AS FOR YOURSELF, MY DEAR, YOU ARE VERY PRETTY, TOO, BUT YOU ARE WITHHOLDING MY LETTERS. PEOPLE MUST KNOW THAT I AM HUNTING, AND YOU ARE MY CHOSEN VOICE. I MUST SPEAK TO THE CITY, AND YOU MUST BE MY INSTRUMENT. IF YOU DON’T CARRY MY MESSAGES THEN I SHALL HAVE TO PUNISH YOU AS WELL.
I SHOULD HATE TO DO THAT, FOR YOU HAVE ENDEARING QUALITIES. SOMETIMES WHEN I WATCH YOU I WANT TO PLUCK YOU RIGHT OUT OF MY TV SET AND CARRY YOU AWAY. BUT THEN I REALIZE YOU ARE QUITE LITERALLY IN THE AIR, YOUR IMAGE FLYING AT THE SPEED OF LIGHT, RIDING THE AIRWAVES INTO THE HEAVENS, MY DOMAIN.
DO YOU WONDER ABOUT ME, PAM? HAVE I COME TO HAUNT YOUR DREAMS? I AM A FALCON. I WATCH YOU FROM THE SKY. WHEN YOU SPEAK, MY FEATHERS RUSTLE.
MY NAME IS PEREGRINE.
It was a chilling letter. It frightened her terribly, and her instincts told her that the person who had written it was not a fraud. There was something too intensely psychotic in the tone, the combination of tender greeting and angry taunts. There was a sureness, too, an underlying confidence in the author’s power and control, and that same strange aspect of the other letters—that it purported to have been written by a bird. She tried to analyze it: What was this man saying? What did he really want? But she couldn’t focus on anything except the terrifying threats against herself: “punish you”; “pluck you”; “carry you away.”
The moment Herb finished reading it he buzzed Penny Abrams on his intercom. “Get me that detective, what’s-his-name,” he snapped. Then he looked back at Pam. “This is it. The guy wants you to read his letters on the air, and that’s what you’re going to do. No more bullshit about panicking the public. The guy’s doing us a favor, and now we owe him back. We’ve got to bind him to us or he’s going to turn to someone else.”
She knew Herb was right, though she wasn’t sure someone was quite doing them a “favor.” Anyway, she set to work, if only to take her mind off her terror. The story had already taken her over, but now there was something else. It wasn’t just the story of her life—now she was part of it, was being threatened personally.
She drafted an introduction to the Peregrine letters: “Channel 8 has received a number of letters in recent days which indicate that the killer falcon is under the control of a man. This reporter has received three personal messages. The writer has requested that we broadcast the texts ….” She paused, wondered how she ought to read them, dramatically or in a monotone. She decided on a monotone.
She shouldn’t reveal that the letters frightened her, should report them simply as news. And she decided to leave out the “Dearest Pam” and “you have endearing qualities” parts. In fact, she decided, rather than read them in their entirety, she would quote excerpts while a blow-up of the letters was projected on the screen behind.
She was selecting excerpts when Penny called her; Herb wanted to see her again. “He’s in there with that detective,” Penny said. “They’re screaming at each other. It’s wild. Actually, Herb’s doing all the screaming. The cop just curls his lip.”
Pam winced. “Am I supposed to mediate?”
“Just do the best you can.”
She walked into Herb’s office; he looked like he was ready to explode.
There was a nasty expression on his face, but Janek looked cool—scornful and aloof.
He had the sort of eyes she liked— wise, world-weary eyes with big circles under them, gray eyes that matched his pallor and his hair. There was an aura of compassion about him, too, as if he had seen a lot of the world, the best and the worst of people, and now nothing surprised him anymore. His manner was gently ironic. He seemed a man beyond ambition, the sort you could confess to because you knew he’d understand; less like a detective, she thought, than like a judge or a priest.
“We’re having a little disagreement, Pam,” said Herb. “The postmark was authentic, which, of course, we’ve all known the whole goddamn time. Seems over the weekend Janek here was put in charge of a special squad. Now there’re a dozen detectives working on this—a fact the lieutenant just happened to mention after I showed him our latest note.”
She could understand why he was furious; Janek hadn’t kept them informed. They’d discovered the story, supplied vital information; the least they deserved was an inside track with the police.
“I keep asking him what he’s going to do. He hasn’t answered me yet.” Herb looked hard at Janek. “What the hell are you going to do?”
Maybe Herb was getting to him; Janek was starting to look annoyed.
“We’re doing everything we can. We don’t have much to work with. Right now your letters are all we’ve got.”
“Pam knows that. She’s not stupid.”
“There must be something you can tell me,” Pam said. “I want to report the police side of this.”
“Nothing I can tell you for attribution yet. Even on background there isn’t much.” He seemed to like her; at least he didn’t loathe her the way he loathed Herb. “The letters are in our lab. Paper, ink, handwriting—the guys are going over that. Then there’re the victims—we’re checking them out. Did they know each other? Did this assistant D.A. have enemies? Are there any links?” He paused. “Of course, that has to do with major questions. Are these motivated killings or were the victims selected by chance? Does the man behind this have a purpose or is he just doing it for kicks? And we’re also working on a defense. That’s difficult. The bird comes out of the sky, and we can’t patrol the sky. The falcon lives someplace. Where? We want to know. We’re thinking of ways of tracking her. We haven’t come up with anything yet.”
Herb was bored. “There ought to be a panic. If people knew there was a man behind all this, maybe someone would come forward and help.”
“A panic doesn’t help anybody except maybe the press.”
“Bullshit! It puts the pressure on, gets the police department off its ass.”
Janek stared at him. He was insulted, as Pam believed he had every right to be. Herb was acting boorish, but Janek didn’t seem the type to take him on in heat. Now there was something else she saw in him; a barrier on the other side of his compassion, beyond which no forgiveness was allowed.
“Look,” he said to her. “I can’t object to you saying you’re getting letters. But I would like you to withhold the texts. Then, if someone confesses, we have a way of knowing if he’s for real. Otherwise we’re going to be deluged with crackpots and we’ll be spending all our time trying to sort them out.”
He was backing down because he knew he couldn’t win; his argument about authenticating a confession was weak, but she admired him for making it—his way of saving face.
“Well then, what the hell are we talking about, Janek? She wasn’t going to read the whole texts anyway. So far we’ve shown you everything, but you haven’t done anything for us. So let’s make a deal right now, or it’s each man for himself.”
That was the end of the argument.
Peace talks ensued; they all began to smile. The deal was simple: Janek would choose the portions she’d read, and in return, if there were breaks in the case, he would leak them first to Channel 8. She saw he resented this.
The station was ahead of him and he knew it; he had no choice but to go along.
She didn’t want him to hate her, too, so to win him over she told him about Jay and how, without knowing it, he’d convinced her a killer bird could be trained. “You ought to talk to him. He knows most of the falconers. There can’t be that many people with the necessary expertise. He could probably give you a list.”
“You make it sound so easy, Miss Barrett.”
“Maybe it is easy,” said Herb. “Maybe this is going to be an easy case.”
“I don’t think so.” Janek shook his head. “I think this is going to be a very heavy deal all around.”
CHAPTER TEN
Hollander was walking south on Fifth Avenue wearing his mirrored sunglasses and his orange cap. It was nearly noon, and the avenue was crowded. It was another autumn day of cold crisp air and dazzling light.
As he walked, he looked into the faces of young women, slim short pretty girls, their features unlined, their faces bright and pert. Their movements intrigued him, the swing of their breasts, the sway of their hips, the constrained motion of their feet encased in high-heeled shoes. Their hair bounced as they walked, that haughty New York strut of young women hurrying from offices and stores. He liked the swagger of their shoulder bags, the flow of their arms, and most of all their legs, calves bare, moving so rapidly as they strode.
Which one should he choose? Whom should Peregrine attack? These girls were sure of themselves, but sooner or later they lost their poise: a twisted ankle, an unsure step, a heel that caught a curbstone, a gust of wind blowing hair against their eyes. Then they were assailable, exposed, defenseless against a stunning blow. That was their hazard, their moment of vulnerability, which Peregrine could detect from high above.
Hollander thought back upon the time he had acquired the bird, his great amazement at her size. She’d been so restless then, excitable, nervous, turbulent—a wild creature, skittish and proud, reserved, too, dignified, a fantastic falconry bird. She had all the potential to become a great huntress: perfect feathers, intelligent eyes, proportions that could be transformed in flight into enormous hunting power.
And there was something more, a special quality, something only an experienced falconer could see: desire, excitability, emotions concealed that, when released, would rise up within her and drive her into ferocious stoops and kills. He had seen all that in the first moment, and then he had coveted her. She was the falcon he’d always searched for, of which he’d always dreamed.
The girls strode by one after the other, a herd hurrying past the shops.
He saw a young woman on crutches and another who was lame. A teenager looked awkward on her roller skates.
Which one would be the object of the hunt?
It was difficult to concentrate. He peered into faces and felt lost. As he walked past Tiffany, Buccellati, Gucci, Cartier he searched for a quarry worthy of the great falcon he had trained.
He recalled his joy at her capabilities, her enormous strength and will, her blood-lust, her fearless concentration, her willingness— displayed in the earliest phase of training—to go after large creatures she could not possibly want to eat. It was as if the bird, enraged by her freakish size, had become steely and powerful inside. And he had found a lesson in that—he could transform his own pain into power. He could mold the force in the bird, teach her to do extraordinary things; and she, in turn, could show him the way to purification and release.
He was at Fiftieth Street now, passing the windows of Saks. A woman standing on one foot, scratching at her ankle, was inspecting goods within the store. Hollander studied her. She was young and slim, the perfect type, the type Peregrine liked the best.
The bird would be waiting for him to signal, waiting for him to choose. He knew that he controlled her and also that he did not. He often wondered who served whom—whether the bird served him or he served the bird.
He passed the woman, choosing to spare her; he enjoyed deciding who would survive and who must die. And yet he knew, as every hunter does, that ultimately his prey would choose herself.
He moved down to Forty-Second Street and paused across from the Public Library, where a group of schoolchildren was assembling to cross the street. They were accompanied by their teacher, a young woman in a tan sweater and slacks.
Another young woman was running toward a cab, her legs constrained by the tightness of her skirt. Hollander could feel the presence of the bird, though he didn’t look up for fear of drawing attention to the sky. The woman running for the taxi slipped.
The schoolteacher was urging her children to beat the light. The peregrine was watching all this, and a hundred other motions, too. She would come out of the sun, her eyes gleaming—she liked to attack that way, unseen, on fire. The schoolteacher reached the corner; her group began to mount the library steps. The woman who’d slipped was now safe inside her cab.
Two more possible quarries had escaped.
He felt faint. He’d become excited watching the women, and when they slipped away, his tension had collapsed. He was hungry, too—he hadn’t eaten in a day. He’d fasted to sharpen his own desire. After the kill he would eat wildly, eat like Peregrine gobbling her reward.
How he loved his bird, the way her wing feathers folded upon her back and the shape of her tail, like an ax head, and the incredible power in her legs.
He thought of her eyes, so large and fierce, her primitive grandeur, her force, her rage. He longed to merge with all of that, be absorbed by it when she stooped, feel her fury, so concentrated it was incandescent, making everything human seem petty and weak. In the blinding delirious moments of her attack they merged together, became one. Matter was transformed into energy. His lust exploded. There was power and blood. He felt purified.
It would be soon now. The killing time was near. He felt dizzy with suspense. He walked along the edge of the Public Library and into Bryant Park. A girl bent over to tie a sneaker.
An old lady dragged herself along one of the walks. He found a bench, sat down, checked the sky. She would know that he was ready, would be waiting for his signal and his flushing out of prey.
He searched among the people in the park. It was a tawdry place; not too many attractive women around. But it was one of the mysteries of falconry that out of the infinite number of events occurring on the ground, out of the intricate pattern of movements and people, a particularly suitable quarry would present herself, a hunting opportunity would develop, and then the hunt would suddenly be on.
He looked carefully at the women sitting near him and at those walking through the park. There were some interesting possibilities but none that caught his eye until he saw what he was looking for, and then he recognized her at once.
She was a short thin woman with long brown hair and she was on her own sort of hunt, for she was obviously a prostitute—haughty, seductive, and hard. Yes, no question, she’d make a perfect victim. If he could position her, get her off-balance and flush her out—this whore, so slim and chic, strutting her stuff in Bryant Park—what prey she would make for the huntress in the sky, for they were both stalkers, both predators. There was something marvelous in that, the one huntress attacking the other, that spoke to Hollander of the symmetry of nature, the law of survival that ruled in the wild.
Now that he had found her, it was time to go to work. The skater had been easy, had been off-balance, and the jogger had weakened herself as she ran. Both quarries had been in the open. The bird had only to choose the time. On those occasions, selection and signal had been Hollander’s only tasks.
But this time it was different; he would have to flush this girl out. She was in motion but was aware of everyone around her. Perhaps that was her weakness—she was so conscious of men, so avid in her attempts to attract them, that she was oblivious to an unexpected threat, one that would come at her from above.
He left his bench and began to track her. She was a first-class streetwalker; she moved through the park as if it were her turf. She was clever, this girl, she made eye contact with men, wore a seductive half-smile on her face, but was not so foolish as to go up to those who merely smiled back. She knew better than to solicit; solicitation could lead to an arrest. She made herself attractive, then presented herself in such a way that a man who was interested would have to solicit her.
Hollander found himself admiring her discipline, and that made the hunt interesting, for it was in the nature of venery that the hunter respect his victim, be attracted to her even as he slew. And so he tracked her back and forth along
the walks, past benches filled with old men whose lust was tired and young men whose eyes were urgent with potency and desire. Back and forth, up and down he tracked her, a hundred feet behind, knowing that she sensed his presence, wanting her to feel it, for a plan was developing, something complicated and fascinating: He would make her think he was her prey, while all the time she would be his.
And the bird: The bird was watching, was clever, could see what he was doing, would understand. She was perched perhaps a thousand feet away on top of a skyscraper beside the park. She was following the movement of his orange cap, a movement that had become methodical. She would look ahead and see that he was following the woman, and then she would know that the woman was their prey.
There was tension now, breathtaking tension. He was ready to make his move. The prostitute showed she knew he was behind her, slowed her pace, wiggled her rear, encouraged his approach. This woman had no need for words. Everything about her was solicitous. Hollander smiled as he came closer, closed the gap between them by fifty feet.
She moved off the concrete walk and stepped onto the grass. She was heading for a stand of trees, which wasn’t good—the trees would block the bird. Knowing he had to divert her back to open space he quickly made a plan. He walked very close to her, met her eyes, returned her smile. Then he nodded toward the fountain in the center of the park as if to say that she should follow him there.
His back was to her now. Was she following? He reached the fountain and turned. She was right behind. Success!
He pulled out his sunglasses, put them on, made certain they caught the sun and flashed. He smiled at the girl again. She was coming closer, smiling back. He stepped backward, luring her farther into the open. The bird would be in the air now, circling, waiting, planning her strike.
This was the crucial moment. If the prostitute became impatient and walked away, Peregrine would not attack. He went to the fountain, sat down on its ledge. The girl was still moving. Yes! He had her! She came forward and sat nearby.
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