Darker Than Night fq-1

by John Lutz

  Quinn again, getting closer, turning the screws.

  He suddenly found himself yearning for an end, for green closure.

  God! Not closure! How he hated that overused and abused word! When would people learn that closure was a temporary state? That people never “got on with their lives” except in the sense that they had no choice? Time would pass; they would grow old and overwhelmed and die along with their fears and dreams and become dust.

  The Night Prowler wasn’t dust and didn’t intend to become it anytime soon. He knew what he had to do, what time and events demanded.

  There were many ways to deal with pressure. He liked his way best.

  Claire?

  No, the time isn’t right; the fruit isn’t ripe. There’s a critical point in every marriage. A testing point. Time like a blade. Everything in the balance. Both parties know it. On the edge of the knife…

  He reached for the folded cloth at his side, then held it expertly to his nose, little finger extended, and breathed in deeply.

  White! White to the horizon…the narrow fine line of the horizon cleaving earth from sky, bone from flesh, present from past, one world from another…

  The fire in the marrow, the edge of the knife.

  50

  Ready for the chess game.

  Dr. Rita Maxwell was standing behind her desk as usual as David Blank entered her office. It was best to be standing, smiling, and putting the patient at his or her ease, yet still maintaining a position of authority.

  “David, it’s good to see you again.”

  He smiled back. “Same here, Dr. Maxwell.”

  How amiable and cooperative we are this afternoon. “Why don’t you sit down, David, the clock is running.”

  He grinned wider. “Isn’t that the truth, Doctor?”

  She sat down on the sofa this time, very informal, as he lowered himself into the recliner he liked, tilting the backrest so he was lying almost horizontally. He watched her from that position from the corner of a narrowed eye, almost like someone feigning sleep.

  “We’re in the truth business,” she said, keeping it conversational and meaningless for now. She was determined to make appreciable progress this session, to peel back another of the layers concealing the real David Blank. David Blank-who wasn’t in the phone directory, who didn’t appear on any of New York’s public records she could access on her computer. Who are you?

  Again he nudged her off balance. “I’d like to apologize for being evasive,” he said, his eyes closed lightly. “I’ve been avoiding the truth, lying to you.”

  “I suspected,” she said, keeping the irony from her voice.

  “This is difficult for me,” Blank said without changing expression. His eyes were still closed, as if he were napping and talking at the same time.

  “Like a confession?” Dr. Maxwell asked. She wondered if he might be playing her, setting her up for an even bigger lie than the ones he’d told earlier. If that were possible.

  “Well, maybe…Why would you describe it as that? A confession?”

  “To be honest, I interpreted some of what you’ve told me as a manifestation of guilt.”

  “What kind of guilt?”

  “There is only one kind.”

  “Ah, that’s wonderful, Doctor! You know! Guilt is like every color always, a dreadful buzzing gray.”

  “That’s very descriptive. Really. I do want to assure you that confession here will be confidential and liberating. And between us only, I promise you.”

  “Liberating…” He seemed to taste the word as he said it. “Do you believe that?”

  “Oh, yes. It’s why I’m here.”

  Dr. Maxwell liked that answer. She glanced at the tiny recorder on the corner of her desk to make sure it was running. Though it was soundless, its red pinpoint of light glowed reassuringly.

  “We might start,” Dr. Maxwell said, “with you telling me your real name.”

  “ Your real name is Rita.”

  Deflection. And unabashedly obvious. He wasn’t quite in a mood to relinquish control. “Yes, of course it is.” Keeping her tone neutral.

  His eyes remained closed as he spoke. There was no sign that the pupils were moving beneath the thin flesh of his eyelids. “If a person did have something he wanted to confess, Rita…say, that he had to confess, if you know what I mean…”

  “I know, David.” Keep talking, keep talking.

  “Say, like a serial killer who secretly yearns to be stopped, to be caught; how would a serial killer deal with the sly pressure, the self-destructive danger of his increasing need for confession?”

  Whoa! “That’s quite a question.”

  “Do you have quite an answer?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t. Not yet.”

  “I do.”

  Dr. Maxwell found herself glancing at the closed office door. It wasn’t often that she’d been frightened during her sessions. And she wasn’t ready to admit she was frightened now.

  Uneasy, yes…

  “What is your answer, David?” She felt a chill as she asked. She was playing his game, she knew, finding herself being led. To where? “What would such a person do?”

  “Obviously, he’d find someone other than the police to confess to.”

  “To what effect?”

  “Why, then the buzzing would stop, the pressure would ease, and he’d be unburdened, liberated, and free to kill and kill and kill.”

  My God, it made sense! A horrible kind of sense, but sense.

  “Anyone he’d confess to would have to notify the police,” Dr. Maxwell said. “Even a priest. Even a psychoanalyst. Of course, we’re speaking hypothetically,” she added hopefully. Knowing on some level, beneath so many layers of her own, that she’d lost control of what was happening here.

  His eyes were open now and he was looking directly at her. His right hand crept beneath his unbuttoned sport coat and emerged holding a long-bladed knife. The blade had obviously been wiped recently, but there was still a smear of what looked like blood on it. Dr. Maxwell’s mind darted to her receptionist in the outer office.

  Hannah! If I can somehow alert Hannah!

  If he hadn’t…

  “Only one of us is speaking hypothetically, Doctor.” His voice was calm, and somehow different. This was the real David Blank, whatever his name, whatever his ancient name, and he terrified her.

  “Hannah?”

  “She’s in the closet, where no one coming into the office will notice her. The phone’s disconnected, but it doesn’t matter. She won’t be booking any more appointments.”

  Dr. Maxwell heard herself swallow, a sound like tiny bones breaking beneath flesh. Words froze in her throat. She didn’t know what she was trying to say, anyway.

  David Blank sat up and swiveled his body on the recliner so he was facing her, holding the knife up and out so she could see and appreciate the length of its gleaming blade.

  “We have another twenty minutes, Doctor.”

  She swallowed again.

  He smiled. “All these weeks are about to pay off. You’ve gotten what you wanted. We’ve finally made a real breakthrough. I’d like you to hear my confession.”

  Dr. Maxwell knew that this time none of it would be lies.

  Her insatiable need to learn, the driving curiosity that had propelled her to a scholarship to one of the toughest, most prestigious universities on the East Coast, then through a near-fatal bout of meningitis, then through medical school and a grueling internship, and all the way here, to a plush office on Park Avenue, somehow found its way through her horror.

  “Why don’t we start with your real name?” she managed to croak.

  Dying to know.

  51

  “The part’s good and the money’s good enough,” Jubal said to Claire over his glass of wine at the Cafe Caracole on West Fifty-seventh.

  Claire took a sip of ice water-no alcohol for her while she was pregnant-and nodded agreement. Jubal’s “almost sure thing” as a soldier in
Winding Road had fallen through without explanation, as so often happened in their business; hot could become cold in less than a minute.

  Now, undeniably, it made sense for him to accept this role of the helpful and romantic neighbor in As Thy Love Thyself at a theater near Chicago. It was just that right now, especially right now, Claire didn’t like the idea of being alone.

  “Who’s going to put on his shoes and run out at midnight to bring me my blueberry muffins?” she asked. During the last few weeks she’d developed a craving for the oversize, shrink-wrapped muffins sold by the deli down the block.

  Jubal stared at her, then realized she was joking and laughed, dribbling wine onto his good green tie. He shook his head and dabbed at the wet spot with his napkin, but she knew the tie was probably ruined. Merlot was like grape paint.

  “I should have known you were joking,” he said, “but women, all of them, seem to lose a measure of logic during pregnancy.”

  “You’re saying we think with our hormones?”

  “Pregnant women do. Temporarily. Nothing wrong with that. Mother Nature.”

  “Mother Nature makes me want you to stay here in New York, even though I know you’re right. The part’s a real opportunity for you; it suits you.”

  “I suit it.”

  “Whatever. Our lives can’t be freeze-framed until I deliver, and I’m only into my third month.”

  “And it doesn’t even show.”

  “No need for bullshit, Jubal. It’s beginning to show too much. I know you should accept this offer. Go to Chicago, do the part, and don’t worry about me-us. I’m still getting by with the help of wardrobe and oughta be able to fake it until the end of your run.”

  “Then we can be unemployed together.”

  “But with more than enough money to get by, and with bright prospects when we feel like finding day care and going back to work.” Day care. She couldn’t imagine it. Not with her-their baby. But she knew it would come to that someday soon. Other women managed the painful, early parting, the surrender of some of their responsibility for what was so precious to them. She’d be able to handle it when the time came, she was sure. She thought about how that first day must be, the looks, the puckered mouth, the tears, the leaving behind…

  Not sure.

  “We can both still practice our craft,” Jubal said. “We have to.”

  Claire wasn’t positive she still had to, hormones having reshuffled her priorities at least for now, but maybe he’d meant they had to continue acting for financial reasons. She smiled. There was always that, even though right now they had quite a pad and it was growing. But there were expenses, medical bills, decorating the baby’s room; it all added up. At least they had some insurance to cover medical expenses. Not much, but some.

  “Too bad we don’t have decorator’s insurance,” she said.

  “Huh?”

  She smiled. “Just thinking out loud. Not making much sense. It’s a preggy prerogative.”

  “Point taken.” He poured more wine. “This bother you? Me drinking in front of you?”

  She shook her head no. “I don’t miss it. And it’s not forever.”

  “I’ll have to leave for Chicago tomorrow evening. They want to get into rehearsal right away.”

  “You’ve only just read the script.”

  “I can read it again on the plane. There’s a red-eye to Chicago. I can read instead of sleep.”

  “Yeah, then you can be so tired, you’ll fuck up during rehearsal.”

  “Not to worry, I have a contract.”

  You have phone conversations. “Signed?”

  “Well, no, not yet.”

  “Thinking with your actor’s hormones,” Claire said.

  “Okay, you’ve topped me-I can take it.” He raised his glass. “To the future.”

  She lifted her water goblet and they clinked glasses. “Our future.”

  Jubal peered around his raised glass at his wife seated across the table from him. Actor’s hormones. She has no idea how grateful I am for this role.

  He knew Claire had always underestimated his acting abilities. Of course she wasn’t alone in that.

  They drank to the rest of their lives.

  Pearl having sex.

  Her tiny bedroom hot and humid with the scent of sex.

  She’d personally checked with Dr. Liran and knew it was okay; men with hearts like Quinn’s seldom suffered an attack during the sexual act. Better for him than a drink and a cigar, the doctor had said. Pearl sure as hell hoped so.

  She’d already been satisfied. Quinn had learned about her fast and knew how to bring out a tenderness in her that even Pearl hadn’t suspected she possessed. He could make the uneasiness and loneliness dissipate, at least for a while. With Quinn she was herself. With Quinn she was reborn.

  Pearl was no stranger to multiple orgasms, but she doubted it would be possible this time, though she wasn’t sure why.

  Quinn’s weight was heavy on her, even though he was propped on his elbows and knees. The bedsprings were squealing, the headboard banging against the wall. His labored breathing was harsh in her right ear. She adjusted her legs, trying to get more comfortable.

  Jesus! What am I doing?

  She couldn’t help it. Something about the ceiling fixture directly above held her attention. The fixture was old, metal of some sort, with a stamped floral design that had been painted over so many times it was almost indiscernible. It held two lightbulbs, and if their glare needed softening, it was up to the tenant to buy some sort of shades to fit over the bulbs.

  Quinn gasped and his body became rigid. She thought he’d climaxed, but he hadn’t. He began thrusting into her again. And again. It wasn’t that Pearl wasn’t still enjoying it on a certain level (what the hell, it was sex), it was just that by now she was out of the mood.

  That fixture has to go. Has to be replaced. Maybe by something on a chain that throws more light. Or a paddle fan with a light kit. There’s an idea.

  My God, I’m like that unfeeling woman in the joke who’s trying to figure out during sex what color to paint the ceiling.

  Well, maybe not quite that bad.

  This isn’t like me!

  Then she realized why staring at the light fixture so intrigued her. It had sparked something related in her mind. Something about the Night Prowler investigation. It was so strange, how the mind worked. She couldn’t quite get a grip on what was nibbling at the edges of her consciousness.

  Something on the other side of the wall that the headboard was banging against crashed to the floor. Probably something in the closet that held the painting supplies Pearl seldom used or even looked at.

  Decorators!

  Yes, decorators!

  Additional suspects. Stones unturned.

  She lowered her legs. “Quinn!”

  Startled, he straightened his arms and reared back, withdrawing from her. “Wha’s wrong…I hurt you?”

  “Decorators, Quinn.”

  “Huh?” He glanced around as if he’d been warned. His unruly hair was damp and mussed and a bead of perspiration dripped from his forehead onto her pillow. She heard it plop onto the taut linen. He drew in a deep breath and released it slowly, then peered down at her quizzically. “You did say decorators?”

  She squirmed out from beneath him, which wasn’t difficult, the way they were both sweating. “Everyone who might have been given a key to enter the victims’ apartments in the times leading up to their deaths-supers, trusted neighbors, tradesmen like plumbers and electricians-have all been questioned by the police.”

  “Including interior decorators.”

  “Exactly. When people can afford a professional decorator, they often turn over the apartment to him and trust his judgment on everything.”

  “Everything?”

  “Yes. And they don’t want to be home while the work’s being done.”

  “You know this?”

  “Sure. Every woman knows this. Who wants to live with sawdust in their
hair? And if the owner or tenant wants to give the decorator free rein, he usually gets a key to keep the entire time the job’s in progress.” Pearl was staring at Quinn, a bit surprised that he seemed dubious. “Something, no?”

  “Something, maybe,” he said. “The murder apartments had been redecorated within the past few years-like a lot of apartments in Manhattan-and the decorators were given keys by their clients, like you said, but they’ve been cleared. They all had alibis that checked out.”

  “But what about the tradesmen they hired? We talked to tradesmen hired by the building owners or supers, usually to make repairs. Interior decorators often subcontract out the painting, carpeting, whatever. They want things done right, so they like to use people they usually work with and can trust. Their people.”

  Quinn sat up cross-legged on the bed. “I follow. Who might the decorators have given keys to without the clients even knowing about it?”

  “Right. So, we might have more suspects. We talk to the decorators again and see if they gave apartment keys to any of the tradesmen they hired. If so, whoever they lent the keys to might have secretly had them duplicated.”

  “So they could come and go as they pleased from then on,” Quinn said, “and learn all sorts of things about the occupants by looking through their desk and dresser drawers.”

  “And searching their computer hard drives, especially if they figured out how to get online. Most people have their passwords written down someplace handy to the computer, in case they forget. Like they do with safe combinations.”

  It made sense. Enough sense, anyway. Quinn stood up from the bed and used the heel of his hand to wipe perspiration from his eyes.

  “Where you going?” Pearl asked.

  “To take a shower. You and I are gonna get dressed and make some phone calls, set up appointments to talk to decorators.”

  “You’re gonna leave me like this? Unfinished and unfulfilled?”

  “You were the one thinking about work.”