John Lutz Bundle

by John Lutz

  The engine died.

  Pearl contorted her body to reach down low. Her fingers closed on the Styrofoam coffee cup that had dropped to the floor and gotten wedged beneath the accelerator pedal.

  Disgusted, she flung the empty cup aside and got the car started again. The front wheel jumped the curb, then bounced back into the gutter, and she pulled out into the street.

  But by the time she’d driven to the intersection, the dark man was nowhere in sight.

  She worked her aching thumb back and forth a few times to make sure it would be okay, then stepped down hard on the accelerator and did a fast turn around the block.

  Still no sign of the man.

  Pearl slowed the car and used her cell phone to call and wake Claire.

  She hoped.

  63

  Pearl knew there was a phone on the nightstand beside Claire’s bed. Unless she had the ringer turned off, it had to be jangling almost in her ear.

  It rang four times before it was picked up.

  “Claire?” Pearl asked.

  “Who is this?” The voice on the other end of the connection was small and afraid.

  “Detective Kasner. I don’t think there’s anything to be alarmed about, but I’m coming up to talk to you.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “It is. I’ll explain when I get there. When I knock, check through the peephole and I’ll show you my badge. Check everyone who knocks, just like we told you.”

  “This sounds creepy. You sure something’s not going on?”

  “Yes. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  After breaking the connection, Pearl called Quinn on his cell phone.

  Their conversation lasted as long as it took Pearl to park in front of Claire’s building.

  Using the key Claire had supplied so they wouldn’t have to be buzzed in, Pearl entered the building. She crossed the deserted lobby and pressed the elevator button. The elevator was at lobby level and the door opened within seconds. The man who’d left the building must have ridden it down.

  Pearl took the elevator to the twenty-ninth floor. It took longer than she would have liked. She walked fast down the hall to Claire’s apartment and knocked three times.

  The light in the peephole dimmed almost immediately and Pearl held up her shield.

  Locks snicked, a chain rattled, and the door opened.

  Claire had on a blue robe and slippers. Her eyes were puffy and her hair mussed, but she looked wide awake as she stepped aside so Pearl could enter. She also looked scared.

  Pearl assessed her. Pretty, even rousted out of bed at three in the morning, but not that pretty. Maybe I could have been a Broadway star.

  “What’s going on, Detective Kasner?”

  “Call me Pearl. And probably nothing’s going on. I saw a man dressed in dark clothing leave the building a little while ago, and he acted a little furtive. When I tried to catch up with him in the car, he was nowhere in sight. I wanted to check to make sure you were all right.”

  “Nothing woke me up until your phone call. And the chain was still on when you knocked.”

  “There are lots of ways to refasten a chain lock on the way out. If you don’t mind losing a wire hanger, I could show you.”

  Claire’s pretty face turned pale as she realized the significance of what Pearl was saying. “You mean you think he might have been in here while I was asleep?”

  “That’s how we think he operates.”

  “Yeah. It was a dumb question. I read the papers and watch the news. Here’s another dumb question: do you think he had time to come back into the building after you drove away?”

  Pearl knew what she meant: might he be in the apartment now? “Not such a dumb question, Claire. I don’t think it was possible, but we can have a look to put your mind at ease.” Pearl got her gun from her belt holster, though she was sure it was unnecessary. Sometimes you had to act for show instead of go. Claire was a taxpayer and no fool; if they did find somebody in here, she’d want her protectors able to react and save her from injury or death. “Can I do a walk-through?”

  Claire shivered. “Can I stay close?”

  Couple of yeses. Pearl smiled. She moved to the side to make sure there wasn’t enough angle for anyone to be crouching concealed behind the far sofa arm; then she walked to the closet by the hall door and opened it.

  Nothing but a few coats and bare plastic hangers. And on the single shelf a couple of shoe boxes and a collapsible umbrella.

  Pearl continued clearing the apartment, room by room. She went down the short hall to the kitchen, feeling Claire close behind. She groped around the corner and flipped the light switch.

  No Night Prowler.

  Using faint illumination from the previous rooms, she checked the bathroom, then went into the bedroom, which was brightly lit. Claire watched while Pearl investigated the closets, the small bathroom off the bedroom, even under the bed.

  Pearl straightened up and smiled. “We’re alone. Unless there’s another room.”

  “The baby’s room,” Claire said. “Baby-to-be.”

  Bolder now, she led Pearl down the hall to a closed door. She rotated the knob and pushed the door open, then backed away so Pearl could enter first.

  There was enough light from the hall for Pearl to see pretty well, but she threw the wall switch, anyway.

  Unoccupied.

  Great room! Pearl noticed the stars that had been glittering on the ceiling were no longer visible in the brighter light. There was a section of white picket fence on one wall with painted flowers behind it. A white crib. A padded love seat lined with stuffed animals. The room was ready for baby.

  “The stars come out when the light’s turned off?” Pearl asked.

  “Every time. Just like outside.” Claire was relaxing now. Whatever threat this night had brought seemed past. “My husband Jubal thinks she—or he—might grow up to be an astronomer.”

  “Let me take a look in the closet and we’ll be clear,” Pearl said.

  There was a knock on the apartment door, and Claire jumped. “Damn! I didn’t know I was so nervous.”

  “Healthy to be nervous,” Pearl assured her. “That should be my boss.”

  “Detective Quinn?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He looks kinda tough, but he seems very nice.”

  “Yeah. Wait a minute while I check the closet and we’ll go let him in.”

  Pearl walked to the closet door and pulled it open.

  Empty. Not even hangers.

  “We need to know the sex before we buy baby clothes,” Claire explained.

  “Can’t you find that out ahead of time?”

  “We’d rather be surprised.”

  Another knock on the door.

  Pearl holstered her 9mm and led the way to let Quinn in.

  Rumpled and tired-looking, he said hello to Claire, smiling to put her at ease. Then he turned to Pearl.

  “Any sign of him having been inside?”

  “None. We just did a walk-through.”

  He only nodded to indicate he’d heard as he looked about, then began idly moving deeper into the apartment.

  “Everything’s no doubt fine,” he assured Claire as she and Pearl followed him. He drifted down the hall to the kitchen, the bath…tracing Pearl and Claire’s earlier route, glancing about in case he might notice something they hadn’t. Of course he wouldn’t come right out and tell Pearl that, for fear she’d get ticked off and start acting like…Pearl. “Your husband left town last night?”

  “Yes. He took the red-eye to Chicago. An emergency. Well, an emergency if you’re an actor. The understudy who took his place in a play got sick and Jubal had to fill in for him.” Claire realized how ironic that sounded and shook her head with a grin.

  “I get you,” Quinn assured her. “The show must go on,” he added unnecessarily, drawing a look from Pearl. Anything to soothe poor Claire.

  “Would you like some coffee, now that we’re all awake?” she a
sked.

  Pearl was surprised when he said he would.

  When Claire had bustled off to the kitchen to put coffee on, he said to Pearl, “The Night Prowler might not have known hubby wasn’t home. He might have come in here ready to kill if he had to, as usual, then noticed Claire was alone in bed.”

  “You think that would’ve stopped him? Being one victim short?”

  “He’s always killed in pairs before. It seems to be the happy couple that sets him off.”

  “So he might come back when he figures hubby’s returned.”

  Quinn smiled. “You’re ahead of me, Pearl.”

  Keep it in mind.

  He moved away from her, into the child’s room.

  “Marvelous,” he said, glancing around.

  “When you turn out the lights, there are stars on the ceiling.”

  “Really?” But he didn’t try it to see. “If I’d had a room like this as a child, I might have grown up to be president.”

  “Probably happier, whatever you turned out to be.”

  Claire was back and had heard them. “Look,” she said, and flipped the toggle switch back and forth to demonstrate the stars set in the ceiling.

  “Ah, that’s something rare. You’ll be raising a future astronomer—”

  Quinn stopped talking when he heard Claire gasp and saw how pale she was. Pale, but her eyes were dark with terror.

  “Claire?”

  She was pointing at the love seat with its lineup of stuffed animals. “There! That stuffed bear! It wasn’t there! The brown-and-white bear!”

  “You’re sure?” Pearl asked, unable to help thinking Claire was sounding a little like Dr. Seuss.

  “Positive. I bought all the stuffed animals myself. Four of them. There are five now.” She moved closer to the love seat, so it was obvious she was pointing at a small brown-and-white bear with a toothy smile. It was wedged between a stuffed dog and a fuzzy alligator and was wearing a pinstripe baseball uniform and a Yankees cap. “It wasn’t there before!”

  “We believe you,” Quinn told her. He absently clutched her shoulder and squeezed gently to reassure her.

  Then he went to the bear and picked it up, wondering if the paw he couldn’t see, because of the way the bear was angled between the stuffed animals flanking it, would be wearing a fielder’s glove or catcher’s mitt.

  It was wearing neither.

  It was clutching a single yellow rose.

  64

  The Night Prowler rode the elevator up to his apartment, touching a fingertip to the hard steel surface of the knife taped to his chest beneath his shirt. He stood motionless but feeling the motion as he rocketed through the dark core of the building.

  He’d been ready for the unexpected, expected the unexpected. But Claire had been sleeping in the big bed alone.

  Where was her husband?

  Away somewhere, probably in some other city, some other world. He was an actor, so maybe he had to reshoot a scene in a movie or TV commercial, or had to attend a story conference. A business trip. But he’d return—Me! Home, dear!—to where the journey began and where it would end.

  No one could plan for everything, so tonight had been simply another night.

  It wasn’t yet time to act if Claire slept alone. She and her husband would understand that; being actors, they would surely know the entire cast had to be in place before the curtain was raised, lowered, and the lights came up, died. It was all necessary for effect, for illusion layered over illusion until it became reality.

  So, for a long time, he’d simply stood silently in their bedroom, a dark angel at the foot of the bed, and watched Claire sleep. Watched and listened to her breathe. Then he’d gone into the smaller bedroom, the room of the child that might have been, and lay on his back on the carpet and stared at the stars.

  He left the gifts, the stuffed bear for the child-to-have-been. Irony, the cuddly, smiling beast that rips with razor claws. And he’d fixed to its paw, with a piece of cellophane tape from the desk, the single yellow rose for Claire.

  He looked in on her before leaving, to make sure her sleep hadn’t been disturbed. How safe and beautiful she looked, the paleness of her flesh where her leg extended from beneath the white sheet, as if she were seeking in sleep a foothold in the waking world. The slow pink rhythm of her breathing was hypnotic….

  The elevator stopped its ascent. The door slid open. The Night Prowler didn’t move.

  Finally he pressed the down button.

  He couldn’t go home yet, not to needs unfulfilled and gray terrors that wouldn’t remain dead. Not to the buzzing he knew would begin and would become louder and louder.

  He couldn’t and wouldn’t.

  As on so many nights lately, he’d roam the colorless, early-hour streets, where there were few to see him. Sometimes he’d wear his sweatpants and jogging shoes so he wouldn’t arouse suspicion as he ran faster and faster and farther until the needs and terrors were left behind, at least for a while. Some of the terrors had faces only glimpsed. Quinn’s broad, powerful face. Quinn, the god of the law; Quinn, the chess master, red and black.

  Quinn the hated and feared. One can’t exist without the other.

  Hate, fear, frustration, needs. A recipe that boiled in the brain.

  Quinn knew that and was counting on a mistake, an opening, a checkmate, and a death.

  Soon the husband half of the acting team would return to wife and apartment, his final destination. Home, dear!

  And soon enough, when the cast was reassembled, the Night Prowler would return to his stage and play the role he was born to and borne to. Destiny from the womb. There was a birth order worldwide, not only within families.

  Chess has nothing to do with fate.

  He wasn’t wearing jogging shoes tonight, but he would run.

  Anna ran in the building’s basement on the industrial-model treadmill her overweight neighbor Mr. Jansen had offered. It helped him to run off stress, he’d told her, so maybe it would do the same for her.

  And it did help. This wasn’t the kind of neighborhood where people jogged along city streets for their health. For their health they went most places in pairs and avoided certain street corners. For their health they stayed indoors most nights and kept their drapes closed and their shades down and minded their own business.

  Mr. Jansen called his treadmill “Mr. Torture.” Joking, of course. He was diabetic and his doctor said he had to get his weight down, so it wasn’t as if he had much choice. It was the kind of treadmill that had a digital display showing how far you’d gone and how many calories you’d burned. And you could put a headband on with a wire that plugged into the display so you could observe your pulse rate in red digital numbers. Anna’s heart rate was well over a hundred. More than it should have been, according to the table stuck on the treadmill’s control board.

  She was winded. Her legs ached and her sides hurt with every breath, but she continued to run. She felt oddly detached from her discomfort, her legs and arms pumping mechanically. Physical exhaustion could do only so much to alleviate stress. It was the mental friction that set thoughts on fire and burned away the soul, and that you could never really outrun. But you could try, so the treadmill growled along while Anna’s jogging shoes beat out their weary, relentless rhythm on its unforgiving rubber belt.

  While she ran nowhere she thought about Quinn.

  She thought about her gun.

  Finally she pressed the off button and the treadmill slowed and then stopped. She leaned forward with both elbows resting on the steel handrails, her head bowed, and tried to catch her breath.

  This was, she realized, quite literally getting her nowhere.

  She thought about her gun.

  65

  Jubal and Dalia showered together to cool down and relax, but wound up having sex again in the tiled shower stall of their Chicago hotel room.

  When finally they were soaped, satiated, rinsed, and dried, they decided there was another atavistic desire to
appease—hunger. Jubal phoned down to room service for a late supper of club sandwiches and French fries, a beer for him, an iced tea for Dalia, who was worried about her weight.

  By the time they were dressed, the food had arrived. The bellhop set everything up on the table by the window that looked out over downtown, and Jubal tipped him and ignored the way he glanced sideways at Dalia, who had a kind of glow about her.

  Since there wasn’t much to see out the window at night unless they switched off the room lights, and they didn’t particularly want anyone to see in, Dalia closed the drapes before they sat down to eat.

  “Claire called my cell phone number again a few minutes before you got here,” Jubal said, and took a huge bite of his sandwich. Plenty of mayonnaise. Good!

  Dalia looked a bit surprised. It wasn’t like him to bring up the subject of his wife during meals. She simply stared at him, slowly stirring her tea, until he was finished chewing and could continue.

  “She’s got things stirred up in New York. Called the cops. For some reason she thinks the Night Prowler’s after her.”

  Dalia looked blank for a moment. “The serial killer who’s got every woman in New York scared shitless?” It was a rhetorical question. “Why would she think that?”

  “A few objects she can’t explain—probably because she doesn’t remember—have turned up around the apartment. This Night Prowler jerk leaves his intended victims anonymous gifts before he kills them, like he’s courting them or something.”

  “Can you explain the gifts?”

  “Not other than Claire’s hormones are running wild with the pregnancy. Her mind’s fucked up.”

  Dalia, who’d never been pregnant, mulled that over and came to no conclusion.

  “She does say when she called the cops, she found an extra teddy bear in the room she’s got decorated for the baby. Said she bought four and now there’s five, and the new bear was holding a yellow rose.”

  “Is that significant?”