Night Victims n-3

by John Lutz

  There’ll be a time for that kind of living, she told herself. Take life in sequence, that was her plan. And always she had a plan.

  Tired as she was, Neva decided not to go out this evening. She’d phone down to the deli she’d discovered two blocks over and have them deliver some of their spicy chicken with rolls and slaw. She was sure she had a wine that would be good with such a meal. After a leisurely dinner alone she’d have some more wine while she watched the Yankees game on television until she was deliciously sleepy.

  Bedtime then, probably about the seventh inning. This had been a stressful, tiring day. If necessary, she’d go in to work late tomorrow morning in order to get a good night’s sleep.

  Neva wanted to be at her best tomorrow.

  That was, after all, what she was about-her tomorrows.

  In the darkness, Horn lay silently in bed beside Anne and listened to her breathing, knowing she was awake. He’d met with Rollie Larkin that evening to brief him on the status of the Night Spider case. Rollie had been polite and understanding, but they both knew that, so far, Horn had failed.

  The Night Spider was still operating, victims were stacking up, the media were turning up the heat, and the pols were increasing pressure from above. “Dealing with the pressure’s my job,” Rollie’d told Horn, “but you could make it a hell of a lot easier by getting a solid lead on this bastard.” Rollie’s unsubtle way of urging Horn to do his job. At the same time he was reminding Horn the pressure didn’t stop with Assistant Chief of Police Roland Larkin.

  “You checked out Luke Altman?” Horn asked.

  “Yeah. It was pretty much like checking out Casper the Ghost. The Luke Altmans in our computer banks, as well as the Fed’s, didn’t pan out to be anyone who could be your spook.”

  “He didn’t say he was CIA,” Horn reminded Larkin.

  “If he had, he wouldn’t be CIA, we can assume.”

  “More assumption,” Horn said. “There’s too much of it in this case. I’ll be glad when we get beyond the point of assumptions.”

  “To when a jury assumes the bastard’s guilty.”

  Horn smiled. “For now, I guess we have to figure Altman is CIA, and his purpose was to assure me the agency had or was investigating any such secret Special Forces unit and would deal with the killer if they found him there.”

  “If the Night Spider is a member of the military,” Rollie said, “my guess is he’ll meet with an accident. Maybe die a hero.”

  “And if he’s a former member?”

  Rollie gave the cold grin Horn recalled from their earlier days in the department, when they were street cops. “Then he’s ours.”

  The meeting had run long, and by the time Horn arrived home, Anne was already in bed. He’d undressed quietly, crawled into bed beside her, and listened to her shallow, irregular breathing. Not the deep, rhythmic breathing of sleep. Yet she’d said nothing to him.

  “You awake?” he asked softly. Seeing if she’d pretend sleep.

  “Yes.” She didn’t move, lying curled on her side facing away from him.

  “Something’s wrong.”

  “Yes. I’m in bed, it’s nighttime, and I’m not asleep.”

  “Something more?”

  She sighed and turned over onto her back, staring up at the ceiling in the dim light. “The Vine family’s filed suit against the hospital, naming almost everyone involved in their son’s operation, including me.”

  Horn had expected this and been afraid of it. “How’d you learn?”

  “Finlay told me.”

  “He named in the suit?”

  “No. And I think the hospital’s plan is to contain the damage to Radiology, which means I could be the scapegoat.”

  “Sounds that way.” Being honest. “What do the hospital’s attorneys think?”

  “They’re still studying the charges. The family’s already turned down a proposed settlement, and a reasonable one-if there can be such a thing if your four-year-old son’s been placed in a vegetative state.”

  “So the hospital will probably fight it out in court.”

  “They’d like not to. The publicity would be brutal. And the family’s never going to accept. They don’t really want money. They want revenge.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “It’s what I’d want.” The sheets rustled as she half turned on her pillow to face him. “Thomas, I can’t help feeling guilty about what happened to that child.”

  “Sure. But you’re not guilty of anything.”

  “I’m in charge of Radiology. It happened on my watch, as the politicians say.”

  “But what happened to the boy wasn’t radiological. The hospital should be able to establish that in court.”

  “Like you often point out, Thomas, there are no guarantees in court. Anyway, it isn’t that I’m afraid of punishment. It might even make me feel better.”

  “But it wouldn’t be fair. It wouldn’t be justice.”

  He could barely see her smile in the dimness. “You’ve been a cop too long to expect justice. And I’ve been a cop’s wife too long. There’s a shelf life to these things.”

  “Expecting justice, you mean?”

  “I mean there’s a shelf life. A time comes when hope finally surrenders to apprehension and loneliness.”

  Horn gave a noncommittal grunt in reply and rolled onto his stomach. Now he was the one afraid of where words might lead, who wanted to feign sleep. Talk was to be feared. It could be a downhill road to catastrophe, where speed increased and there was no turning around.

  The silence in the bedroom roared, allowing only troubled dreams.

  Neither Joe nor Cindy Vine had slept much last night. Cindy had been crying again, off and on, waking Joe the few times he’d made it to sound sleep. They sat at the tiny gray Formica table in their Lower West Side apartment. Cindy’s breakfast was orange juice and black coffee. Joe’s was a Bloody Mary. They often argued about which was healthiest. They often argued about everything.

  “I’m scared, Joe.” Cindy used the back of her hand to wipe orange juice from where it had dribbled on her chin. The hand dropped down to grip the empty glass and hold it tight to the table. He knew it was to keep him from seeing the trembling in her fingers. She would have been an attractive woman if it weren’t for the worry on her face, the bags beneath her large brown eyes that were always bruised-looking. And her hair. She did little with her hair these days, the thick and soft brown hair that used to bounce when she walked.

  “You’re scared of something new every day,” Joe said. He was in his early forties, medium height and build but muscular in the white T-shirt he’d slept in. He had on brown slacks and was barefoot. His own hair was short but ragged. It looked as if it needed to be shaped by a barber. “I’m scared, too. For Alan.”

  “You think I don’t care about our son?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You meant it.”

  “Bullshit,” Vine said sullenly, staring down at his tomato-juice-stained glass. There was a limp stalk of celery in it that he hadn’t touched.

  Cindy was too tired this morning to muster a continued offense. “We’re taking on one of the biggest hospitals in the city. We maybe shoulda accepted their offer. We’re gonna get them pissed off, Joe.”

  He stared at her and something in his eyes withered her.

  “I’m pissed off at them! They’re gonna find out I’m not the kinda guy they want pissed off!”

  So much goddamned pride! “We don’t have a million dollars to fight a court battle, Joe.”

  “Our attorney says he’ll take payment on a contingency basis. Didn’t you hear him?”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t hear him tell us that if we lose, the court won’t say we have to pay the hospital’s legal costs. It happens that way sometimes in these lawsuits, Joe. Read the papers. It’s on page one when somebody sues a big institution and wins a million dollars. But it’s on page nine if they lose and have to pay a quarter of a million in court c
osts.”

  “Sigfried says it’s okay, we can’t get burned.” Sigfried was Larry Sigfried, their attorney who’d been recommended by a patients’ advocacy group. “Besides, they might come up with a better offer than the first one.”

  Cindy didn’t reply. Joe saw that she had her head bowed and was crying. Christ! At breakfast!

  He didn’t like the feelings of guilt she stirred up in him. She was hurting, as he was, and he was the stronger. He knew he should take care of her, not be furious with her. And that was how it had been in the beginning, when Alan was first diagnosed. They’d shared their trouble, mistakenly thinking it would draw them closer instead of wearing them down. She needed him now more than ever, and he knew it. But Joe Vine was so full of rage! So fucking full of rage!

  He stood up suddenly, knocking his chair backward onto the floor, and stalked from the kitchen. Wondering where this train was taking them. To what wilderness? Life was so full of disillusion and sadness and anger, of pain that persisted and hope that dissolved.

  He paced to the window and looked out at the sun casting angled patterns on the buildings across the street.

  Another goddamn morning. He hated mornings.

  They meant he had to bear another day.

  16

  When Horn walked into the Home Away that morning, Paula and Bickerstaff were already there, occupying the booth where they’d sat before, where private conversations wouldn’t be overheard. He wondered how many trysts, confessions, and conspiracies had taken place in the booth over the years.

  Horn said good morning then slid into the booth, taking the smooth wooden seat across from the two detectives. Marla came over and placed a cup of coffee before him. Paula and Bickerstaff already had coffee. There was a scattering of crumbs on the table. A plate with a fork on it smeared with egg yellow was in front of Bickerstaff, a smaller plate with half a slice of buttered toast in front of Paula. Marla topped off the coffee then began picking up plates and clearing the table of silverware except for spoons, stacking everything on a tray she’d placed on an adjacent table.

  “Toasted corn muffin,” Horn told her.

  “I know. It’s on the grill.”

  After Marla brought Horn’s breakfast, along with a napkin and flatware for him, she considerately went back behind the counter to read a newspaper and wait for another customer. She would pump Horn for information later. He wondered again what her background was, and what had brought her here to the kind of job that sometimes provided escape and anonymity. Hell of a city, Horn thought. Half the people waiting tables were also waiting for a break so they could rise to success as actors, writers, dancers. The other half, if they weren’t simply working a job to pay the bills, had never gotten their break, or had been broken themselves.

  Horn slathered butter on a muffin half, watching it melt almost immediately and penetrate the toasted surface. “I was paid a visit by a guy named Luke Altman.” He glanced up from the muffin at his two companions, who made faces and shrugged to indicate Altman’s name hadn’t struck a chord.

  Between bites, Horn described his meeting with Altman.

  “Guy has to be CIA,” Bickerstaff said, when Horn was finished talking.

  “As much as said so,” Paula agreed. “That’s as much as you get from them, because a spook never says anything right out. Sounds like your phone call to the number Sayles gave you stirred up something.”

  “The question is,” Horn said, “did what it stir have anything to do with the Night Spider murders?”

  “You’ll never get the answer from Altman,” Paula said. “You’ll probably never see him again. CIA spooks are like that. We had one in New Orleans turned out to be watching a potential terrorist. He set up the guy for us, then totally disappeared. We had his man on narcotics possession. Third time. He’ll be in jail another twenty years. End of terrorist threat. The CIA let us and the local courts do their work for them.”

  “Tom Sawyer,” Bickerstaff said.

  Paula stared at him. Was something going around that kept people from saying things directly?

  “You painted the CIA’s fence.”

  “I get it. Twain.”

  “It happened more than once?”

  Horn interrupted before Paula and Bickerstaff got into what he’d come to recognize as another of their frequent dustups that were mostly, but not all, good-natured ribbing. “The CIA and FBI catch a lotta crap from people who don’t know what they’re talking about. They have their screwups, but they’re a helluva lot more effective than some people seem to think. Point being, if Altman is CIA, the possibility the Night Spider’s in the military could be bad news for Night Spider.”

  “Point being,” Paula said, “we might just be duplicating their efforts if we don’t veer from the military angle and concentrate on the civilian population.”

  “Just what Altman said,” Horn pointed out. “More or less. Also pretty much what Assistant Chief Larkin said, when I met with him last night.” He looked at Paula and Bickerstaff, anticipating their questions. “Larkin says we’ve made a splendid beginning, which means he wishes we were further along.”

  Paula took a last sip of coffee and made a face. “Everybody’s so fucking cryptic.”

  “It’s the times,” Bickerstaff said. He craned his neck so he could peer toward the front of the diner, then summoned Marla over from where she was reading her paper.

  Ordered a toasted corn muffin.

  Monkey see, Paula thought.

  After Paula and Bickerstaff had left Horn to another cup of coffee and, they were sure, another muffin as soon as they drove away, Marla sauntered over and topped off Horn’s cup.

  “Making progress?” she asked.

  “We won’t know for sure until we know for sure.”

  “Is that another old cop saying?”

  “Yeah. It means we can’t know what’s valuable until it turns out to be gold.”

  “Like in life.”

  Horn grinned. “Very much so.”

  “Seriously, are you getting anywhere?”

  He filled her in, telling her only what he thought she should know. He didn’t mention his conversation with Altman.

  As he talked, she looked at him in the sunlight that revealed every moment of his age. Still a handsome man, but he was older than she was and married. Yet Marla couldn’t deny the attraction that was growing in her. And she knew, in the way the heart sensed these things before the mind, that he was attracted to her. She also knew the attraction shouldn’t lead anywhere, should remain-as such feelings usually did-between people who were already attached-sort of low-grade infections of heart and groin, held in check by common sense.

  “I asked you about yourself the other day,” Horn said, sitting back and relaxing in the booth. “You seemed hesitant to answer.”

  He can read my mind, the way lovers do. “Still am, I guess.”

  “Then I’ll drop it.”

  She knew she should turn away and walk back behind the counter, but for some reason she couldn’t move. The soles of her shoes might as well have been glued to the floor.

  “I was a psychoanalyst in my previous life,” she said.

  He looked up at her, surprised. “Can I ask why you changed careers?”

  “You mean, was it booze or was it drugs?”

  “Or sex,” he said, playing with her now, letting her know that whatever had brought her down, he wasn’t going to judge her.

  Giving her a way out.

  “Don’t get your hopes up,” she said with a grin. They were customer and waitress again, trading friendly barbs to pass the time, to show they were buddies.

  “Should I call you Dr. Marla?” He was still joking; it was in his eyes.

  “It’s Dr. Winger,” she said. “But just Marla will be fine.”

  Horn sat staring up at her. Jesus! She means it!

  Marla gave him a parting grin and made her way back behind the counter, feeling safer there, less vulnerable. She needed the counter as a barrier
. Why did I reveal myself? Who will he tell? There’s no going back now. . no going back. .

  She looked over; he was still watching her, sipping his coffee. Her face was calm, professionally blank, but her heart was banging and banging away. Her blood was rushing and she felt flushed, felt as if she’d just accepted a dangerous dare. Why did I open up that way? Why did I confide in him?

  But Marla knew why. It was because she trusted him. It made no sense. It was trust based on emotion and not logic.

  Worse still, she realized with a pang that seemed to cleave her heart, he was the only person in this fucked-up world she did trust.

  What she feared most, because of where it might take her, where it might leave her, was trust.

  17

  Bosnia Herzegovina, 1997

  Lieutenant Amin Arrnovich lay on top of his sleeping bag in the warm night, his hands cupped over his ears. His sergeant, Kalisovek, would bark an order now and then whenever the firing stopped. And, except for brief moments, it seemed that it never stopped. The chatter and clatter of automatic weapons fire seemed almost constant. Short bursts, but so many of them.

  There were no screams.

  That’s what surprised and disturbed Arrnovich, that there was not a human voice, only the language of guns.

  It wasn’t that the villagers didn’t deserve what they were getting. After all, six members of Arrnovich’s unit had been murdered during their sleep the night before only half a mile from here, their throats slit as they slept. There had been no screams then, Arrnovich told himself.

  Command had warned of an American strike unit in the countryside, but there was no doubt in his mind it was men from the village who had killed his sleeping and defenseless soldiers. It would take men who knew the terrain to move with such stealth in the dark, then disappear completely. It had to have been the villagers. That was why men of combat age were nowhere to be found. Only women, children, and old men remained in the small village. Forty-three people. Arrnovich personally had carefully counted them. Mustn’t leave anyone out.