Night-Train

by Thomas F Monteleone

  Provenza heard the motorman’s cab door open from where he and McCauley were huddled by the door to the front car, with a clear line of sight through the dirty glass to where the Slasher was seated.

  “Hey, Mister! Hey, Mister, I got the police on the radio!” called the motorman through a crack in the door. “I got ‘em!”

  “What did they say?” asked the Slasher. His voice was thin and reedy, not very forceful, but underpinned by an eerie calm that suggested someone to be feared.

  “They said … uh … they said that it’s okay. You can go on home now. All you gotta do is let go of that kid.”

  The Slasher laughed softly. He was holding the young boy across his body, his left arm across the kid’s face, his right hand brandishing the blade dangerously close to the boy’s throat. “Well, please tell them that I’m not leaving unless I take the boy with me!”

  “Okay, Mister … I’ll tell ‘em.”

  The motorman’s door closed, and Provenza heard him reporting in to Command Center on the two-way radio. He heard Antulov’s voice cut in and instruct the motorman to say that was all right, to tell him he could leave with the hostage anytime he wanted to.

  The message was relayed to the Slasher, who merely looked at the motorman and said nothing. The motorman hastily locked himself back in the cab, only to open the door again when the Slasher spoke to him.

  “Move this train back into the station so that I can get out on the platform.”

  Antulov cut in on the radio and instructed the motorman to say that it was impossible: there was a huge crowd on the platform and the police could not guarantee his safety if they tried to mob him. The Slasher would have to leave by the front of the train and go up to the street through an emergency exit.

  Provenza watched the guy with the knife. He had a thin face, glasses, and a beakish nose. He certainly looked crazy enough. He seemed to be mulling over the message the motorman had given him.

  “Tell the police that’s bullshit! Either they get the crowd out of there and move the train back, or I stay right here. Or maybe I’ll just kill this kid!”

  The motorman ducked back into the cab, relaying the message to Antulov. Sergeant McCauley looked at John. “Christ, we gotta do something fast. No telling what that jerk is gonna do!” he whispered urgently.

  “I’ve got an idea,” said Provenza. “I’m going to try to get his attention. When I open this door, do you think you can get a bead on him?”

  “Yeah, sure, but what’re you gonna do? We better check with Antulov first.”

  Provenza shook his head. “Fuck Antulov. He’s back there safe and sound, he doesn’t know what’s going on here except through his goddamned radio. Don’t worry about it. I’m assigned to this case—I’ll take responsibility.”

  “Okay, man, but it’s your funeral.”

  “Just don’t make it be his,” said Provenza.

  “Huh?” McCauley seemed perplexed.

  “I mean, if you get a shot at him, don’t kill him, you hear me? I want this bastard alive. Got me?”

  “It would save everybody a lot of hassle if I just snuff him, you know.” Sergeant McCauley smiled grimly.

  “Yeah, I know. But I want him alive. Just blow that knife out of his hand. Blow his fucking hand off for all I care, but don’t kill him if you don’t have to … it’ll be your ass if you do. I swear, Sergeant, I’ll testify that you didn’t have to kill him. I mean it.”

  Provenza stared at the SWAT man, glaring into his eyes. There was a fine beading of sweat across McCauley’s upper lip and he was blinking nervously. He knew Provenza meant what he said.

  “Okay, okay,” he said after a pause. “Just be careful, and try not to get the kid hurt.”

  Provenza nodded and picked up his two-way. “Motorman, this is Lieutenant Provenza. I want you to tell the guy that we’re trying to move the crowd out, but that it will take some time, and … tell him we’re sending somebody in to talk to him.”

  Lieutenant Antulov started to cut into the transmission. “Hey, Provenza, what the fuck’re you talkin’ about? What do you think you’re—”

  “Tell him I’ve already gone,” Provenza said to McCauley, getting up as he handed the radio to McCauley. He stood by the door and watched the Slasher’s reaction as the motorman relayed his message through the door. The guy’s face creased in a frown, but his hand holding the knife did not move. He seemed to be considering what to do next. If John was going to make his move, he’d better do it now.

  Slowly he moved the sliding door to the left, catching the attention of the Slasher. “Excuse me,” he said softly.

  The guy’s eyes seemed to glow darkly as he stared at Provenza, looking as though he recognized him, and for a moment, John’s heart plunged. Something was wrong, and for an instant he thought he’d blown it.

  “What’re you doing here?!” cried the Slasher.

  “I want to talk to you. The police sent me.” Provenza’s mind was racing, trying to think of what to say, but also trying to dope things out. It made sense in a weird kind of way. He was dressed like all the other victims of this nut, and there had to be a reason why tall, thin guys in work clothes were getting cut up. I represent somebody to this jerk; that’s why he thinks he knows me.

  “I don’t have anything to say to you! I killed you! How many times do I have to do it before they stop sending you back to me!” The Slasher was really screaming at him. He seemed to have completely forgotten the kid sprawled across his chest, even though the boy was whimpering under the guy’s crazed grip. “I killed you!”

  Provenza had to think fast. He was obviously playing a role in this guy’s delusions. He had to say the right thing.

  “They’ll … always keep sending me back,” he said slowly, taking a few steps down the aisle of the car, away from the open door. “You can’t get away from me. Not now. Not ever …”

  “No!” screamed the Slasher. He raised his knife up and away from the little boy, not seeming intent on using it, but as a show of power. Some kind of threatening signal.

  Now! thought Provenza. C’mon, McCauley!

  A single crack of gunfire sounded behind him, and as though in slow motion he watched the Slasher’s hand erupt into a mist of blood and particles as the M-16 slug ripped through the handle of the knife and the bones of the guy’s hand. His whole arm flew back as the knife blade clattered harmlessly to the floor, and the impact slammed him back against the turquoise plastic seats.

  Provenza rushed him as the little kid fell to the floor of the car. He almost stumbled over one of the crumpled victims as he reached the Slasher, pinning him to the floor with his forearm across his neck.

  Strangely, the guy offered no resistance. He lay limp under John’s defensive hold, muttering to himself and crying. “I wanted to get you so bad … so bad … I wanted to get you …”

  For some reason, Provenza was listening intently to this broken, crazy man. He was only vaguely aware of the sounds and movement around him. The motorman was creeping out of his cab; McCauley and the rest of his team were clambering into the car like an assault team of marines; and there were the shouts of other advancing police outside the train.

  The Slasher was staring up at Provenza, his eyes glazed over, his body beginning to tremble.

  “Don’t hurt me, Daddy,” the guy said. “Please don’t hurt me, Daddy. …”

  CHAPTER 15

  CORVINO

  Michael had been delighted to find a message on his machine from Lya Marsden. New developments in the Slasher case had tied up his time and kept him from reaching her, but now that she had made the first move, he would be completing what was an eventuality anyway.

  He had returned her call, listened to her request to talk about helping her research her story, and then invited her to dinner with him that evening.

  He took a cab to East 46th Street and First Avenue and walked half a block toward the East River. Lya lived in a very fashionable section of town, and he liked that. He too, would
someday live in a place like Turtle Bay Towers. The doorman announced him and directed him to her apartment on the 24th floor, the topmost; he liked that, too, he thought as he entered the elevator and pushed the button.

  At his knock, she opened the door wearing a long, coral-colored dressing robe. She looked even more attractive than he remembered: strawberry-blond hair, softer and more elegant than in her ad pictures; high cheekbones; bright blue eyes under long-lashed, sultry lids. Great eyes. Fantastic eyes.

  “Hello, Michael,” she said, ushering him inside. “I’m almost ready—I’ll just be a minute. Sit down, and I’ll be right back.”

  She whirled away from him and disappeared down a long hallway that ran the length of the apartment. Corvino automatically began casing the place, trying to get a handle on what kind of woman she was. White carpets, white walls, tasteful modem furniture. A fireplace and glass window-walls overlooking the river, the lights of Queens, and the southern tip of Roosevelt Island. There were bookcases, an expensive rack-stereo system, and a TV-cum-VCR built into a modular wall unit. She evidently shared similar tastes with him in lots of things—a good sign.

  Suddenly she reappeared in the hallway, wearing a black dress and a simple gold chain around her neck. She looked dressy but not showy. “Is it getting cool outside?” she asked.

  “Not too bad, but you’ll probably want a coat for later.”

  Walking to a closet, Lya selected a short rabbit fur jacket and draped it over her arm. She looked very much a New York woman. To Corvino, the fashionable ladies in the city had a definite “look” about them that you didn’t see in other cities. It wasn’t any one thing—makeup, hairstyle, clothes— but a combination of factors, some quite intangible, that made a woman look unmistakably New York.

  She held his arm as they walked to the elevator, then out to the lobby and the street. The doorman smiled at them as they passed. “Where’re we going?” asked Lya.

  “A nice French place called La Biblioteque. It’s in Tudor City,” said Corvino. “We can walk it if you don’t mind.”

  Lya nodded and they turned on First Avenue to walk south a few blocks. The air was cool but not biting, and tonight there was not even a hint of what the coming winter would be like. They made small talk about the weather and their jobs as they passed rows of shops and restaurants, finally reaching the small park and surrounding complex of apartments called Tudor City.

  La Biblioteque overlooked First Avenue and the United Nations Building. Lya and Michael were seated by a window that afforded a glittering urban view. The place was characterized by candlelight, old wood beams, and vast bookcases; it was, Corvino told her, one of his favorite restaurants.

  After ordering cocktails, he asked Lya how he could help with her research. She launched into a more detailed explanation of the things she’d mentioned to him earlier on the phone, including her interviews with transit employees, the old newspaper articles, and Lane Carter’s “lecture” on the world beneath the city.

  “… and so I’d like to see if I could actually find that train,” she concluded almost breathlessly. He could see a determination in her eyes that had not been evident previously.

  “You mean actually, physically, find it? By poking around down there?” He was surprised by her pluckiness and the boldness of what she suggested. This aspect of her personality fascinated him.

  “Yes, Michael, that’s exactly what I mean. And if we don’t actually find it, then at least we can discover what really happened to it down there. And I might need your help. I have a PR contact at the Transit Authority, but I was hoping that you might have a connection with the transit police, to get us the proper clearances. We can think up a less controversial story to explain why we want to look around down there.”

  He didn’t respond immediately, pausing to think about what she was saying. It certainly seemed possible, and it did appeal to his love of a good mystery, of a chance to do something different.

  “Well, are you interested?” she prompted, gazing at him over her glass of Amaretto on the rocks.

  He nodded, sipping his Scotch and soda. “Definitely, but as long as I’m tied up with this Slasher case, I’m afraid I won’t have too much time to give you. Plus I don’t think that Transit will be too cooperative as long as that guy with the knife is running around and they’re getting lots of bad publicity.”

  “That’s understandable,” she said noncommittally.

  “What I’m saying is, when we get this case wrapped up … if we can get it wrapped up, then I think you’ve got a deal. Right now, I’ve got a lot of pressure on me. You remember the Son of Sam thing, don’t you?”

  Lya nodded and sipped her drink.

  “Well, that case had the whole department screwed up. We had so many divisions and investigators working on it that whenever we did get a lead or an important clue, it could take weeks before it got into the right hands—the person who could connect it with something else, see? They just had too many cooks making broth on that one, and we’ve learned a lot since that case. You streamline your investigating team so that nothing falls in between the cracks. With the Slasher, anything that comes in on the case passes through John’s and my desk—John Provenza, my partner.”

  He was interrupted by the waiter bringing their entrées and the bottle of Montrachet Pouligny that Corvino had ordered.

  “And how’s it working out?” asked Lya after the waiter departed.

  For a second, he was unsure of her meaning. “How’s what working out?” he asked as he poured white wine into her glass.

  “The streamlining on the Slasher case.”

  “Oh that. Well, it hasn’t made much difference so far, because we’re not getting many leads. This subway killer is very slick, doesn’t leave us anything to go on. It’s either that, or he’s just been very lucky so far.” He was sorry he’d brought up the case. He was so sick of thinking about it all the time. He really didn’t want to talk shop with Lya, even though he knew that she would naturally be interested.

  To change the subject, he inquired about her lobster and commented on his veal francaise and on French cuisine in general. He hoped his tone indicated his desire to cut the shop talk, and Lya seemed to pick up on it immediately. Their conversation drifted onto more casual topics.

  The longer he sat there with her, the more fascinated he was becoming. Lya was not what he would call “beautiful” in a classic sense—he realized that the more he looked at her. She looked younger than her thirty years, almost girlish, depending on the angle and the light, but “cute” certainly was not the proper word to describe her. She was a small woman, but did not give any impression of fragility. She spoke with confidence and maturity, which implied a life of experience in both the good and the bad. Her eyes, though captivating, radiated a deep sensitivity, an impression of having witnessed much. He found that he could not stop staring into her eyes, and he finally told her so.

  She smiled graciously without embarrassment. It was evidently a compliment she had heard before, and Michael hoped that she could sense the sincerity with which he had delivered it. He had never fallen so quickly and so totally for a woman as he was falling for Lya, but the attraction was so immediate and consuming that it demanded his attention and action.

  So he told her what he was feeling, and it was as if barriers that had been with him all his life were suddenly crumbling. He felt himself wanting to let out some feelings that had been locked away for a long time.

  “You know, I admire you for being so … direct with me,” said Lya. “It’s very refreshing, and very attractive.”

  Michael felt his pulse jumping as she spoke, felt the vague giddiness instilled by the wine, and tried to savor the combination of the alcohol and the tension that was building in him. It was a feeling he had seldom experienced.

  “I can’t help what I’m feeling, Lya, and I can’t help what I’m saying. I just feel that I have to tell you what’s going on inside. Do you understand?”

  She reac
hed out and took his hand, brought it to her cheek, then kissed it. “Oh, yes, I understand. I’m feeling it, too.” His heart jumped as she said that. She spoke with a clarity and an honesty that touched him deeply.

  He cleared his throat and looked into her eyes. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt quite like I do right now. I know that nothing like this has ever happened to me, but I can tell you that I like it… I like it very much.”

  She kissed his hand again. “So do I, Michael, so do I.” Just then the waiter appeared, hovering in the mist of his peripheral vision like a phantom threatening to break the magic spell that they were so delicately weaving about each other. The waiter inquired whether they wanted dessert and Corvino forced himself to regard him, ordering strawberries and champagne without really thinking about it.

  He had the feeling that the special moment was not lost, but it had definitely been altered by the appearance of a third party. “That was … a wonderful thing, what we were feeling, wasn’t it?”

  She smiled at him. “Yes it was. But don’t worry, I think we can share it again … and again and again.”

  She seemed to understand exactly what he was feeling and what he meant when he spoke, and that gave him great joy. He had the feeling of truly sharing something with her, something special.

  The waiter returned with tall, thin glasses of amber liquid, the crimson berries glistening in their depths. They made a toast and began spearing the full juicy berries with longstemmed silver forks. Their conversation, though less intense, was bonded tighter by a newfound intimacy, and they shared their dreams, hers of being an anchorwoman and his of being a writer, and agreed that it was indeed a special world where the children of carpenters and cops could have such dreams.

  Eventually it was time to pay the check and he signaled their waiter. He was wondering if they should go to her place or his for a nightcap when his vest-pocket beeper sounded. Everyone at the surrounding tables stared at him as he reached in and turned it off. “Now everybody’s going to think you’ve been out with a doctor,” he said with a smile.