Darker Than Night

59

There was a muted cracking sound from outside the car, and a louder crack as a small hole appeared low in the passenger-side window. The sounds were so close together it was impossible to know which came first. Fedderman said, “What the fuck?” and held out a bloody hand, then slumped forward.

Pearl figured it out right away but couldn’t accelerate out of trouble because of stopped traffic ahead. The car jerked to a halt. Quinn rammed a thumb down and unbuckled his seat belt. “Get down, Pearl!” He slid low behind the front seats.

Another shot sounded off to their right.

Quinn heard Pearl shouting into the radio, loud but not frantic. “Ten-thirteen, shots fired, officer down! Eighty-sixth and Central Park West!”

She repeated the call for help, which would immediately attract every cop within blocks.

“Feds,” Quinn said, “you hit bad?”

“His arm, I think,” Pearl said.

“Upper arm,” Fedderman said. “I got the bleeding stopped. Can’t you move the fuckin’ car, Pearl?”

“Sure. Other than the motor’s dead and we’re blocked in.” Another shot. “I can’t see him. I can’t see him, dammit!”

Quinn sat up straighter and saw the top of her head above the level of the dashboard as she peered into the park trying to spot the shooter. “Get down, Pearl!”

“I can’t see the motherfucker.”

“Down, Pearl. Goddammit, get down!”

Another shot. The rearview mirror suddenly became detached and whizzed and whirled, clattering around the confines of the car like a gigantic insect trying to escape. The passenger-side window turned milky as the deflected bullet snapped over the slumping Fedderman.

Pearl got down.

It had been quiet but for the shooting. Now sirens were yodeling all around them. There were shouts and blaring horns outside. A siren so near and loud it hurt Quinn’s ears, and the screech of tires as a vehicle braked hard.

The siren growled and grumbled to silence. Quinn cautiously raised his head and saw a police cruiser directly alongside. He pointed toward the park, and the cop riding shotgun nodded. The two uniforms piled out and the near one took shelter behind the cruiser, while the other jogged bent low toward the stone wall that ran along the edge of the park.

“Stay low and call again for an ambulance,” Quinn said to Pearl as he worked the door handle and prepared to slide out of the car.

“Radio’s damaged. They know Fedderman’s shot and should be sending medical.”

“Look after him till they get here.”

“Look after yourself, Quinn. Remember your heart.”

Quinn knew she was right about an ambulance being on the way, but he wanted to make sure, so he used his cell phone to verify the request. Then he was aware of his heart fluttering like a panicked bird in his chest. But what else would you expect? It was the rush of adrenaline. And there was no pain.

He stayed low, opened the door, and eased out of the car to join the uniform hunkered behind the patrol car. Smashed sunglasses lay flat on the pavement near one of the cops’ regulation black shoes. Quinn could see other units that had responded. Sirens were still wailing and an ambulance with lights flashing was picking its way like a broken-field runner through stalled traffic on Central Park West.

Slowly the cop behind the car stood up straight. His partner was still crouching with gun drawn behind the low wall. Beyond him, Quinn could see blue-uniformed figures moving among the trees in the park. The cop next to him, an old-timer with gray tufts of hair sticking out from beneath his cap, looked at Quinn and said, “All the noise we made, the shooter’s shagged ass outta here by now.”

Quinn nodded, feeling a lot of tension flow out of him. It had been a while since the last shot was fired, and a virtual army of blue was on the hunt in the park.

He walked around the unmarked to see how Fedderman was doing. Behind him, he heard the gray-haired cop say, “Stepped on my fuckin’ glasses.”

The paramedics were already moving Fedderman out of the car and working him around so he could lie on a stretcher.

Pearl was also out of the car and had come around to Fedderman’s side. She touched Quinn’s shoulder lightly as if to assure herself he was solid and all right; then he was aware of her moving away.

“It’s just my arm,” Fedderman kept saying, trying to sit up. One of the paramedics, a guy with biceps the size of thighs, gently forced him back down.

“Call Alice and tell her I’m gonna be okay,” Fedderman said, looking up at Quinn.

Quinn nodded. “Soon as you’re in the ambulance.”

“Get her on the phone now. I can tell her myself.”

The oversize paramedic shook his head no.

“Sorry, Feds,” Quinn said. “He’s bigger’n I am.”

“Bigger’n anybody.”

“You better cooperate and let them stop that bleeding.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” Suddenly pale, as if what happened had finally caught up with him, Fedderman settled down flat on the stretcher and remained motionless while they strapped him in and transported him to the ambulance.

There had been a lot of blood, but Quinn didn’t think the bullet wound was life threatening.

Still, you never knew for sure until the doctors got to you.

A uniform came over and handed Quinn a slip of paper. “Number for you to call.”

Quinn thanked him. He didn’t recognize the phone number written on the paper, but he figured the call would be from Renz. He looked over to where Pearl was filling in a couple of plainclothes detectives as to how the shooting occurred. There were people who looked like reporters huddled around them, but, so far, no TV camera crews had arrived. Quinn decided he’d call Renz back and then get out of there before TV did close in and spot him.

It occurred to him that he was the one tracking a killer. The one who’d just been shot at. And he was the one running from the press as if guilty of something.

Quite a world. Upside down.

It wasn’t Renz who answered Quinn’s call; it was Egan. He’d know about the shooting. When a cop was shot anywhere in the city, it didn’t take long for the word to spread.

“Where are you, Quinn?”

“Outside the park on Central Park West. Shooter was inside the park, firing out.”

“I thought maybe you were the one that got shot.”

Hoped, more like it. “Pearl and I are okay. Fedderman took one in the upper arm.”

“You think the Night Prowler was the shooter?”

“Yeah, I think we can be sure of that.”

“Does anybody in that fucked-up situation think he can be nailed before he gets out of the park?”

“No, and there’s not much chance of it. He was probably out of the park before we went in after him. And even if he stayed in the park, he’d be hard to find. It’s gonna be completely dark soon.”

“Far as you’re concerned, it already is completely dark. You gonna be there awhile?”

“Not much longer. Soon as Pearl and I are done here, we’ll drive to the hospital to check on Fedderman. I’ve gotta call his wife.”

“Okay. Stick at the hospital till I see you there. I wanna talk. I want you to listen.”

“I’ll be there.”

“You better.”

“And Fedderman’s gonna be okay. Thanks for asking.”

Quinn cut the connection.

The Night Prowler sat on the subway, which was rattling its way downtown. He tried to look relaxed. It wasn’t easy. The risk he’d taken! If he hadn’t been alert, even lucky, and made his way out of the park several blocks away on Central Park West, they might have had him. Quinn might have won.

He concentrated on sitting still and looking at the ghostly reflection of his pale face in the opposite dark window. The man in the window, with the darkness sliding past behind him, appeared calm, but tension was running through his body like a spasmodic electrical current. The gun was an unyielding lump beneath his belt at the small of his back, concealed by his untucked shirt. The gun.

He’d missed! He was sure of it!

He’d assumed the detective in the car’s front passenger seat would be Quinn, but the second he squeezed the trigger and caught a glimpse of the man’s profile, he knew it was the other one—Fedderman.

The trailing shots had gone into the stalled car; he was sure of that but couldn’t know if any of the bullets found their mark.

He could hope they had, but that was all. Soon as he got back to his apartment, he’d check TV news. Surely, Channel One would have something on the Central Park shooting. And the other local channels might break into regular programming.

This fucking city will jump to attention when I make it jump!

The Night Prowler shook his head, causing a woman seated on the other side of the subway car to glance up at him curiously, then quickly look away.

He struck a casual pose, a bored expression, while his mind worked furiously. What am I thinking? That’s not what this is about, making the city jump. That’s not what I’m about.

He needed, first of all, to find out about Quinn. Maybe Quinn was dead. It was difficult to imagine, but maybe one of the wild shots into the car had struck him in a vital spot. Maybe he was at least wounded.

Stress.

He could feel the word even as he thought it. Could feel it insinuating itself throughout mind and body. He knew he had to hold stress at bay so he could function at the high level he demanded. That his mission demanded.

Benzene.

But lately the fumes that had carried him to a placid and advanced mental state hadn’t worked their magic as quickly or as well. The body adapted to everything eventually; the Night Prowler knew that.

But he had to do something to relieve his stress. And soon.

Knowing Quinn was dead would help immensely. Would change the world.

But right now he looked down and saw that his hands were trembling in his lap.

The train lurched and slowed and light crept in at the edges outside the dark windows.

His stop.

Almost home.

Alice Fedderman took the news like a cop’s good and faithful wife, stricken with worry but with a calmness about her.

She’d been expecting this for years. Any phone call, long ago and long forgotten, might have brought her the same news. And now here it was.

But not as bad as it might have been. That was the kind of thing you told yourself, that you grabbed hold of and clung to at a time like this.

Her husband was alive.

She was on her way to the hospital and not the morgue.