NEW YORK NIGHT
By Stephen Leather
***
Teenagers are being possessed and turning into sadistic murderers. Priests can’t help, nor can psychiatrists. So who is behind the demonic possessions? Jack Nightingale is called in to investigate, and finds his own soul is on the line.
Jack Nightingale appears in the full-length novels Nightfall, Midnight, Nightmare, Nightshade, Lastnight and San Francisco Night. He also appears in several short stories including Blood Bath, Cursed, Still Bleeding, I Know Who Did It, Tracks and My Name Is Lydia.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
CHAPTER 1
It had been so easy to get the boy to come with her that she almost felt guilty. Almost, but not quite. She had undone the top two buttons of her shirt and he could barely take his eyes off her cleavage. Normally she’d have poured scorn on him but that wasn’t the plan so she’d sat down next to him and asked him his name. Like she cared. His name was Matt and he was seventeen which made him a year older than she was. He was good looking in a surfer dude sort of way, curly blonde hair and blue eyes and a sprinkling of freckles across a snub nose. They talked about school –he went to an upmarket private school and his parents wanted him to go to an Ivy League college. He was interested in bands she’d never heard of and liked graphic novels. She feigned interest and made the right noises but nothing he said was of any interest to her. Everything she told him was a lie. Everything. She didn’t want him to know a single thing about her. Not that he cared, he could barely take his eyes away from her cleavage.
She wanted his body, nothing more.
She offered to buy him a burger and they walked to McDonalds. He had a cheeseburger and fries and a Coke while she nibbled on chicken nuggets.
‘I’m going to be a lapdancer,’ she said, and he lifted his eyes and looked into hers.
‘Seriously?’
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘I’ve got the equipment. Might as well make money from them.’
His eyes went back to her breasts. ‘How old are you?’ he asked.
‘Eighteen,’ she lied.
‘You can work as a lapdancer when you’re eighteen?’
‘Sure, why not? The clubs don’t care.’
‘And you take off your clothes and everything?’
‘I’m not ashamed of my body.’ She dipped a nugget into a tub of barbecue sauce and bit into it. ‘The problem is, I need to practise.’
‘Practise?’
‘Sure. You have to audition. You have to show you have the moves. So I need to practise.’
He grinned. ‘You could practise on me.’
‘Are you serious?’
His grin widened. ‘Sure. Why not? You could come to my apartment.’
She frowned. ‘What about your parents? What if they walked in on us?’
‘Where then? In the park?’
‘You think I can give you a lapdance in the park? How would that work exactly?’
His cheeks reddened and he covered his embarrassment by taking a bite out of his burger.
‘I know a place,’ she said. ‘An empty loft in a building not far from here. My dad’s a real estate agent and I’ve got the keys.’ She reached into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out a key ring with two keys on it. She jingled them in front of him.
‘Are you serious?’ he asked.
‘As cancer,’ she said.
He swallowed. ‘A lapdance?’
‘As many lapdances as you want,’ she said. ‘I need the practice.’
He nodded enthusiastically. ‘Sure, Yes. Absolutely. Wow. Yes.’
She had to fight to stop herself sneering at him. Instead she smiled and winked. ‘Finish your burger, then,’ she said.
He bolted down the rest of his burger and fries, took a gulp of Coke, and stood up. ‘Let’s go.’
CHAPTER 2
The loft was a ten-minute walk from McDonalds. The building was six storeys high with a delicatessen and a discount shoe shop on the ground floor, and between them a metal door that was unlocked by tapping in a four-digit code into a steel intercom unit. The door clicked and she pushed it open. Matt followed her into the hallway, panting with anticipation. In front of them was an old-fashioned delivery elevator. It opened by pulling on a length of rope that lifted a wooden panel. A pulley system meant it moved smoothly up with a slight whisper. They stepped inside. She pulled the rope and the panel whispered down, then she pressed a brass button with the number 3 on it. The elevator jerked and then rattled upwards.
‘This is so cool,’ he said.
‘It used to be a factory,’ she said. ‘Full of sewing machines.’
The elevator shuddered to a halt. She pulled on the rope and the panel slid up. There was a metal grille that had to be pushed to the side before she stepped out into a brick-lined hallway. He followed her. There was a single wooden door with a peephole in the centre. She took out the keys and unlocked it, then stepped to the side to let him go in first.
The apartment was long and narrow. To the left were three floor to ceiling windows overlooking the street. Blinds had been drawn and she flicked the light switch. A dozen ceiling lights came on. To the right was an open-plan kitchen with stainless steel appliances and beyond it was a metal staircase leading up to the bedrooms. There was only one item of furniture, a single wooden chair in the centre of the living area.
The girl walked over to it, her sneakers squeaking on the bare oak floorboards. ‘You can sit here,’ she said.
He looked up. Black-painted pipes and wiring conduits criss-crossed the double-height ceiling. The floor vibrated under his feet as a truck drove by outside.
He hesitated, suddenly unsure. ‘Do you want to do this or not?’ she asked, taking off her jacket and tossing it onto the kitchen counter.
‘Sure, yeah,’ he mumbled. He took off his jacket and tossed it onto the floor, then sat down and rubbed his hands together.
She opened one of the kitchen drawers and took out a pale green scarf. He didn’t see it until she walked in front of him. ‘What’s that?’
‘I need to tie you up,’ she said.
He put up his hands. ‘You never said anything about tying me up,’ he said.
‘I have to,’ she said. ‘Those are the rules.’
‘Why do you have to tie me up?’
‘Because if
I don’t, you’ll touch me. And I don’t want you to touch me.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because those are the rules of a lapdance. The girl can touch the guy but the guy can’t touch the girl.’
‘That’s stupid.’
‘It’s not stupid. It’s the rule. If the guy tries to touch the girl they beat him up and throw him out of the club.’
‘Who does?’
‘Security. That’s their job. To make sure that the girls aren’t touched.’
The boy licked his lips. ‘So if you tie me up then I get the lapdance?’
She smiled. ‘That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?’
‘And you’ll give me French?’
‘French ?’
‘You know. Kiss me.’
‘That’s not what French means.’
‘Yes it does. It’s when you kiss on the lips.’
She shook her head. ‘That’s a French kiss. French is oral sex. Greek is anal sex.’
The boy frowned. ‘Anal sex? What’s that?’
‘It doesn’t matter. Do you want a lap dance or not?’ She undid another two buttons of her shirt and his eyes widened as he stared at her cleavage. ‘If you don’t, I can find someone else to practise on.’
He nodded, his eyes glued to her breasts as he held up his left wrist. She tied the scarf around it, then moved his arm behind his back before threading the scarf under the chair and tying it to his other wrist. ‘How does that feel?’ she asked. ‘Can you get out?’
He pulled his arms but the scarf held tight. He shook his head. ‘No.’
She stepped back. ‘I’d better make sure,’ she said. She went over to the kitchen and pulled open one of the drawers. Inside there was a length of plastic-covered rope. She took it and tied his left leg to the chair, then looped it around his right leg.
‘Why are you doing that?’ he asked.
‘I’m going to make you really horny and I don’t want you to get free,’ she said. ‘Because if you touch me I’ll have to stop.’ She wound the rope around his stomach and chest.
‘I don’t like this,’ he said.
‘You will do soon,’ she said. She finished tying the rope and stepped back. ‘Perfect,’ she said. She undid the rest of the buttons on her shirt and took it off. She wasn’t wearing a bra and her breasts swung free and she smiled at the look of anticipation in his eyes. ‘You like them, huh?’
He licked his lips. ‘You’re beautiful.’
‘No need for sweet talk,’ she said. She put the shirt on the kitchen counter, undid her jeans and pulled them off.
‘Oh my god, this is really happening,’ he said, his voice catching in his throat.
‘Yes,’ she said, dropping her jeans on top of her shirt.
‘You are so sexy, baby.’
Her eyes hardened. ‘I told you, there’s no need for any sweet talk. Just shut up and let me do what I have to do.’
He nodded. ‘Okay, okay. Just get on with it.’
She slid off her panties and tossed them on the floor. She put her hands on her hips and stood watching him, a slight smile on her face.
‘What?’ he said. ‘What are you waiting for?’
She could see the bump in the crotch of his jeans and her smile widened. ‘Nothing,’ she said. She went over to the kitchen drawer again and took out a pack of chalk. She selected a piece and began to draw a circle with him in the centre.
‘What are you doing?’
She stopped drawing and sat back on her heels. ‘You need to shut up,’ she said. ‘I have to concentrate on what I’m doing.’
‘You said I could have a lapdance.’ He strained at his bonds. ‘Look, I’ve changed my mind. Untie me.’
She sighed and stood up. She picked up her panties off the floor and walked over to him.
‘I want out!’ he shouted.
She held his nose with her left hand and when he opened his mouth to breathe she pushed the panties between his lips. She pushed until they filled his mouth then pointed a warning finger at his face. ‘One more sound out of you and I’ll tape your mouth shut,’ she said. ‘Just shut up and let me do what I have to do.’ She turned around and she went back to drawing the circle. He stared at the ridges on her spine as she bent forward. Her skin glistened under the overhead lights and he could feel his erection grow harder even though he was more frightened than he’d ever been. She was muttering to herself, he realised, but he couldn’t make out what she was saying. It didn’t sound like English. She shuffled forward and he caught a glimpse of the pale blonde hair between her legs. He moaned but the panties in his mouth muffled any sound.
CHAPTER 3
Jack Nightingale had never been a fan of aeroplanes, but if he did have to fly he preferred to be up at the front end in a big seat rather at the back near the toilets with barely enough space to stretch out his legs. Joshua Wainwright’s assistant Valerie had made the booking and he figured it was no coincidence that he was crammed into a middle seat close to the toilets. Valerie had never really warmed to him, even though they only met a couple of times a year at most.
He boarded the flight in Chicago so he was only in the air for just under two hours, twenty minutes of which they were in a holding pattern above JFK airport. He flew with no luggage so within ten minutes of the wheels touching the ground he was outside, looking for his ride.
There was a black stretch Humvee parked by the kerb and as Nightingale walked up to it the back door opened and a cloud of bluish cigar smoke billowed out. Joshua Wainwright was sprawled across the buttery leather seat with his hand-tooled cowboy boots propped up on the seat opposite and a large cigar in his right hand. ‘Climb on in, Jack,’ he said. ‘Time’s a wasting.’
Wainwright’s Texas drawl and cowboy boots were at odds with the New York Yankees baseball cap on his head. In his left hand was a crystal tumbler of malt whisky. There was a gold Patek Philippe watch on his left wrist and a thick gold chain on the right.
Nightingale climbed in next to Wainwright and the door closed on its own. Wainwright waved his glass at a polished oak cabinet. ‘Help yourself to a beer if you want one.’
‘I’d rather smoke, if that’s okay.’
Wainwright grinned and gestured with his cigar. ‘Go ahead.’
As the driver edged into the traffic leaving the terminal, Nightingale took out his pack of Marlboro and lit one.
‘First time in New York?’ asked Wainwright.
Nightingale nodded.
‘Hell of a city,’ said Wainwright. ‘Never sleeps. There’s something going on around the clock.’
Nightingale blew smoke. ‘And why am I here?’
Wainwright put his whisky down on a polished wood side table and pulled a sheet of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘A young girl was murdered a couple of days ago. Kate Walker. They found her body in an empty apartment. Butchered. And there was a sigil carved into her back. A sigil I’d never seen before.’ He gave the paper to Nightingale. ‘The one on the left.’
There were two line drawings on the piece of paper. Nightingale frowned as he stared at the hand-written symbols. A sigil was a magic sign, effectively a devil’s signature, peculiar to that devil and often necessary for summoning it from the bowels of Hell. This one was angular, like a reversed letter G with added cross-strokes and a jagged tail that pointed up. ‘It’s a new one to me, too,’ said Nightingale.
‘That’s not surprising, considering how many devils there are,’ said Wainwright.
‘And it was carved on a body?’
‘On her back. There were lots of other cuts, too. But I think they were there to disguise the sigil.’
‘What do the cops think?’
‘They’re looking for a killer but they don’t know that’s a sigil.’
‘How come you know and they don’t?’
‘I got it from a guy who works in the city morgue. He keeps a watching brief for things like this and tips me off.’
Nightingale nodded at the second sig
il. ‘And this one?’
‘Two weeks ago. In Philadelphia. Once the New York case was brought to my attention I had my people do some digging. That’s all they’ve come up with so far.’
Nightingale nodded as he looked at the sigil. It was like a hashtag with a triangle in the centre. ‘Have the cops made a connection?’
‘No, and it doesn’t look as if they will. The Philadelphia murder was a boy, in his twenties. And there were lots of other cuts and slashes. The fact that the two deaths were in different states means the cops are unlikely to make a connection.’
‘Is there any way of identifying the sigils?’ Sigils were as individual as fingerprints. There was one for every devil and the last time Nightingale checked there were close to three billion devils in Hell. There were 66 princes under Satan, each commanding 6,666 legions, and each legion consists of 6,666 devils.
‘Only one way I can think of,’ said Wainwright.
Nightingale frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You know someone who can identify them, remember?’
Nightingale looked up. ‘Are you serious?’
‘We need to know what’s going on here, Jack. And Proserpine can tell you.’
‘She doesn’t take kindly to being summoned just to be questioned.’
‘She doesn’t have a choice.’
Nightingale grimaced. ‘I really don’t like messing with her.’
‘Can you think of another way of finding out who’s behind this?’
‘Maybe. I’ll have to give it some thought.’
‘Jack, I need you to put a stop to these killings. If they continue they’re going to be linked eventually. Some cop is going to spot the connection and then the occult link will come out and that makes it difficult for all of us.’
‘This is about keeping Satanism below the radar?’
‘It belongs in the shadows and that’s where it needs to stay,’ said Wainwright. ‘You need to find out what’s going on – and stop it.’
Nightingale folded up the sheet of paper and slid it into the inside pocket of his raincoat. ‘What about case notes, or a briefing on how far the cops have got?’
‘I don’t have contacts close to the case,’ said Wainwright. ‘I’ve got a decent private eye on the payroll here but she’s not aware of the background, shall we say.’
New York Night Page 1
