by John Lutz
What soft center?
She’d keep talking about him, to him. That was how women like that were, taunting him, thinking he was helpless to act.
In her corrupt self-absorption, she assumed there was no way to stop her from talking about him to the world.
To the world!
He sat alone in the silence and hid his disfigured face in his hands.
He sat alone in the silence and sobbed.
Horn had finished giving instructions to the dozen cops besides Paula and Bickerstaff whom Rollie Larkin had put at his disposal.
“It’s going to be difficult and time-consuming to find the Night Spider,” Horn had told Larkin in his office earlier that afternoon. “Nina Count started out a fool, but she’s given us the one strong hand we’ve had to play. We need to play it all the way.”
Larkin had leaned back and puffed on the El Laquita Especial Horn had given him as an obvious bribe. “And if anything happens to Nina Count’s precious ass, it will be all our asses.”
“That’s how it is,” Horn admitted.
“You’re already pensioned off,” Larkin said. “Out of it.”
“I’ve thought of that. You have the most to lose, Rollie.”
“Other than Nina Count.”
“Goes without saying. But we might catch a killer.” Another long puff on the cigar. Larkin’s office was getting cloudy. “Talking head, set of boobs and legs, but I guess we have to give her that she’s got some balls.”
“She’s counting on us having some, too.”
“You’re such a bastard, Horn.”
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“Can be. Yes.”
Larkin had carefully propped the cigar in the ashtray on the corner of his desk. “Go ahead and bet your hand, Horn.
Raise the stakes.”
“I didn’t figure you’d let us down, Rollie.”
“And spare me the bullshit,” Larkin added.
He was picking up the cigar again as Horn left the office and headed for clear air. In the outer office, Larkin’s uniformed assistant had a little electric fan spinning on her desk to dissipate smoke. She glanced over at Horn and held her nose as he passed.
Horn smiled. Everybody in the office had balls.
When everyone knew their role and had left the precinct conference room, Horn went to see Royce Sales. Then he called a friend on the FDNY and drove south to the docks.
He wanted everything done right, so he didn’t rush. He didn’t waste time, either. Time was running out for the Night Spider or for Nina Count.
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The insults, derision, humiliation! She’d pay; pay soon and in full!
In full!
He knew what she was doing and so did her viewers.
That’s why she was doing it, to create more viewers, more fans. Playing the brave and dedicated journalist. Trying to lure him, to trap him, to kill him. Using him to boost her pathetic ratings. Nina Cunt!
The police, Horn, they’d be in on it, encouraging her, underestimating the Night Spider, the fearsome and fearful, the horrid and elegant. How could they know? How could they know what they were dealing with, how wrong Nina Count was about him? How it would all turn out? The small and the crawl shall inherit . . .
There she was again on the TV screen, cold and deadly beautiful, blond as vanilla ice cream, the long shot, the pale legs.
The empress of ice cream. The cunt! The evil, satanic, hurtful cunt!
He couldn’t stand to look at her. Couldn’t look away from her.
Couldn’t wait much longer.
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*
*
*
My God, it was almost routine.
Nina thought this was going better than she’d anticipated.
The advice of Marla the waitress-psychologist was golden; she really knew what Nina should say to get to this guy. If only it weren’t for the constant and cold lump of fear in Nina’s stomach, the loss of appetite and sleep.
She went through the motions of her day, studiously not looking right nor left to be sure she was protected. Denying herself the reassurance. She went to bed as usual, locking the bedroom window but leaving the drapes parted about five inches, per Horn’s instructions.
Horn. He phoned her frequently, checking on her, making sure her resolve wasn’t crumbling. Which showed how little he knew about her.
Nina carefully locked her apartment door behind her, then kicked off her high-heeled shoes and strode into the kitchen. She paused at the door, scanning before entering. A habit. Had she recently acquired it?
She wasn’t drinking alcohol these days, needed to keep her mind clear. So she went to the refrigerator and ran cold water from the ice maker into a glass. Before taking a sip, she held the glass against her warm forehead. Another tension headache tonight. That was what they were. Had to be.
It’s worth it. Every night is worth the fear!
Every night her ratings were climbing. And when this horror was over, some of that success would stick. She’d have the highest-rated local newscast for years, until something else came along that could be ridden like this crisis to her desired destination. She’d possess the fact that she’d trapped this fuck-head killer. Have it on her resume always.
That could be good for a lot. Her ticket would be punched for the next ride. A bigger show. Network. Or maybe politics were in her future.
Meanwhile, her days were terrible but mundane journeys of boredom, trepidation, and frequent spikes of terror. The unfamiliar face with eyes observing her, the sudden moves NIGHT VICTIMS
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of strangers—almost anything abrupt and unexpected—
could strum her taut nerves and make her almost scream.
Routine. Repetition. Moving through it like an automa-ton.
Work, occasional late-night drink, occasional late-night dinner, occasional late-night dread. Home, watch a little TV, bed. Now and then uncontrollable trembling.
Relax! They’re there, they’re there! Watching over me like guardian angels with guns.
But she knew someone else might be there, watching her.
Someone whose compulsion and psychotic game was watching and waiting. Someone clever enough and lethal enough.
She wished something would shatter the routine!
Or did she?
Another night or two, another newscast or two. Audience share was building like loan-shark interest, in quantum leaps.
She’d read in the Post how there were office polls that bet on her day of death and on how many times she’d be stabbed.
Oh, Christ!
It helped to fall asleep thinking about ratings.
Sometimes it was the only way.
Horn couldn’t think of anything more he might do to protect Nina, yet not alert the Night Spider.
“You’re not sleeping well,” Anne would tell him, before leaving for the hospital in the morning. At this point, he was sleeping mainly during mornings. And afternoons, when Nina Count was safely ensconced at the TV station. Captain Thomas Horn, working the night shift like a rookie cop or a precinct detective on a stakeout. In a strange way, it felt good. Maybe he wasn’t as old as he thought. Maybe age was a matter of thought and not time.
Maybe the Night Spider would try for Nina tonight.
Marla said it would happen, and probably soon. The ten-246
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sion would mount in the killer, the pressure would build.
Nina’s newscasts turned the valve up slightly higher every evening at six and eleven. Psychosis would become urgent, would vibrate like a boiler building steam, would become speculation then decision. Madness would become movement, like physics of the mind.
Marla said.
Anne said again, after leaning over the bed and kissing him on the lips, waking him all the way. “You’re not sleeping well.”
“Neither are you.”
“It’s the damned Vine family lawsuit. They
’ve filed more motions.”
“If you ever do go to trial, it’ll be months before you see the inside of a courtroom,” Horn assured her.
“It can’t be too soon for me. I want this over. I want to be vindicated.”
“You will be.” This wasn’t how she was talking before; she would have done anything to avoid a court fight.
“You really think so?”
“Sure,” Horn lied. He knew juries could do anything.
Make up their own laws, if they wanted. Juries were not in the least predictable, and they were as different from each other as snowflakes.
“I just want it to be over.”
He caught motion in the corner of his vision and heard the retreating tak, tak, tak of her high heels on the hardwood floor.
Unmoving on the bed, he closed his eyes and considered.
She wants vindication and legal absolution; assurance and recognition that she didn’t take away a child’s conscious life.
I want to stop a killer by preventing a murder; I want to save an unknown number of lives.
I want to change the future.
She wants to define the past.
But he knew he wasn’t being fair. Anne lived a life much NIGHT VICTIMS
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different from his. She moved in a different daily world with different priorities. It wasn’t a trivial thing, being sued for professional incompetence.
He listened to the front door open and close.
Knew she was locking it behind her. He at least imagined he could hear the snick of the dead bolt as she stood outside and turned her key. Locking something out, or in?
Security. At least the illusion of it. That’s about all you get in this world.
Horn fell back asleep, into dark dreams he knew were waiting. Intermission was over. Back to the nightly horror movie. Latest installment. Made for TV. Ratings. The whole thing was being fueled by ratings. Something blacker than night stirred, then turned toward him. Nina Count was waiting for him in his dreams.
Can you promise me that, Horn?
The Night Spider closed the door and locked it. He was inside his apartment. Safe. No one could stare at him here.
No one could wonder about him, or somehow know he was the one. Marked like Cain . . . marked like Cain . . .
Their eyes couldn’t find him here. He was safe.
But he knew he wasn’t safe. And he knew pieces of his soul were being bitten off and spat out for public spectacle.
Another evening of broadcast insult and humiliation. Questions—no, statements! —about his sanity and sexuality.
He emptied the contents of a large shopping bag onto the carpet, then sat cross-legged before them on the floor.
There was no point in wasting time. There was every reason not to waste time.
And every reason to be careful and daring.
He used his thumbnail to slit cellophane, open packages.
Then he studied what was spread out before him on the carpet.
Everything was here. Time to set to work. His time. His time was coming.
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He threaded the needle on the first try. He unwound about a yard of slender, strong thread from its spool.
By a thread . . . Her life hanging by a thread . . .
He began to sew, his fingers moving with incredible dex-terity and precision, faster and faster, never missing a stitch.
His unblinking gaze was fixed on his task. He moved to the rhythm of his breathing, the rhythm of his own dark cosmos.
Bony breast rising and falling . . . a soft hissing, like a bel-lows fanning flame.
By a thread . . .
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It would be tonight.
The weather report promised cloud cover and a sliver of moon. The Night Spider’s plans had been laid, the enemy measured. The resignation at last induced by constant fear.
Soon would come the stupor of the prey in the grasp of the predator. The prey was waiting, afraid and impatient, secretly wishing to be possessed at last.
And he knew she was waiting for him, growing restless in her anticipation. They cooperated with him toward the end, in their surrender. He knew by their eyes. Sometimes they grew eager. Death was magnetic.
After double-checking to make sure he was fully prepared, he slipped into a light silk windbreaker, dark like his slacks.
Cap pulled down, collar up. Ready. He opened the door and went out into the night, part of the night. Hell on the hunt.
For the first time in weeks he felt wonderful!
“Maybe he’s got this figured,” Paula said. “Maybe he’s too smart for us this time and won’t show. If he wants to, he can just sit back and let Nina crow.” 250
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Horn had expressed the same doubts that afternoon to Marla. Her confidence had remained unshaken.
“He can’t stay away from her much longer , ” he said now to Paula, echoing Marla’s words. “He’s trying to outwait us, lull us into complacency so he can take advantage of our carelessness. He’ll show. If we’re patient, he’ll cooperate. He has no choice.”
Paula wasn’t so sure. But Horn was the boss.
This time she was glad she wasn’t in charge.
She went to her station on the apartment building’s roof, out of sight just inside the slanted and slightly opened service door. When she positioned herself just so, she had an unobstructed view of most of the roof ’s dark expanse.
Getting as comfortable as possible, she settled down with her steel thermos full of coffee, her twelve-gauge shotgun, and her fear.
She found herself thinking about Harry Linnert, then tried not to.
A cop’s life. What am I doing here? Why me? How the hell did it happen?
A surflike rush of breeze flowed across the roof, warm as the night. Paula felt a bead of perspiration trickle down the side of her neck. She sighed and rested her hand closer to the gun.
Horn did his nightly inspection before settling down in his unmarked parked across the street, from which he directed the operation. Everyone was in place: undercover cops on the street, observers and sharpshooters on surrounding buildings, more undercover cops posing as building employees or tenants.
If the Night Spider appeared on the roof of Nina’s building, they would know. When he did his spider’s drop toward her window, he’d be observed every inch of the way. Gun sights would be trained on him in case anything went wrong.
There was no way he could get close to Nina Count. But if he did, there was a cop in her apartment as a last line of defense, a borrowed SWAT martial arts expert who, on signal, NIGHT VICTIMS
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would move into Nina’s bedroom and be waiting for whatever came through the window, while other cops closed in on the apartment fast.
Horn leaned back against the car’s soft cloth upholstery.
From where he was parked, he had a clear view of Nina’s apartment building.
He couldn’t help a slight amount of complacency. Inevitably in situations like this, it edged in. Repetition was to blame.
And this was another night exactly like the ones before. It was doubtful anything would occur. But he hadn’t let down his guard or weakened his defenses. The same precautions were in place tonight that had been here on the first night of the operation.
He tucked in his chin to speak into his two-way. “We’re up and running.”
Everyone acknowledged they’d heard.
Horn had the car’s windows down, so he lit a cigar and smoked it, using his cupped hand to conceal the glowing ember whenever he raised it above dashboard level. He was satisfied that Nina was safe.
Safe as anyone in her position could be.
Newsy, set up with his cameraman behind the window of the building across the street, waited and watched and smoked a filtered Camel. Like Horn, he had his hand cupped to conceal the glow of the ember.
He couldn’t help staring across the street at the face of Nina’s buildin
g as its lighted windows went dark one by one.
At 11:45 P.M., which was her usual bedtime, just after the news starring Nina, her own window went dark.
Newsy stepped back and to the side so he could light another cigarette off the one he’d smoked to a stub. His palms were moist. He wasn’t sure how he should feel or even how he did feel.
He wanted something to happen.
He was terrified that it might.
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The Benadryl hadn’t worked tonight. Nina wondered if she might be building up a resistance.
Several hours ago she’d finally drifted into restless half sleep and fragmented dreams. Then she’d come fully awake, wishing it were morning.
It was 3:03 A.M., according to the clock by the bed.
She lay in the dimness and listened to the muted sounds of the city late at night. New York might never sleep, but tonight it was doing a better job than Nina at skirting sleep’s edges. Right now there was only the distant whisper of traffic, barely audible, almost like a faraway ocean that occasionally surged closer, then withdrew. Life and time, coming almost within reach.
Her pulse seemed to throb too strongly throughout her body. She could almost hear her blood coursing through her veins, could hear it pounding in her ears. The blue hammer, doctors called the pulse. Pounding madly on its muted anvil.
The lump in her stomach took on weight.
Fear was a curious thing when it never went away, when it made its home in you. It might always be there, but you never got used to it. Not completely. It would lie almost dor-NIGHT VICTIMS
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mant, then grab you from the inside when you least expected it, almost as if it had a sadistic sense of humor that was a reflection of your own.
A car horn honked blocks away outside, startling her. But only momentarily. Now she felt reassured. At least somebody was out there going about normal activities. On the way to see a lover, to go home from a night job, to burgle a business, to—
She told herself to go back to sleep, she was safe. Horn knew his business, and there were cops all over the place outside and in the building. Even that cute one, Detective Lyons, in her living room, almost right outside her bedroom door.
