure he was above suspicion. Still am. I simply didn’t want to involve him in this and add to his problems.”

  “He’s suing the hospital where my wife works,” Horn said. “He’s suing my wife personally.” Kray was silent while he processed the information. Then:

  “Where is this conversation going, Horn?” Horn told him what he thought. After escaping from the police van, Mandle contacted his old SSF buddy Joe Vine and asked for help. Vine helped him by killing him with one of the guns Mandle took off the dead guards. Then, as the Night Spider, Vine could continue Mandle’s string of killings, and Anne Horn, wife of the Night Spider’s public nemesis, would be considered another Spider victim. Vine would never be suspected of executing the woman he held responsible for his son’s permanent near-death state. If Mandle’s body were never found, or if enough time passed to make it possible to ascertain only an approximate date of NIGHT VICTIMS

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  death, Mandle would be blamed for Vine’s killings as well as his own crimes.

  “That doesn’t sound like the Joe Vine I knew,” Kray said.

  “Are you sure Mandle is dead?”

  “I saw the corpse’s right foot.”

  “Oh . . . Christ!” What sounded almost like a sob came over the phone. It was strangely shocking to imagine Kray as its source, like a tear shed from Mount Rushmore.

  “I’m not accustomed to telling people I’m sorry,” Kray said. “That’s not often done in my line of work. Maybe not in yours, either. But I am sorry, Horn. If there’s any way I can make it up to you, anything I can do . . .”

  “Tell me about Vine. Is he as capable as Mandle?”

  “Almost. Not as adept a climber. He’s an explosives expert and a skilled sniper and knife fighter.”

  “Great.”

  “He didn’t like killing as much as Mandle,” Kray said.

  His tone of voice suggested that was something Horn needed to know.

  Horn imagined Vine dutifully stabbing four women over and over to emulate Mandle’s murders, then bashing in their heads to make sure they were dead and couldn’t identify him.

  He likes killing well enough.

  So Mandle had waited around for his victims to suffer and bleed out, but Vine wasn’t having as much fun and wanted to leave the party early. Horn didn’t see that as much of a distinction.

  “If I can help . . .” Kray offered again, a plea for forgive-ness.

  “I’ll let you know,” Horn said, and hung up.

  As he stood and turned away from the phone, he saw that Law and Order on the waiting-room TV had been interrupted for a news flash. The condemned building on the Lower East Side where Mandle’s body was found filled the screen except for the crawl at the bottom: 360

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  NIGHT SPIDER SQUASHED? IT’S REPORTED THAT LESS THAN

  AN HOUR AGO POLICE FOUND . . .

  Horn thought of Newsy and everyone like Newsy only worse. And the people who supplied their information.

  Damned leaks!

  His cell phone chirped and he yanked it from his pocket .

  Oughta get a belt clip.

  It was Larkin. “A SWAT unit’s on the way to Vine’s apartment,” he said. “You wanna be there for the collar or whatever?”

  “You know it. I’m at Kincaid Memorial, but it won’t take me long.”

  “I’ll see you there,” Larkin said. “Just make sure you don’t arrive before we do.”

  As he hurried from the waiting area, Horn glanced over and saw that Law and Order was back on above the crawl.

  Lenny, questioning a suspect in the interrogation room, gave his patented hopeless smile and weary shrug. The world kept turning, the truth would seep out, justice would find its way to the surface. It was in the script and took about an hour.

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  The apartment building had been quietly evacuated.

  SWAT leader Sergeant Lou Marcus led half his team down the narrow hall, while a lanky blond man Horn had heard addressed as Newman led more of the team up the fire stairs in back.

  Marcus and three other SWAT members had come up in the elevator. It would take Newman longer in back, so their timing had to be right. There was no telling what was inside the Vine apartment, so there was no more communication over the two ways that might be overheard. The working assumption was that no one inside the apartment knew it was just them and the SWAT team in the building. When Newman and his men were positioned at the back door, the door would be taken down and a diversion device would be fired into the apartment.

  Diversion device was bureaucratese for a flash-bang grenade that would be harmless but made an ungodly amount of noise when detonated. This was designed to do two things: for a few seconds, freeze with shock whoever was inside the apartment, and cause their attention to be focused toward the rear of the apartment and sound of the explosion.

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  During this brief suspension of time, Marcus’s part of the team would batter down the front door and stream inside.

  When the stun grenade went off, everyone had precious few seconds to operate in with comparative safety. So all hell would break loose. While SWAT members were invad-ing the apartment from both ends, NYPD uniforms would be entering the building and pounding up the stairs, as reinforcements arrived by car. Five, maybe ten seconds, while the element of surprise applied.

  Everything might depend on making the most of those seconds.

  Marcus checked behind him. The two men with him were ready with the battering ram that would swing forward on thick leather straps and make short work of the ancient wood door. While the door was still flying open, they would enter with Heckler and Koch MP5 automatic weapons at the ready.

  It sure made the mouth dry, Marcus was thinking, when a tremendous roar shook the building. Even here in the hall his ears were ringing. Anyone inside had to be paralyzed with shock.

  Marcus waved his right hand and the battering ram slammed into the door, shattering wood and crashing it open on the first attempt. He gulped down his fear and led the way inside, smelling the burned stench left by the grenade.

  And within seconds, with mixed emotions of relief and disappointment, he saw through faint smoke that the room he was in was empty.

  A dark, bulky figure appeared in the hall. One of Newman’s men.

  Quickly the SWAT members moved from room to room, dancing with nerve and purpose, swinging their MP5s in arcs. Shouts of “Clear,” “Clear,” sounded shortly after each room was entered.

  Then: “In here! East bedroom!”

  Marcus went.

  The small room was suddenly filled with equipment-NIGHT VICTIMS

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  laden, menacing figures in dark uniforms. They stood leaning forward tensely, guns like extensions of their bodies, alert as prey though they were the hunters.

  Their attention was focused on a small, huddled figure wedged between the bed and the wall. A woman in what looked like a faded red robe pulled tightly around her as if for protection, though her bare legs were exposed. Her entire body was shaking so violently that beads of perspiration flew from her wild damp hair.

  Guns were trained on her as the bed was pulled farther away from the wall.

  Two of the SWAT members gripped her beneath the arms, yanked her upright, then forced her facedown on the bed while handcuffs were snapped around her wrists.

  “Cindy Vine?” Marcus asked in a loud voice.

 
The woman managed to nod.

  Cindy Vine couldn’t stop trembling and sobbing while she was informed she was under arrest on suspicion of being an accessory to murder. She began gnawing her lower lip as her rights were read to her.

  “Where’s Joseph Vine?” Marcus asked her.

  Cindy merely shook her head and continued sobbing. Her hair, which was made even wetter by her tears, was stuck across her eyes. One of the SWAT team gently brushed it aside. She continued to sob.

  “Do you know the whereabouts of your husband?” Marcus asked again in a voice neither threatening nor soothing.

  But she was sobbing too hard to answer.

  They waited patiently until she’d calmed down, then asked again, but she would only tuck in her chin, clench her eyes shut, and remain silent.

  Marcus knew that for the time being he’d lost her. Cindy Vine’s stunned psyche had carried her somewhere else. She wasn’t going to talk. He might as well have been questioning a piece of the room’s furniture.

  *

  *

  *

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  As Horn turned the corner of Vine’s block, he saw half a dozen police cars angled in at the curb, and beyond them a police van. The street was blocked except for one lane that let traffic siphon through. There were knots of pedestrians at each end of the street. Uniforms held everyone back at both ends of the block unless they were residents or police.

  Horn showed his shield out the car window, then he parked near one of the cruisers across the street from a run-down stone and brick apartment building that had a skeletal steel framework but no awning over its entrance. A tall uniform was standing directly in front of the entrance with his feet planted wide and his arms crossed. Somebody or other at the bridge.

  Horn showed his ID again to the uniform at the door, the large man with the scarred face who’d guarded Anne at the apartment and hospital. The man told him the Vines’ apartment number, on the sixth floor.

  A few minutes later, as Horn stepped from the elevator and made his way down the hall toward the open door, he could hear voices, all male, drifting from the Vines’ apartment.

  When he entered, there was Rollie Larkin, a plainclothes detective Horn didn’t know, and three dark-uniformed SWAT

  guys with automatic weapons. Dwarfed by all the good-sized men in the small living room was a thin woman curled in a corner of a sofa with her legs tucked beneath her. Her head was bowed and her lank brown hair was plastered to most of her face, leaving only her nose exposed, reminding Horn of a character left over from Cats.