Fear the Night

by John Lutz

  “How we used to eat here with Dal.”

  Lora finished her wine in one swallow. “That’s what I was thinking. Zoe says she’s learning more about him all the time.”

  Repetto knew that by him, Lora didn’t mean Dal. He pushed away his irritation. He didn’t come here to grieve Dal, or to think about the Night Sniper. “Either that or she’s learning more about somebody she’s invented who doesn’t exist.”

  “You’re not being fair to her.”

  Repetto reached for the wine bottle and replenished Lora’s glass, as if urging her to drink more and forget more. Forget about Zoe. About Dal, at least for a short while.

  “Zoe’s a professional,” Lora said.

  “So are palm readers.”

  “According to the information I found, profilers are more often right than wrong.”

  “Yeah, the killer is usually within a certain age group, is male, athletic enough to do whatever it is he does, is the product of a lousy childhood, and the neighbors would describe him as a nice, quiet person. It doesn’t take a professional to figure that much out, and usually the profiler has everything else wrong.”

  Lora pushed her wineglass away, miffed now. “Like I said—unfair.”

  Repetto drew a deep breath and let it out slowly before taking another sip of his own wine. “You’re right. I’m being unfair.” He smiled. “But I don’t take back what I said about profilers in general. Zoe’s better than the average, and you can tell her I said so, but I’ve seen too many investigations go down wrong roads because of profilers. I don’t have much faith in any of them.”

  “Any investigation in particular that bothers you?” Lora asked. “That went down that wrong road because of a profiler?”

  Repetto waited a few seconds before answering. “The Midnight Leather Killer.”

  “You caught him.”

  “Two months later than we should have. Because we acted on information a profiler gave us and wasted those months.” The old anger was creeping into him, slowing his breathing and tightening his throat. “Three women were killed during that period.”

  “And you blame the profiler?”

  “I blame myself, for listening to him.”

  “But you shouldn’t.”

  Repetto didn’t answer, staring past her out the restaurant’s window at the street. There was no point in telling Lora that shouldn’t didn’t have much to do with it. She hadn’t spent years dealing with the world of random heartbreak and evil that shadowed the orderly, civilized one. A cop walked in both worlds, had to survive and keep his sanity in both of them, and it could eventually become a high-wire balancing act without a net.

  He made himself relax. It was unreasonable of him to think she should understand. You had to be there.

  “It’s going to be dark soon,” he said, still staring out the window.

  A young guy in a jacket like Dal used to wear passed the window. Even looked a little like Dal. Repetto felt a pang of grief that made him gulp. The conversation with Lora had touched a nerve. If Dal hadn’t been killed, probably the three of them would be here together tonight.

  Lora said, “Do you think there’s a cop anywhere who doesn’t feel guilty about something?”

  Repetto poured them both more wine.

  They both knew the answer to Lora’s question. And they knew that guilt wasn’t static. It was like a river with a powerful current that could drown you.

  Or carry you to where you dreaded going.

  21

  Candy Trupiano ran smoothly, breathing evenly through her nose, her strides long and even. Her faint footprints on the path described a straight line. She ran with no wasted arm movement or side-to-side hip motion. Every muscle in use powered her forward.

  She was tired, feeling the ache in her lungs, the burning sensation in her thighs, but she was in a groove where she could stay a long time. Where, if she had to, she could run forever.

  Her heart told her that, and right now she wasn’t listening to her brain. There was doubt in her brain, and apprehension, and none of either in her heart.

  Candy felt a sharp pain in the fronts of her lower legs. First her left leg, then her right. Within a few more strides, the pain was like needles penetrating deep into her bones. Shin splints.

  Damn!

  Her stride faltered; then she slowed and stood bent forward at the waist, her hands cupping her knees.

  She waited, catching her breath, impatient for the sharp pain in her shins to abate. This had happened before. Every runner sooner or later experienced the debilitating pain of shin splints. It had to do with diet, and improper training. Overworking. Candy knew she’d pressed herself too hard, trying to get home before dark.

  That wasn’t going to happen now. She straightened slowly and glanced around at the lowering sky and shadowed trees. Then she began to walk, slowly at first, testing her legs awkwardly as if she were a newborn colt.

  The pain had let up. Within fifteen minutes she was walking almost at normal stride, gaining confidence in her stricken legs. Soon she’d be able to jog again, but at a much slower pace. She knew that she shouldn’t press; waiting long enough was the trick here. If she began jogging too soon, the pain would return and be even worse. Why this had to happen tonight, when she was in something of a hurry, she wasn’t sure. Maybe it was wearing those damned high heels at work all day. They compressed the calf muscles.

  That had nothing to do with shin splints, she told herself.

  Footsteps sounded behind her, and she moved to the side of the path.

  A tall man wearing blue shorts and a gray sweatshirt padded past, glancing her way but saying nothing. He had on earphones, and a wire led to an MP3 player at his waist.

  A few minutes later an older, incredibly thin woman with short gray hair smiled as she jogged past Candy. A small brown dog with a bushy tail ran effortlessly at her side, without a leash.

  Then Candy was alone on the path.

  Through the trees to her right she could glimpse traffic streaming past, and she knew she could easily leave the park. She could walk out through the trees and use the twenty-dollar bill in her shoe pouch for cab fare.

  But shin splints or not, she hated to waste a workout. And she had only a mile or so to travel before she arrived again at the Seventy-second Street entrance to the park.

  Candy Trupiano finished whatever she started. That was important to her. It was how she saw herself.

  It was how she wanted to continue seeing herself.

  Slowly, carefully, she began jogging again, increasing her speed in small measures.

  There was pain in both legs, a slight ache that wouldn’t go away, but she thought she could monitor and control it.

  She’d make it to Seventy-second Street, because until she got there, she’d make Seventy-second Street the focus of her existence.

  Candy was determined to live her life in such a way that there wasn’t room for debilitating pain or uncertainty. She was convinced that if she finished what she began, good things were sure to follow.

  The Night Sniper had no problem with the lock.

  This was the second time he’d visited the vacant apartment. The first time, it took him a while to slip the latch on the knob lock with a piece of thin plastic. He’d used a knife to shave the door slightly so that now even a credit card could be inserted between door and frame and used to unlock the door. Fortunately, the dead bolt above the doorknob hadn’t been thrown on his first visit. He’d jammed paper wadding into the keyhole with a penknife to make sure it wouldn’t be locked tonight. The auxiliary inside locks, of course, were unfastened, including a flimsy brass chain lock, because the tiny efficiency apartment was vacant.

  He’d searched the real estate classified ads for quite a while before coming across this apartment: Ef, pk vw, vcnt, rsnble. Without contacting the leasing agent, he’d gone to the address, found that the apartment was on the fifth floor in an expensive but older apartment building that was being renovated, and employed n
o doorman. Many of the units were vacant, and no one had seen him take an elevator to the fifth floor, locate the apartment, and make his way inside.

  For a few minutes he’d stood at the window, staring out at the edge of Central Park. A jogger passed on the trail beyond the low stone wall that marked the park’s perimeter. Another jogger. A Rollerblader. Then a woman walking a small child on a leash as if it were a dog.

  How can people do that to children?

  The apartment, he decided, was well suited to his needs.

  Now here he was, dressed in chinos and a pale blue shirt, brown walking shoes. The uniform of the forgettable.

  Not that it mattered. As before, no one had seen him as he made his way into the lobby, elevatored to the fifth floor, and entered the vacant apartment.

  He went to the window. Darkness was falling, but a nearby streetlight threw faint illumination along the park’s edge. The trail itself was barely visible and would be almost impossible to see with the naked eye within the next fifteen or twenty minutes.

  The Night Sniper carried a tiny flashlight, but there was no need for it. The apartment was bright enough for him to see as he removed the custom-made Feinwerkbau target rifle from his backpack and assembled it. Even wearing the thin latex gloves, he could assemble the rifle by feel, and needed no light. He’d once done exactly that in total darkness to amuse himself.

  He attached a magazine to the spare, deadly-looking rifle and made sure there was a round in the breech, then fitted the scope to the barrel. Placing the backpack against the wall where he’d be able to get to it quickly, he kneeled at the window that overlooked the park and raised it about six inches. Cooler evening air flowed into the warm apartment that had probably been closed up all day.

  After adjusting his body so he could remain kneeling comfortably and steadily for a while, he raised the rifle and sighted in on the trail in the park across the street.

  It was much darker now and there were fewer people on the path. Hardly anyone wanted to enter the park after nightfall, and who could blame them? There were dangerous people out there. Human predators.

  Two young men bopped past on the path, wearing gang-banger pants that looked about to be left behind as they talked to each other and waved their arms. One of them was carrying something that looked like a closed umbrella, though there was no rain in the forecast. A man and woman walked past in the opposite direction, moving fast. Half a block down, they climbed over the low stone wall and were out of the park.

  These were not the Night Sniper’s targets. Not worthy of his gift of death.

  There was another figure on the path. A man in dark slacks and a jacket, hands stuffed in pockets. Maybe looking for someone to mug.

  The Night Sniper waited, unmoving. When he saw his target, he’d know it.

  Ah! Here came another figure, jogging slowly through the shadows, almost at a walk. But this figure moved with a practiced, graceful motion. Interesting. Was this the one?

  He leaned forward and peered through the rifle’s infrared scope. A woman. She was young, slender, graceful, her long hair—a braid or ponytail—swaying with each step. Though she was laboring as if she might be in some sort of discomfort, there was a lithe elegance in her every shortened stride.

  This was the one. The chosen.

  He focused in on her, keeping the crosshairs trained on the thickest part of her figure, her torso. He knew the rifle would make noise, but it was doubtful that any other building occupants would suspect that what they heard was interior. And of course he counted on the echoing crack of the shot to add to the city’s fear factor. He wanted people to jump at even slight abrupt sounds that might mean death. What was lightning without thunder?

  Because of her graceful stride, the woman was moving faster than it first appeared. Darker shapes across the street, trees, would soon block his shot. If it was to be tonight, he had to make up his mind.

  He allowed for the faint breeze, calculated his lead, then squeezed the trigger. Thunder cracked and echoed among the tall buildings.

  Target down.

  For a few seconds the Night Sniper studied the prone figure through the powerful night scope. There was no movement.

  Time to leave.

  He recovered the ejected brass casing from the floor and slipped it into a pocket. Then he quickly broke down the rifle and jammed it into his backpack. Carrying the pack in his right hand, he was in the hall, then the elevator and lobby, in less than a minute. Still without being seen.

  There was no one in the lobby, but he didn’t want to take the chance of changing clothes here or in the restroom, as he’d thought he might. Instead, he casually walked outside, noticing that none of the hurrying, obviously uneasy people on the sidewalks had apparently yet been made aware of the woman’s body on the path.

  That made things easier.

  In the deep, dark doorway of a closed and boarded-up Chinese restaurant, the Night Sniper found the darkest point, then with practiced quickness and economy of motion removed his shirt and pants and stuffed them into the backpack, along with the disassembled rifle. He was wearing other clothes beneath them: baggy, filthy-looking pants and an oversize shirt with a torn collar and an unbuttoned cuff. One costume for another. He mussed his hair, put on his well-worn Yankees cap, then slipped his arms through his backpack’s straps and made his way back to the street.

  Now he was a shuffling, homeless soul making his way to the abandoned subway stop where he sought shelter. He looked not at all like the straight-arrow type who’d just exited the building down the street.

  A block away, he lengthened his stride. There was no need to hurry, but he did anyway. Though not so much that he’d attract attention.

  Bobby Mays was seated on his folded blanket, his chipped coffee cup before him, doing business a block off the park, when he heard the shot.

  From his years as a Philadelphia cop, he knew it was a gunshot. Rifle fire.

  Bobby shifted sideways so he could get on his hands and knees, then leaned against the building wall and started working his way to a standing position. He was stiff from sleeping in a doorway most of last night on his blanket, and he’d been panhandling where he was since early evening. His knee hurt where a punk on the prowl had kicked it out of meanness a week ago. His right shoulder ached where the pins had been put in after the accident. As long as his head didn’t hurt the way it often did, he didn’t mind the rest of the pain; it was something he’d learned to live with, and he knew that after he moved around for a while it would lessen.

  He snatched up the cup as he stood, so he wouldn’t have to bend over again, then glanced down at it—about five dollars. Not bad. He stuffed the money into the baggy side pocket of the ancient suit coat he’d found in curbside trash, then raised his face to the sky like an animal testing to pick up the scent. He was trying, as best he could, to determine at least the general direction of the echoing gunshot.

  Curious, and with nothing else to do, he hitched up his belt and began walking unsteadily in the direction of the report. People glanced at him and looked quickly away. No one blocked his path, or said excuse me as they stepped aside to let him pass. Bobby the invisible. Sometimes it seemed he was disappearing even from himself.

  When he reached Central Park West, he could see blue and red flashing lights several blocks down the street, on the side where the park was. The emergency lights might have something to do with the shot he’d heard—might have heard. But there were emergencies all the time in the city. He began moving in that direction.

  That’s when he looked across the street, and there was the homeless man he’d seen at Columbus Circle. Bobby remembered him for the same reason he’d noticed him in the first place. The man was, at a glance, one of the homeless, like Bobby. But a closer look revealed something not quite right about him. He didn’t fit. It was obvious to an ex-cop like Bobby, even if people only glanced at the ragged man and moved out of his way. No one wanted to disturb the man or attract his attention. Peo
ple with nothing to lose could be dangerous.

  Traffic was heavy, so Bobby didn’t consider crossing the street toward the man. He studied him from where he stood. The man’s clothes were ragged, stained, and ill-fitting, but they also seemed ... clean? But mainly it was the way the man walked. Despite his humble clothing, his stride was purposeful and confident.

  Not right, Bobby thought. Not right at all. The homeless—

  Someone clinked a coin into the cup Bobby forgot he was carrying, startling him, and he lost sight of the man across the street.

  Not that it mattered. Bobby continued walking toward the flashing lights a few blocks down the street.

  When he reached the lights he saw that they belonged to an ambulance and two police cars. Something had happened in the park, on the other side of the low stone wall. Bobby could see uniformed cops standing around, a couple of plainclothes detectives. They had yellow crime scene ribbon strung in a crude rectangle. Bobby couldn’t see what was behind the low wall, what all the excitement was about.

  He thought about moving closer and finding out what was happening, then decided it might be a bad idea. For all he knew, somebody had been mugged by a homeless man. One with beard stubble, wild hair, long dirty fingernails, ragged and soiled clothes, and no known address.

  Who does that describe?

  Bobby decided he’d seen enough. Instead of satisfying his cop’s curiosity, he moved away and began walking back the way he’d come.

  He’d gone only half a dozen steps before he forgot why he’d walked this direction in the first place.

  A shot!

  That’s right; that was why. He’d heard gunfire. Somebody might have been shot.

  Well, that was happening lately, people being shot. Like most New Yorkers, Bobby had been following the Night Sniper case. He heard people talk about the shootings, and he’d been reading about them. Bobby read the papers.

  Slightly used papers, but he read them.

  The problem was, he often had trouble recalling what he’d read.