Night Victims

by John Lutz

  “All that’s important is we know he didn’t go higher than Kray in the chain of command. Then, when Mandle escaped from the prison van, Vine picked up where the Night Spider had left off, after killing Mandle. All so he could avenge what happened to his son and kill Anne; her death would’ve been blamed on Mandle.”

  “So why is Kray trying to help us nab Vine?”

  “He doesn’t want us to nab him; he wants to make sure we kill him, so he can’t talk and implicate Kray. He wants to stay close to the investigation so he can control it, make sure Vine dies before talking, even if he has to kill him himself. Kray probably helped his old military buddy Vine kill Mandle after he escaped from the van, then thought the situation was contained. He had no way of knowing Vine would go on a killing spree of his own. Something else: I mentioned to Kray that Anne was going to be hidden away in her brother’s cabin.”

  “You mention where the cabin was?”

  “Do you really think Kray couldn’t find out?”

  “I get your point. You say Kray’s at the Rion Hotel?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll send around a detail to bring him in.”

  “No,” Horn said. “Just put a tight tail on him. No need yet to let him know we’re on to him.” NIGHT VICTIMS

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  “Chess game, huh?”

  “I hope we’re still at that point.”

  “Where’s Bobby Fischer when you need him?”

  “I’m driving up to the cabin.”

  “I’ll go with you, soon as I arrange for the watch on Kray.

  That’s where this is all likely to come together. I want to make sure everything up there is being done right.”

  “No need for that. Can you call Army Records in St.

  Louis this time of night?” Horn asked.

  “I know a way to get through.”

  “Get any information they might have on Colonel Kray. It might help us string him along while he thinks he’s stringing us along.” Horn glanced at his watch. 11:35 P.M. “I’m leaving in five minutes. I’ve gotta make another phone call.”

  “I’ll be on the road in ten minutes.” Larkin was determined. Horn decided to give up trying to talk him out of it. “Okay. Meet me off the highway on the county road that leads to the cabin.”

  “Take your cell phone,” Larkin said.

  “Always.”

  As Horn hurriedly got dressed, he wondered if Larkin re -

  ally knew how much the NYPD leaked.

  After leaving the brownstone, Horn’s first act was to call Bickerstaff and Paula on a public phone three blocks away.

  At about the halfway point of the drive to the cabin, Larkin called Horn on his cell phone.

  “Just got the word,” he said. “The detail sent to the hotel to observe Kray says he checked out only hours ago. Desk clerk said he was in a hurry.”

  Horn felt his stomach go cold with apprehension. Things were moving ahead of them; they weren’t in control and might not possess the necessary knowledge. Losing at chess, and the stakes were unbelievably high.

  “Something else,” Larkin said. “Army Records tells me 390

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  Colonel Victor Kray resigned his commission and left the service over two years ago.”

  Horn was silent, trying to drive and comprehend all of this at the same time.

  “Whaddya think, Horn?” asked Larkin’s voice from the cell phone. Horn could hear the constant snarl of Larkin’s car engine in the background. Larkin wasn’t worried about speeding tickets.

  Horn said, “Drive faster.”

  Harlington Sheriff ’s Deputy Albert “Sass” Collier settled deeper where he sat in darkness among last year’s leaves. He was alongside the dry creek bed. Like the others guarding Anne Horn, Sass had strict instructions to hold his position and not go near the cabin unless ordered to do so. The NYPD guys were farther in toward the cabin, one of them inside with the blond Anne Horn. Sass had seen her photo in the New York papers. Nice looking lady from the big city.

  He wondered what she’d be like to talk to. He smiled. Talk to, hell!

  Collier was on loan from the sheriff ’s department because he was a local and a hunter. He knew the woods. If the wind was right, he could hear a deer move a hundred yards away. He could hear a squirrel chatter and know its direction almost well enough to fire at it blind and hit it with a shotgun blast. Rumor had it Sass was half Cherokee Indian. He wasn’t, but he should have been.

  Nothing, nobody, was going to pass him in or on either side of the creek bed without him knowing.

  He was called “Sass” because of some wildness in his younger days, and a stubbornness that had matured into genuine toughness. Sass was six-feet-two and two hundred pounds of solid cop. He knew the skills of his trade and beyond that held a black belt in Tae Kwon Do. If he did hear somebody moving through the woods toward the cabin, he’d know what to do. He’d be able to do it.

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  But he heard nothing other than the soft breeze playing through the leaves, even as dark forms above him moved through the forest canopy. If he’d glanced up, they would have been still, merely shadows among shadows.

  One of the dark forms dropped straight down on a slender line to a point about three feet behind and above the seated Sass. The dark figure made a sudden, silent movement that tipped his body forward and down. In the same abrupt but smooth motion Sass’s hair was gripped, his head yanked back to expose his throat, and tempered sharp steel sliced through his neck deep enough to sever both carotid arteries.

  It had all happened in a few seconds, and the only sound had been the gush and soft splatter of blood on the dry leaves—like a gentle summer rain that passed quickly.

  Sass’s face barely had time to register surprise.

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  When Horn turned off the highway onto the narrow country road and killed his headlights, he saw by the faint moonlight that Rollie Larkin had already arrived.

  Larkin was standing by a uniformed NYPD cop Horn didn’t know, a stocky young man who looked like a serious weight lifter. Horn wondered if some of these young guys were taking steroids. He wondered if he would have when he was young, to be a better cop. Only animals took steroids when Horn was the young cop’s age.

  “This is Officer Wunderly,” Larkin said, when Horn had gotten out of the car and walked off the road and into the tall grass where Larkin’s car was parked.

  Horn looked at Wunderly and gave him a nod.

  “No sign of anything since we’ve been here, sir.” Wunderly had a narrow head, made pinched-looking by the sidelight-ing of the moon. It was a head that didn’t go with his muscular frame.

  “Been in touch with the sentries?” Horn asked.

  “Every hour,” Wunderly said.

  “How long since the last time?”

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  Wunderly glanced at his watch. “Twenty minutes.”

  “You doing it on the hour?”

  “Yes, sir. Easier to remember.”

  And predict, Horn thought. “Contact the nearest.” Wunderly went to the patrol car and got out a black, leather-cased walkie-talkie. “These are from the sheriff ’s department. Regular two-ways don’t work worth a damn out here,” he explained. “Local yokels don’t have ’em anyway.” Horn and Larkin looked at each other while Wunderly tried to contact the sentry, keeping his voice low.

  “Wunderly to Deputy Collier

  .

  .

  .

  Deputy Collier . . .

  Sass, you there? . . .”

  Wunderly’s brow furrowed. He looked at Horn and Larkin. “Can’t raise him.”

  “Got a map?” Horn asked.

  “Sure. Sheriff ’s department gave us a dandy.”

  “Sounds like the sheriff ’s department is running the whole goddamn show,” Larkin said.

  “You relay my order for the sentries to maintain position?” Horn asked Wunde
rly.

  “Yes, sir. Made it plain so everybody understood.”

  “Get the map and show me where Sass is,” Horn said.

  In the blackness of the night, Vine and Kray silently moved from limb to limb, overhead in the forest canopy, then dropped straight down on lines and garroted or slit the throats of the police guarding the cabin where Anne was staying.

  Vine spotted one sentry, a local, sitting halfway up a tree in a deer seat, a contraption hunters used to stake out spots during deer season so they could fire down on the unsuspecting animals when they approached. The seats were held fast to the trees by the tension of weight and leverage against metal frames or straps.

  Vine dropped silently along the other side of the tree’s trunk, made a slight sound on the sentry’s left so he’d turn 394

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  his head in that direction, then deftly reached around the trunk from the right and slit the man’s throat. He knew that Kray, watching, must approve.

  This was the third man they’d killed. They wanted to be sure that when they finally did enter the cabin, they’d be alone with Anne.

  Then Kray would be alone with Vine.

  Then Kray would be alone.

  Kray knew the aftermath would be awkward. He could say he knew how dangerous Vine was because he’d trained him, that he’d taken it upon himself to make sure Anne Horn was protected and Vine was captured or killed. Unfortunately, he’d been only partly successful.

  Still, he’d be a hero. And he knew PR and how to cover his ass. He’d be first to get out his version of what happened, take advantage of all the media morons and cable news channels that would want to interview him.

  Who could prove his story false other than Anne Horne and Vine?

  The dead didn’t testify in court.

  Paula knew the way better, and she could see better at night, so she gave Bickerstaff directions as he drove.

  The dusty unmarked car, running without lights, pulled to a stop behind Wunderly’s patrol car just off the county road.

  Bickerstaff leaned forward over the steering wheel and looked around. “Where the hell is everyone?” Paula didn’t answer. She got out of the unmarked and right away noticed two other cars. They were parked in the shadows of a copse of trees. Moving closer to them and squinting in the dim light, she saw that they were unoccupied. But she knew the cars.

  She took a few steps back to where Bickerstaff was climbing out of the unmarked.

  “Horn and Larkin are here,” she said. “Somewhere.” Bickerstaff looked in the direction of the cars, then all NIGHT VICTIMS

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  around him. Nothing but night. Not even the sounds of crickets or nocturnal animals. Maybe something moving, far away. A bear or cougar? He wondered, uneasily, if they were still to be found in upper New York State. He looked over at Paula in the faint moonlight.

  “We seem to be alone,” Bickerstaff said.

  “Yeah.”

  “So whadda we do?”

  Wunderly had gotten Horn and Larkin Kevlar vests from the trunk of the patrol car. The three of them had gone about two hundred yards into the woods, walking as quietly as they could. Still, they made what Horn considered to be a lot of noise as they strode through the dry underbrush and occasionally blundered into unseen branches that snapped back, sometimes scratching their arms and faces.

  Two middle-aged Caucasians and a big-city white boy, Horn thought, trying to act as if they knew what they were doing in the wild.

  Finally they came to the creek bed on the sheriff ’s map.

  Horn saw no more than a shallow depression full of dry twigs, vines, and uneven stones. The detritus of winter that hadn’t washed away.

  “Easier going that way,” Wunderly said in a soft, knowledgeable voice that would have made an Indian guide proud.

  He spat off to the side. “Creek bed’s like nature’s path.”

  “Where you from, Wunderly?” Horn asked.

  “Brooklyn, sir.”

  “Nature’s path, huh? We go crashing along through all those rotted leaves and dead wood, we’ll make a hell of a lot of noise.”

  “You got a point, sir. “

  “How far till we get to this Sass character?” Larkin asked.

  “ ’Bout a hundred yards that way, sir.” Wunderly pointed in the direction of the cabin.

  “Let’s approach at an angle,” Horn said.

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  He led the way, moving more confidently. The woods still obscured what faint moonlight there was, but his eyes were accustomed to the dimness.

  The three city animals were making less noise now, but still too much.

  “This Sass guy won’t lose his cool and shoot us, will he?” Larkin asked.

  “Not the type, sir.” Wunderly’s feet suddenly slipped out from under him and he was on his back on the ground.

  “Jesus!” He was staring at his hand.

  It was black. No, red.

  “It’s blood!” Wunderly was staring to his left, scooting backward away from what he saw.

  Wunderly’d had his direction right but his distance wrong. A man Horn assumed was Sass was sitting with his back against a tree, his head dangling to the side. So saturated were his clothes with blood it was hard to recognize them as a uniform. The expression on his pale face suggested he was leering at a dirty joke. He wasn’t, though. His throat was slit so deeply he was nearly decapitated.

  “How far ahead is the next sentry?” Horn asked.

  “Not far. Over that way.” Wunderly pointed, then abruptly leaned to the side and began to vomit.

  Horn and Larkin waited. Larkin stood staring at Sass, his face almost as pale as the corpse’s. “Think you ever get used to this kind of shit?” He was talking to Horn.

  “I hope not,” Horn replied.

  Wunderly was struggling to stand up straight. He wiped his bloody hands on his pants, then spat off to the side as he had when he was the seasoned trail guide.

  “You okay?” Horn asked.

  “Yeah. Not the first body I saw. I don’t know why I let go like that.”

  “Lead on.”

  They walked with guns drawn, afraid of what they were going to find, afraid they might be making enough noise to draw attention.

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  The second sentry was lying on his back. More blood.

  But this time Horn saw that he’d been garroted with a length of wire so thin it had sliced flesh and arteries. Both men must have been killed soundlessly, and somehow were taken by complete surprise. Horn remembered Kray’s words: He can kill in more ways than you can imagine.

  The third sentry was seated halfway up a tree in what reminded Horn of the sort of harness phone company linemen used when they wanted to sit and work high on telephone poles. Both his arms were hanging limply. He wasn’t moving.

  Something was making a soft pat . . . pat . . . pat sound that was unmistakable.

  “He’s still dripping blood,” Horn said. “Killed not long ago.”

  “Jesus!” Wunderly said. “Maybe they’re all dead.”

  “Goddamnit!” Larkin said. “This wasn’t supposed to fucking happen! What in God’s name are we dealing with here?”

  “Cabin straight ahead?” Horn asked Wunderly.

  “Not exactly, sir. We just stay parallel with the creek bed and we’ll come to it, though.”

  “Only one more sentry between us and it, right?” Wunderly swallowed. “Yes, sir.” He was looking again at the blood he couldn’t wipe off his hands. “We gotta call in some help.”

  “You and Larkin go back to the cruiser, call the state patrol.”

  “Maybe get a chopper with a spotlight in here!” Wunderly said.

  “Wunderly can notify them,” Larkin said. “I’m going with you.”

  “You can’t, Rollie. You’re an assistant chief of police.”

  “Doesn’t mean shit at a time like this.”

  “Sure it does. Yo
u want to be promoted someday, I’m asking you to trust me here. I don’t have time to explain.”

  “You real sure you know what you’re doing, Horn?” 398

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  “State police’ll get us reinforcements fast,” Wunderly said.

  “I know what I’m doing.”

  Larkin studied Horn as if there might be some kind of code written on his forehead. Then he nodded and turned away, Wunderly following.

  Horn had to resist an impulse to join them.

  Then he began moving fast through the woods. He was breathing hard and his heart was a drumbeat in his chest.

  Kray and Vine couldn’t be far ahead.

  For some reason, the dead sentries, methodically killed one after the other, reminded Horn of a phrase from his Bible-school days, something about the Grim Reaper gathering sheaves—or maybe it wasn’t from the Bible. Wherever he’d heard or seen it, it sure applied tonight.

  What in God’s name are we dealing with here?

  Horn knew the cabin was in a clearing. Vine and Kray would have to cross open ground. If he could catch up with them before they did that, and before they separated and slipped into the cabin, he’d be able to spot them in exposed positions. There was enough moonlight for him to see that well.

  If the clouds cooperated.

  “Christ!” Horn muttered, and lengthened his stride, ignoring the brush trying to snag his ankles and the branches that scratched his face and arms. He scraped his bare left elbow on the rough bark of a tree trunk but ignored the pain.

  He was carrying his service revolver in his left hand, but when it came time to fire the gun, he’d transfer it to his right, trading pain for accuracy.

  Lately it seemed he was always trying to get something in exchange for pain.

  Vine and Kray had heard the sounds of their pursuers in the woods. They paused now in shadow, just inside the line NIGHT VICTIMS

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  of trees, two dark-clad figures like shadows themselves.

  About a hundred yards ahead, the tiny, crude cabin shone in the moonlight like a prize in the middle of a clearing.

  “They know we’re here,” Kray whispered. “And we have to cross open ground.”

  “We gotta go in anyway,” Vine said.

  Kray grinned in the night. “You really want to waste her, don’t you?”

  “I do. And if she’s gone, I’ll get outta here and try again.