Night Victims (The Night Spider)

by John Lutz

  “If he’s wounded,” Horn said, “it’s minor and doesn’t affect his strength or agility. His MO was the same as always, except for the battering he gave his victim.”

  “Was she alive at the time?”

  “Yes. Losing blood fast but alive. The knife wounds hadn’t killed her yet.”

  “Rage,” Marla said.

  “Or callousness. He might be a stone killer who simply doesn’t care if his victim’s alive or dead at the time of disfigurement.”

  “Stone killer?”

  “Cop talk for somebody who’d just as soon kill another human being as munch a piece of toast. There’s something missing in certain people. They don’t relate to the rest of the human race. Like we don’t relate to bugs and just step on them or kill them with insecticide, then forget about them within minutes. Stone killers sleep well at night no matter what kind of hell they’ve created during the day.”

  “Sociopaths.”

  “Yeah. And something more. Not all sociopaths are killers. Some become successful corporate raiders or great NFL linebackers.”

  “It must be truly liberating, being free of all human concern.”

  “It’s probably addictive,” Horn said. “And it leads to the kind of hubris that contributes to serial killers being caught.” He reached into an inside pocket for a cigar, then decided against it. He understood the reluctance of many people, women especially, to endure cigar smoke indoors or out. Now wasn’t the time to find out how Marla felt about it.

  “You mentioned insects,” Marla said. “It’s interesting, Mandle’s identification with spiders. And what came out during the trial, his history with his mother and the significance of spiders in her religion.”

  “I’m sure if we were to dig through history we’d come up with some ancient cult of the spider,” Horn said. “Or maybe Mandle’s mother saw an old movie and it set her off because she was on the edge to begin with. People are afraid of spiders, and fascinated by them.”

  “Fascinated because of their fear.”

  “Definitely.”

  “Spiders and snakes; religion and mothers. It’s no wonder we have serial killers. They’re created in childhood. The mechanism’s probably wound and set when they’re very young.”

  “I’m not so much interested in how or why Mandle ticks,” Horn said, “as in stopping him from ticking.”

  “There’s something else I think you should take into account,” Marla said. “You have to concentrate on guarding Anne because Mandle might be watching her, formulating a plan. But he also might be watching you.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “The way he talked about you during the trial. He was full of hate for you. Obsessed.”

  “I noticed.”

  They were at Marla’s subway stop. The night was warm and clear, but thunder was bumping and rolling in the distance somewhere over New Jersey. It was a celestial reminder that no one was ever really safe anywhere. Lightning was whimsical.

  She looked up at him. “I worry about you, Horn.”

  He was surprised, not so much by her words but by the way they were spoken, like a confession. And by the look on her face. Horn didn’t know what to say, but he found himself wondering what would happen if he suggested he take her all the way home. Home and inside.

  “I’d like to tell you not to worry,” is what he did say, “that I don’t want you to. But I can’t. A part of me’s glad you’re thinking about me that much.”

  And a part of me doesn’t want to do this. A part of me still hasn’t given up on Anne.

  Marla seemed to know what he was thinking, sensing his hesitancy and the reason for it. And he saw something else in her eyes, some sudden fear of intimacy, not only with him but with anyone. What’s your secret, Marla?

  “I’d better get down to the platform,” she said. “My train’s about due. I’ve got them timed.”

  He nodded and touched her shoulder. She smiled but turned away abruptly to discourage any further contact, then started down the concrete steps to the token booth and platform.

  Horn stood watching her until she was out of sight, thinking she was probably right about Mandle observing him, following him.

  He wondered if it would occur to her that he might have been followed tonight.

  As soon as Marla entered her apartment, she went to where a bottle was tucked away on a top shelf of a kitchen cabinet.

  It had been a gift, Crown Royal in a fancy box. She pried open the box’s flaps and removed the bottle, used a knife to slit the seal, then uncapped it.

  She’d never intended to do this. The bottle was only on the shelf as a reminder, a temptation resisted on a daily basis. But she understood that self-delusion, even as she allowed it of herself. A part of her knew that she and the bottle might share an experience in a dark future.

  She stood and poured the magic amber liquid down the sink drain, observing it swirl and disappear, growing more afraid as she watched.

  Sociopaths, stone killers, serial killers, they knew about addiction.

  So did she.

  Years ago, one of her patients, an angry, middle-aged advertising salesman named Arnold Vernon, had followed her advice and calmly confronted his wife about her suspected infidelity. He’d progressed well in his therapy, and Marla was sure he was ready to manage such a situation.

  She’d had the measure of her patient, but something unexpected happened—and continued to happen in Marla’s dreams.

  Mrs. Vernon responded by strangling their infant daughter.

  Arnold Vernon responded by stabbing his wife to death, then slashing his wrists.

  Marla responded by drinking her way out of her profession.

  She’d finally gotten her alcoholism under control and kept it there. Under control enough, anyway. She could hold down a job, function in life from day to day.

  She was afraid now of how she was beginning to feel about Horn. Why the fuck did his wife have to leave him? Now Marla was even more frightened by what she might be losing if she fell into the bottle again. Not just another waitress job. So much more.

  The last of the Crown Royal was gone. She turned on the cold water tap and watched the residue around the drain become clear. She felt relieved now, safe from herself.

  She suddenly remembered there was a half-full bottle of vodka in the back of the freezer, behind the plastic bags of frozen vegetables she never really considered eating.

  Or had she known all along that it was there? She’d noticed the bottle when she moved in and acquired the refrigerator from the previous tenant, and she’d never thrown it away. Vodka never completely froze in such conditions, only thickened somewhat. Drunk at temperatures below freezing, the crystalline liquid was numbing.

  Marla knew that tonight it could numb how she felt about Horn.

  Letty Fonsetta had appeared on the financial channel that afternoon. She’d been sent to represent the firm of Helmont and Brack as their financial-sector analyst. If anybody could help to restore trust in stock analysts it was Letty, with her heart-shaped, honest face and genteel manner. How could anyone suspect ill of this petite, sweet-natured woman with the warm smile, who could strip a bank or brokerage firm’s financial statement to its bones within minutes using her long experience as examiner with the Fed?

  Letty had cheered up the financial channel staff and viewers with a rosy forecast of unchanging interest rates and a recommendation to buy three promising small savings and loans in the Midwest. Sleeper stocks, she’d called them. No, she didn’t own them. No, Helmont and Brack had no sort of financial relationship with them. They were simply undervalued stocks with clean financial sheets and solid multiples. Buy ‘em!

  All three stocks had gained share price by the time the market closed.

  Letty was feeling good as she left Helmont and Brack’s new offices near the former site of the World Trade Center, looking forward to dinner at home and a warm bath before going over the numbers on a prospective New York bank merger.
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  On the subway ride uptown to her apartment, she studied her reflection in the dark window on the opposite side of the car. There she was, looking back at herself, much as she must have appeared on the TV screen. Would you trust this woman? Have secret fantasies about her? She cocked her head, then smiled slightly. She’d been professionally coached for her television appearances, but maybe she should practice more in front of a mirror. Who knew where TV spots might lead, especially if her stock recommendations panned out? Maybe to one of the regular financial panel shows.

  What would her father think of her now, she wondered, after his admonitions and cautionary lectures about gambling in the stock market? Her own portfolio was flourishing and well hedged. She was even thinking of moving into another, larger apartment.

  That is, if the television appearances worked out, if she struck a spark with viewers. Someone who knew one of the producers told her, in confidence, that ratings more than held up for her announced spots. The viewers liked her. Letty gazed steadily at her framed reflection across the aisle and let herself dream.

  She had no idea she’d made a new fan that afternoon, who’d boarded at the same stop and was riding with her in the subway car, watching her watch herself.

  “Why don’t you come to bed?” Paula asked Linnert from the bedroom doorway.

  He’d been sitting for over an hour at his computer. Paula thought he looked particularly handsome shirtless and in his boxer shorts, seated in his Aeron chair in the soft lamplight and working the keyboard. But she had other ideas about how he could use his nimble fingers.

  “Almost with you,” he said, without looking at her. Kind of miffed her.

  Another few keystrokes and he turned to smile at her.

  “What was that all about?” she asked.

  “Bought some stock on-line.”

  “I thought the markets were closed.”

  “The main ones are. But there are after-hour markets, or you can place an order anytime that’ll be executed when the markets open the next day.”

  Paula grinned. “Are you one of those notorious day traders who lost their shirts? I look at you, I don’t see any shirt.”

  “Nope, I’m an investor, not a trader. Done okay, too. How do you think I pay for you, Miss High Postage?”

  “With your passionate love.”

  “Cheap at the price.” He shut down his computer and stood up from his desk chair.

  “What’s the hurry?”

  He looked puzzled. “I thought you were madly moist.”

  “I am. I mean, why did you have to buy stock tonight instead of waiting till tomorrow morning?”

  He shrugged powerful tanned shoulders. “I was in the mood. And an analyst I respect recommended these stocks this afternoon on the financial channel. Small savings and loans. Sleeper stocks in the Midwest.”

  “Ah, and you want to get in before it’s too late.”

  “Well, as early as possible. This analyst knows her stuff; she moves a stock for more than a day’s pop. She’s a solid researcher.”

  Paula’s grin widened. “Come over here,” she said, “and I’ll show you some research.”

  Letty stopped at a newsstand a block from her apartment and picked up Business Week. Her eye fell on a tabloid’s bold headline: city of fear. Beneath it was a photo of the New York skyline. what woman is safe? asked the caption of the lead story.

  Ridiculous! Letty shook her head and smiled, paying for the magazine and turning away. A city of over eight million people, and women are supposed to be afraid a serial killer will single them out. Her smile stuck. Hell, a serial killer might be preferable to some of the losers I’ve dated recently.

  Only kidding, she said to herself a little uneasily as she quickened her pace and pressed on toward her apartment.

  Toward the security of home.

  42

  The uniform with the scar on his face was on duty in the hall when Horn knocked on Anne’s apartment door. He looked over at Horn, gave a little half smile, and nodded. Horn nodded back, not smiling, as Anne opened the door.

  “You’ve settled in nicely,” he said, when he entered and looked around. The apartment didn’t look so cold and modern. No cardboard boxes in sight. More pieces of furniture she hadn’t put in storage were in place. Some of the wall hangings were familiar. A framed impressionist print she’d always liked was on the wall over the sofa. Horn felt like someone in a hotel room where he’d stayed before.

  Anne looked good. She was wearing a beige blouse, dark brown slacks, and had her hair pulled back in a French braid.

  “Going out?” he asked.

  She looked at him.

  “Never mind.” Horn sat on the sofa and waited. She’d phoned him and asked for this meeting.

  She didn’t offer him a drink and didn’t sit down herself. She said, “I’m going nuts here under guard.”

  “You’d be nuts not to want to be guarded.”

  “I don’t have to be convinced of that. I even appreciate what you’re doing, Thomas. I’m well aware I’m receiving special treatment because of you. I’m also aware of the kind of danger I’m in. I can count on an anonymous heavy-breathing phone call almost every night.”

  “I know,” he said. “They’re from public phones around town. The receivers are always wiped clean of prints.”

  She smiled. “Yeah, I guess you would know.” She paced a few steps this way and that—like an animal marking off territory—as if trying to locate the best position from which to speak. “I’m going back to work at the hospital, Thomas.”

  He didn’t answer immediately, knew she was touchy and couldn’t blame her. “Your old job?”

  She nodded. “Finlay was by here today to talk to me. The Vine family’s changed their minds. They’ve rejected any settlement and want more money, claiming the stress of their tragedy and the lawsuit have caused a regression to the severe depression Vine suffered after his military service. The main cause of stress is identified as Kincaid Memorial Hospital.”

  “So Finlay wants you back,” Horn said. “All’s forgiven, huh?”

  “Not really. Neither of us forgives the other. But I need a job, and the hospital needs me back in my old position in order to mount its best legal defense.”

  “You mean they don’t want to risk a whistle-blower out there unaccounted for.”

  “I suppose that’s part of it. From my end, I’ll have employment and an excuse to get out of this apartment.”

  “Which we tried to get you to leave.”

  “By getting out, I don’t mean running away,” Anne said. “I won’t do that, won’t give in to fear. It’s my life, and I’m damn well going to live it as I choose. But I’m no fool. I recognize the danger better than anyone. I want to know what you think of my returning to work.”

  Horn sat back and extended his long legs, crossing them at the ankles. “I know you want something to do, but this isn’t really the time—”

  “It’s exactly the time,” she interrupted, “if I’m going to remain sane.”

  “And alive?”

  “That’s why I wanted to talk to you. Could you arrange . . . Would it make that much difference if I were guarded here or at my office? There’s already some security at Kincaid anyway. I thought it might even be easier.”

  “You’d be working day hours?”

  “I’ve been promised them.” She smiled. “They do need me if they want to successfully plead their case.”

  “You almost sound as if you’re looking forward to a court fight now.”

  She shrugged. “When your life’s threatened you gain a different perspective on fear and stress. On what’s important.”

  “And going back to Kincaid is important to you?”

  “Very.”

  He looked at her standing there in the soft light filtering through the sheer curtains. Light like a time machine. She might have been the Anne of twenty years ago. They might have been—

  Don’t think it, you idiot!

 
He sat up straighter, then stood. “What you want can be arranged. But I want something in return.”

  “Oh?”

  “When things get tight and really dangerous—and they will—I want your word that you’ll follow my instructions.”

  “Instructions pertaining to what?”

  “To anything. We’re in a game with a psychotic killer who wants you as his victim. There might not be time for me to explain or try to justify whatever it is I’m asking of you.”

  “You have my word, Thomas.”

  “I’ll talk to Rollie Larkin.”

  They looked at each other. She gave him a smile.

  He waited for her to stop him and thank him as he left, but she remained silent behind him.

  Oh, well, he’d demanded something in return. And leaving her this time, walking away from her, the painful wrench he felt didn’t rip quite so large a rent in his heart.

  Horn spoke with Larkin later that day. Anne’s return to work didn’t really require that much extra security since she’d simply be office-bound rather than spending most of her time in her apartment. In fact, it enabled some of the security force to work closer to her, passing as hospital personnel. Ida, Anne’s assistant, had been reassigned. The uniform assigned as Anne’s last defense, who was usually the scar-faced cop Horn had seen several times stationed in the hall, could be outside her office door rather than noticeably hanging around outside her apartment.

  “Police profiler can’t understand why our man’s staying in the New York area,” Larkin said, while he and Horn puffed on cigars in Larkin’s office. There was a small exhaust fan humming away in a window, tugging at the smoke. Horn had heard they’d made this a smoke-free building and wondered if it was true, if Larkin didn’t give a damn. Might well be. Horn decided not to ask.

  “Maybe he can’t refuse a dare,” Horn said.

  Larkin exhaled a cloud of smoke and squinted through it at Horn. “You mean he sees it as a dare that we’re bent on catching him?”

  “That could be part of it. And I’m afraid part of it’s me. He’s making this personal.”