Darker Than Night

40

New York, 2004.

The Night Prowler read the quote again, feeling his anger build, and perhaps his fear. It was right there for the world to see on the front page of the Times, and attributed to the bastard Quinn:

He has some way of knowing whether his victims are married, even if the wife is using her maiden name. Which means he either has access to and knows how to use public records, or he and the victims had previous contact, possibly knew each other well.

The Night Prowler wadded the front section of the paper and hurled it toward a wastebasket. It missed. It didn’t matter. He didn’t believe in omens; he believed in destiny.

He stood up, walked to the window, and looked out into the night that belonged to him. The city was darkness and scattered points of light, each a false promise. There was little color in the night, but there was security.

According to all the literature, he was at the point in his “career” where he should be feeling intense pressure to kill more and more often, while he secretly yearned to be caught. He laughed out loud and didn’t like the way it sounded, almost like a cawing, and clamped his lips together.

The literature was only half-right. He didn’t at all wish to be caught. He’d anticipated the natural reactions within his mind and body, and the tricks of the mind the hunters tried to get you to play on yourself. Oh, he knew how to deal with them!

He was always mindful of the hunters, of Quinn. But he had to be. That was logical. It was caution, not stress.

He observed his reflection in the glass between himself and the night and a world that was mad. He smiled. After a pause his reflection smiled back. Everything was under control.

He turned away from the window and his gaze fell on the wadded newspaper on the floor near the wastebasket.

The media had their story line: Quinn, the hunter, versus the Night Prowler, the prey. And the prey should be feeling the pressure. Quinn had figured out something, so he must be closing in. Since he must be closing in, he must ultimately be successful. It worked out that way in movies, on TV, and in books.

But that was a scripted, different sort of destiny.

The Night Prowler smiled. Real life wasn’t that simple.

Neither was real death.

Death from a distance.

He’d figured out where to get a gun.

Lisa had put the yellow roses in a better vase and set them on the buffet in the dining room. She rearranged them carefully, until they were just right.

When Leon came home from the shop, where he’d worked later than she had, he glanced at them and smiled. “Beautiful,” he said. He took a more careful look at the Post folded beneath his arm, then tossed the paper on the coffee table. “So how was lunch with your old college pals?”

“Fine. Everyone still looks good. Janet is still beautiful, but Abby’s put on lots of weight.”

“She’s fat?”

“Some people might think so.”

“You always liked Janet better than Abby, didn’t you? I mean, from what you told me about them.”

“Janet was my roommate. She’s only in town visiting. She and her husband John live someplace called Morristown.”

“Sure. In New Jersey.”

“No. This one’s in Tennessee. She’s acquired this funny accent.”

Leon smiled. “I bet you sounded funny to her. She here on business?”

“Partly. She’s leaving in a few days.”

“Too bad.” Leon absently picked up the paper he’d tossed on the table. “Night Prowler. That’s all you read about or see on TV. Nothing but gossip that turns out next day or week not to be true. Where the hell is Walter Cronkite?”

“Somewhere on his sailboat, I imagine. And good for him.”

“The news is all sensationalism.” Back on the table went the paper.

“All about money.”

“Yeah, isn’t everything?” Leon didn’t sound unhappy about it. “You three girls talk about your love lives?”

“Leon! Of course we did.”

“So what’d you say about me?”

“Everything.” Lisa managed to get it out without laughing.

“Know what that means?”

“We have dinner out at the restaurant of my choice?”

“You got it,” Leon said. But he sat back on the sofa and worked his loafers off, using only his feet. Lisa wished he wouldn’t do that. It was hard on his shoes. One of them, anyway. “Before we leave, let’s have a drink.”

“I don’t want one,” Lisa said, “but I’ll get you one. There are martinis mixed in the refrigerator.”

“Thanks,” Leon said. “Straight up.”

So that was it for the roses. He didn’t ask about them, so he probably did buy them for me and secretly had the super let himself in and place them on the table. Well, if he doesn’t want to discuss them, neither do I. We can play this game forever. There are worse kinds of husbands than the sort who leave gifts lying around. Janet and Abby can eat their hearts out. Though Janet’s husband in that photograph is a nice-looking guy, some kind of war hero and engineer. He looks like a winner. The guy Abby’s living with is a geek who looks like he lost most of his hair to the mange.

Lisa decided to join Leon in a before-dinner cocktail, so she got two stemmed martini glasses down from the cabinet near the stove.

As soon as she opened the refrigerator door to get out the half-full mixer, she saw the decorative box of Godiva light chocolates, her favorite candy. There was a small red bow on the box, but no card.

She smiled and shook her head.

Oh, Leon…

Anna had been reading in bed, Bradlee’s unauthorized biography of Yehudi Menuhin, but she’d become restless and put down the book. Then she’d gotten up, paced awhile, and gone to the closet to get down her father’s gun that she’d sneaked from the house in Queens.

Back in bed, she lay again propped on her pillow, but instead of a book, it was the gun that rested heavily in her lap.

Anna had read the day’s papers, all of them. Quinn, Quinn, Quinn. His photo, his words, his lies, were everywhere. They were starting to make him a hero again. And his victim, whom they barely mentioned if at all…. Well, that was a long time ago.

To everyone else, anyway. Not to Anna.

She absently began stroking the gun, then realized what she was doing and stopped. According to the pop psychologists, a gun was supposed to be a penis substitute. Maybe it could be, but it was the deadly mechanical aspect of the pistol that intrigued Anna. She began squeezing the trigger over and over, letting the firing pin fall on empty chambers as the cylinder rotated. The mechanism sounded precisely the same each time—a muted, substantial metallic click.

This is one of the few things in life that works as it should, each time, every time, until time itself wears it out.

The gun was such an impersonal instrument—heavy for its size, precise in design and construction, oiled, smooth, efficient and deadly in its purpose. It didn’t know shooter from victim, right from wrong, justice from injustice. It simply fulfilled its purpose. Mechanical, irrevocable, it promised a trip to eternity, one-way, nonrefundable.

Eternity was where Quinn belonged, if for no other reason than that it was somewhere else. Somewhere Anna was not.

She climbed out of bed again, got the box of bullets down from the closet shelf, and carefully loaded the gun.

It felt better loaded, even heavier and more potent.

It felt serious.

Holding its cool bulk in both hands was definitely reassuring. She decided to start carrying it in her purse, or tucked in her belt beneath her blouse or raincoat. She knew it was illegal to carry a gun without a permit, but it made her feel safer. And it wasn’t just a feeling. Anna was sure that with it she was safer.

She reluctantly put the gun and the box of cartridges in the drawer of her nightstand. In doing so, she looked at the clock radio and saw that it was almost midnight. She wouldn’t get much sleep before subwaying into the city tomorrow morning. She wouldn’t be at her best for her lessons.

But that didn’t have to matter. Anna decided to get up at the usual time, dress, and go into the city, but she’d skip Juilliard tomorrow. She’d take a walk and enjoy the park or the city streets. When she went out now, she usually wore sunglasses so people wouldn’t recognize her. Not that most of them would, anyway. But if they did, she knew what they must be thinking, how they must be seeing her.

Her mind was made up; there would be no music tomorrow. She’d take a walk.

She’d find something to do.

She switched off her reading lamp, fluffed her pillow, and rolled onto her stomach.

If only I could switch off my mind!

She closed her eyes in the dark and found more darkness.

After a while she dozed off, hearing the music she wasn’t going to play, terrified of sleep.