Night Victims (The Night Spider)

by John Lutz

  The second sentry was lying on his back. More blood. But this time Horn saw that he’d been garroted with a length of wire so thin it had sliced flesh and arteries. Both men must have been killed soundlessly, and somehow were taken by complete surprise. Horn remembered Kray’s words: He can kill in more ways than you can imagine.

  The third sentry was seated halfway up a tree in what reminded Horn of the sort of harness phone company linemen used when they wanted to sit and work high on telephone poles. Both his arms were hanging limply. He wasn’t moving.

  Something was making a soft pat . . . pat . . . pat sound that was unmistakable.

  “He’s still dripping blood,” Horn said. “Killed not long ago.”

  “Jesus!” Wunderly said. “Maybe they’re all dead.”

  “Goddamnit!” Larkin said. “This wasn’t supposed to fucking happen! What in God’s name are we dealing with here?”

  “Cabin straight ahead?” Horn asked Wunderly.

  “Not exactly, sir. We just stay parallel with the creek bed and we’ll come to it, though.”

  “Only one more sentry between us and it, right?”

  Wunderly swallowed. “Yes, sir.” He was looking again at the blood he couldn’t wipe off his hands. “We gotta call in some help.”

  “You and Larkin go back to the cruiser, call the state patrol.”

  “Maybe get a chopper with a spotlight in here!” Wunderly said.

  “Wunderly can notify them,” Larkin said. “I’m going with you.”

  “You can’t, Rollie. You’re an assistant chief of police.”

  “Doesn’t mean shit at a time like this.”

  “Sure it does. You want to be promoted someday, I’m asking you to trust me here. I don’t have time to explain.”

  “You real sure you know what you’re doing, Horn?”

  “State police’ll get us reinforcements fast,” Wunderly said.

  “I know what I’m doing.”

  Larkin studied Horn as if there might be some kind of code written on his forehead. Then he nodded and turned away, Wunderly following.

  Horn had to resist an impulse to join them.

  Then he began moving fast through the woods. He was breathing hard and his heart was a drumbeat in his chest. Kray and Vine couldn’t be far ahead.

  For some reason, the dead sentries, methodically killed one after the other, reminded Horn of a phrase from his Bible-school days, something about the Grim Reaper gathering sheaves—or maybe it wasn’t from the Bible. Wherever he’d heard or seen it, it sure applied tonight.

  What in God’s name are we dealing with here?

  Horn knew the cabin was in a clearing. Vine and Kray would have to cross open ground. If he could catch up with them before they did that, and before they separated and slipped into the cabin, he’d be able to spot them in exposed positions. There was enough moonlight for him to see that well.

  If the clouds cooperated.

  “Christ!” Horn muttered, and lengthened his stride, ignoring the brush trying to snag his ankles and the branches that scratched his face and arms. He scraped his bare left elbow on the rough bark of a tree trunk but ignored the pain. He was carrying his service revolver in his left hand, but when it came time to fire the gun, he’d transfer it to his right, trading pain for accuracy.

  Lately it seemed he was always trying to get something in exchange for pain.

  Vine and Kray had heard the sounds of their pursuers in the woods. They paused now in shadow, just inside the line of trees, two dark-clad figures like shadows themselves. About a hundred yards ahead, the tiny, crude cabin shone in the moonlight like a prize in the middle of a clearing.

  “They know we’re here,” Kray whispered. “And we have to cross open ground.”

  “We gotta go in anyway,” Vine said.

  Kray grinned in the night. “You really want to waste her, don’t you?”

  “I do. And if she’s gone, I’ll get outta here and try again. If there’s a policewoman in the cabin taking her place, we got us a hostage.”

  “Makes sense,” Kray said. It was daring enough to work, if Kray would let it. “In fact, I like it.”

  Vine looked over at him and smiled. “Like brothers?”

  “I’m with you all the way,” Kray said. “Wherever all the way goes.”

  Horn saw movement through the trees. He hurried his pace, trying to keep quiet. He wanted to get close. As close as he could . . .

  But the two dark figures were already moving across the clearing, keeping low, almost but not quite running.

  Horn decided to run toward them, not worrying about the noise. Shoving branches away with his free arm, he raced through the woods.

  Amazingly, the trailing figure heard him from that distance. The figure hesitated, turned, then dropped flat to be almost invisible, even in the level clearing.

  Horn was at the line of trees marking the end of the woods. He stayed halfway hidden and snapped off a shot with his revolver, knowing he was way out of range.

  Both figures had disappeared now.

  “Only one so far,” Vine whispered to Kray, lying low in the tall grass about ten feet away.

  “So far,” Kray said. “Spot him?”

  “Maybe in line with that tall pine tree, right at the fringe of the woods. I’ll see him if he moves. Think we should take him out?”

  “Might not make the cabin if we don’t. Sounded like a handgun, but we can’t be sure what else he has.”

  “Or how soon help’ll come his way.”

  “Still got your sniper’s eye?”

  “We’ll find out,” Vine said, shifting his body slightly and bringing his automatic rifle around. He kept the rifle low and parallel to the ground; its barrel flattened an arc of tall grass as if it were a scythe.

  Horn saw the slight movement of grass in the moonlight. He knew where they were and wanted to flush them out. Had to flush them out.

  He decided on another useless pistol shot. Might as well use his strong but inaccurate left hand since he wasn’t going to hit anything anyway.

  He shifted the pistol back from his right hand and moved to where he could fire around a tree.

  A sledgehammer hit him high on his chest on his right side.

  He was on his back on the ground without remembering falling. He did recall the short burst of automatic rifle fire and knew he’d been hit. Even at this distance, the small, brief target I presented . . . He was amazed by the accuracy of the shot.

  He felt his chest with trembling fingers and found the depression in the Kevlar vest. Felt around some more. Apparently, only one of the burst of about four shots had struck him.

  They’re human after all. Only human!

  He located his revolver—the hard lump he was lying on—and held it in his right hand.

  There was no way Vine or Kray could approach to make sure they’d killed him without being outlined against the moonlit sky.

  Unless they circle around! Come through the woods.

  I’ll hear them! They’ll make noise in the woods. They have to make some noise!

  He didn’t allow himself the slightest movement, knowing they might see it.

  As he lay there calculating his chances, the dark clouds scudding across the sky obscured the moon.

  Now, against an unbroken black backdrop, they could come at him, unseen!

  It took all of Horn’s willpower not to move. Let them think he was dead. Maybe he could get a shot off, kill one of them.

  Suddenly, the moon was clear and the sky was a pale purple rather than black—like curtain time, last act.

  And there they were, faint dark shapes against the sky, only about ten yards away.

  Pistol range!

  Knowing they might be wearing flak jackets, Horn aimed for the knee of the closest and squeezed off a shot.

  Heard a yelp of pain as he rolled to the side, into shadow, into the woods.

  A burst of automatic weapon fire rustled and picked at the leaves in his wake.r />
  He fired his pistol again, then rolled to his left. He had to fire with his right hand to have a chance of hitting anything, and his arm was aching more with each shot, with each roll. “The area’s sealed off!” he shouted. “State police have you surrounded!” Lie to the bastards!

  Another burst of fire, over his head and to the left.

  “You don’t have a chance unless you surrender!” He moved again. Fifty-fifty, right or left. They’re gonna guess right.

  No blind shots at the sound of his voice this time. Neither one of these guys wasted ammunition.

  Not like I’m doing.

  Staying as low as possible, he reloaded.

  “Hit bad?” Kray asked in a whisper.

  Vine’s voice was tight with pain. “Fucker got me in the thigh. Lucky it wasn’t my knees.”

  “Will the leg take your weight?”

  “I think so. You figure we’re really surrounded?”

  “Hell, yes. We knew they were here when we arrived.” Kray scooted over closer to Vine. He could see blood glistening on his left thigh. Goddamn moonlight.

  “Let’s go for the cabin,” Vine said.

  Kray couldn’t help feeling a rush of pride. His men were the finest. “You know she might not even be in there.”

  “God help whoever is!” Vine said.

  Several shots came from the direction of the dark woods.

  “Prick must have reloaded,” Kray said. “Give him something to chew on and let’s move!”

  The woods came alive around Horn with the crackle of 9mm slugs snapping through leaves and branches. He knew it was covering fire, and as soon as it ended he raised his head and saw them making for the cabin. One of them was lagging, limping from the shot in the leg.

  Not the knee, though. Running too fast. Tough fucker.

  Horn moved beyond the edge of the woods and got off a shot, feeling the recoil up his bad right arm. The arm started to pulse. “You don’t have a fucking chance! Give it up!”

  He began to give chase. One of the fleeing figures turned slightly and rattled off a few shots, obviously not caring if he hit anything. They were making for the cabin.

  To finish their mission. That’s how they think. To make the kill.

  “Me first!” Kray said to Vine as they ran. Planning while on the run. Attacking! No questions. Attacking! They were closing fast on the cabin. “I’m right!”

  “Left!” Vine replied through clenched teeth.

  * * *

  Behind them, Horn stopped running and stood watching, firing his remaining rounds into the night sky. Holding his breath.

  Kray was up on the plank porch, automatic weapon slung low, getting off a burst at the knob and lock as he went.

  He stopped firing the moment before he lowered his shoulder and slammed into the door, forcing it to fly open.

  As soon as he was inside he rolled to his right, then sprang to his feet, weapon at the ready.

  Vine was a second behind him, rolling left, and regained his feet shakily because of the wounded leg. He knew instantly that the cabin was unoccupied.

  Kray scanned the cabin’s interior, sweeping the gun barrel in an arc. In a crazy way it felt wonderful. Doing business again. But something. Something . . .

  And he realized his right ankle had met resistance as he’d burst into the cabin.

  Trip wire!

  His last act was to turn to see if Vine had somehow realized the danger. If he could get out in time. Like brothers . . .

  Not a chance!

  It was all in slow motion, like the opening moments of a space shuttle launch. Horn saw the cabin lift off its slab foundation. From the moment Vine and Kray entered the cabin, he knew they had three seconds to live before the bomb he’d planted exploded.

  The sides of the cabin flew outward, unable to contain the expanding orange fireball that rolled and rose into the dark sky. An instant later came the roar, and a shock wave surged across the meadow, bending tall grass and pressing Horn back a step, making him stagger.

  Neither man had gotten out.

  Paula had followed Horn’s instructions to the letter in rigging the trip wire for the bomb Beiner had given him, the bomb Horn had secured beneath the cabin’s floorboards.

  Just inside the door.

  A quarter of a mile away on the county road, Paula and Larkin heard the explosion and glanced at each other in the night. In the corner of her vision, Paula was aware that Bicker-staff and Wunderly were climbing out of the cruiser where they’d been sitting and waiting.

  Paula knew what had happened wasn’t exactly police work. In fact, unless Horn revealed that she’d set up the trip wire, the police weren’t exactly involved. After all, Horn was a civilian acting as an advisor.

  After delivering Anne to the cabin, letting her believe, so everything would look real to anyone observing them, Paula had returned and spirited her away. Most of the trip back to the city Anne lay in the backseat out of sight. She’d been sent safely away and was with her brother in Philadelphia.

  Horn had acted alone as much as possible. Paula knew he’d take the responsibility but wouldn’t talk—couldn’t be made to talk. And Larkin, he’d learned of Horn’s plan too late to do anything about it, even if the truth did leak out somehow, which it wouldn’t. This time, no leaks. Bickerstaff was retiring again this week or the week after, and Wunderly still wasn’t clued in. If he needed clueing in, Larkin would see to it. Wunderly might find himself promoted to sergeant with a promising future. Maybe Paula would even find herself promoted.

  Paula smiled. Fucking politics!

  “We probably won’t be charged with anything other than disturbing the peace,” Larkin said beside her. “The noise.”

  “Yes, sir,” Paula said. “Should we go find Horn? See if he’s okay?”

  Larkin looked genuinely confused. “Horn? Is he here?”

  54

  Eighteen months later, Paula was eating dinner with Harry and some of their friends on the West Side, when she thought she spotted Horn sitting alone on the other side of the restaurant. She had to look twice, being patient until a waiter had moved, to make sure she wasn’t mistaken.

  She excused herself and wove through the crowded restaurant toward his table.

  When she got closer, she saw that he looked slightly grayer but not a year older. He was wearing a tan tweed sport coat over a black turtleneck sweater. A wrapped cigar stuck out of the coat’s breast pocket. She was pleased to note that he hadn’t diminished even slightly with age; his bulk made the table look like a miniature.

  She noticed something else. Though he was sipping a glass of white wine and sitting alone, the table was set for two.

  He looked up at her and gave her his slow and genuine smile. The one he sometimes gives to suspects.

  “Paula Ramboquette. You look wonderful!” He stood and grasped her in a firm hug. “Sit down, please.”

  “No, I have to get back. And you’re waiting for someone.”

  “Sit, Paula.”

  She grinned. “That sounded like a command.” She sat down across the table from him.

  “You’re plainclothes now,” he said. “Lead detective, with a recent commendation. A rising NYPD star.” He winked. “The one to watch.”

  Paula was surprised and pleased that he’d followed her career. “You seem to be doing very nicely yourself. You look terrific.”

  “Just another old cop, Paula. Heard anything from Bicker-staff?”

  Paula nodded. “He phoned last Christmas Day. He had a bad cold, but he was going ice fishing anyway.” She could imagine a heavily bundled Bickerstaff sitting and sniffling, hunched over a hole in the ice, maybe a dead fish or two next to him. Fun. Really fun.

  “Paula?”

  “Sorry. Thinking about Bickerstaff.” She suddenly felt ill at ease. “How is—” Remembering the impending divorce of last year, she bit off her words.

  “Anne? She’s fine. Still working at Kincaid Memorial. She’s engaged to a corporate atto
rney.”

  Paula sensed someone beside her and looked up to see Marla Winger. Marla looking glamorous and sophisticated in a simple navy blue dress with a pearl necklace.

  “Paula,” Horn said, “you remember Dr. Winger . . .”

  “Damn it, Horn, you know I do!” Grinning widely, Paula stood up and she and Marla hugged. Paula caught the scent of expensive perfume.

  “It’s wonderful to see you both,” Paula said. “Really!” She couldn’t stop grinning and was beginning to feel awkward about it. Like Frankenstein’s bride with the giggles. “Listen, I’m interrupting . . . I’d better get back to my table.”

  She muttered a few more polite inanities and turned away, wishing like crazy that Bickerstaff were there. She was unable to control what she was thinking: Corn muffins!

  Don’t miss John Lutz’s chilling next thriller, URGE TO KILL . . . Coming from Pinnacle in October 2009!

  PINNACLE BOOKS are published by

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  Copyright © 2003 John Lutz

  Previously published under the title The Night Spider.

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, businesses, organizaitons, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  ISBN: 978-0-7860-2715-6