Fear the Night

27

Meg changed into sweatshirt and pants and ate leftovers from the Chinese takeout she’d had for dinner night before last. She didn’t mind the hurry-up meal. Some of that Chinese stuff tasted even better after two days in the refrigerator and two minutes in the microwave.

When she was finished, she washed and dried the stainless steel fork and the empty milk glass she’d used, then put various white cardboard cartons into each other, then into the trash. After a gentle, ladylike burp, she went into the living room and switched on the TV to watch local twenty-four-hour cable news.

There was more on the Sniper killing of Kelli Wilson, with tape of onlookers at the crime scene. A brief shot of Repetto ignoring the media types; they might as well have been parking meters standing there. Meg had to smile.

She watched the news until a piece about a dog trapped by a rushing creek in New Jersey came on the second time. She waited until the dog was once again rescued with the aid of some sort of crane and sling; then she punched the remote. The dog, a mottled black spaniel of some kind, had its head turned and was gazing forlornly at her as the picture faded. It seemed almost as if it hadn’t wanted to be saved.

In the silence wrought by the remote, Meg yawned, got up from where she was slouched on the sofa, and ambled over to her desktop computer by the window. When she switched on the lamp, she saw her reflection in the dark glass, a weary, rather grim-faced young woman lowering herself into a chair. Meg almost expected the woman in the window to give her a nod of recognition and greeting.

When she’d booted up the computer and was online, there was an e-mail from Alex Reyals:

It was my great pleasure seeing you again, despite the circumstances.Alex

Polite. Even formal. Not at all threatening. Yet Meg sat shaken. How had he gotten her e-mail address? Did he have NYPD connections that good? Her hand went to the keyboard but her fingertips hovered half an inch above it.

She shouldn’t reply to him. She couldn’t!

Should she phone and demand to know how he’d discovered where to e-mail her? Not only might she learn more about him, it would give her an opportunity to talk with him again.

But that, too, seemed unwise, especially after her conversation with Repetto.

Finally Meg decided her only course of action was inaction. Her job, her professionalism, demanded that she let the Alex Reyals matter lie. At least until the Night Sniper investigation was resolved.

But what if he was guilty of murder?

She didn’t believe it, but the cop in her didn’t completely disbelieve it.

Nothing. All she could do was nothing, and hope she was right and Alex didn’t turn out to be the Night Sniper or a copycat killer. A killer whose advances she should have used to her advantage, to find him out and stop him from committing more murders.

Meg told herself again that Alex wasn’t involved in any way with the Night Sniper killings, or with any other murders. That was what she damned well believed.

She clung to that certainty.

Near-certainty.

She shut down the computer, watched a TV reality show so inane she muted the last five minutes, then went to bed.

It was a long time before she dozed off, and then her sleep was shallow and laced with dreams and worries. Whenever she rose to the surface of wakefulness, she tried to concentrate on practical matters and control her errant thoughts.

Thoughts about Alex.

It was my great pleasure seeing you. .

The Night Sniper lay in bed in almost total darkness and made no sound, watching the woman from Club Cleo collect her clothes from the floor and chair and tiptoe nude into the bathroom.

As she silently closed the door behind her, he glimpsed her shapely form that was subtly highlighted by the night-light, giving it a lushness he remembered from only hours ago. He glanced again at the red numerals on the clock by the bed. It was 3:30 in the morning. A quiet time.

He lay listening to his heartbeat, the occasional noises from the street far below, and the faint sounds of Mary Maureen dressing behind the bathroom door.

Then the door opened on darkness except for the illumination of the dim night-light. She’d switched off the light above the mirror beforehand, not wanting to wake him. He lay with his eyes open, knowing he was in shadow, and observed her move silently across the room, then go out without looking back.

A minute later he heard the soft sounds of the door to the hall opening and closing.

He switched on the lamp by the bed and sat up.

Other than thrown-back sheets, and impressions in the mattress and pillow, there was no sign that the woman had been in bed with him. He climbed out of bed nude and went into the bathroom. No note, no message in lipstick on the mirror. Nothing. He padded quickly, barefoot, into the living room.

Nothing seemed to have been disturbed. The woman had simply left quietly, sneakily.

He wondered if he’d satisfied her. She’d seemed to enjoy everything they’d done. She’d stroked his face as he was fucking her, moaned unintelligible vows. Her passion had been real and transforming.

But she had left him in the night.

He knew what must have happened. She’d seen him for what he’d been, for what he was, the ugliness so near the surface , the differentness.

Some things are indelible, he thought.

Some things are forever.

He cupped his face in both hands, squeezing until it hurt, and he began to sob.

Over an hour passed before he stood up and trudged back to bed. But exhausted as he was, he couldn’t sleep. He climbed out of bed and began to pace, drank a glass of milk, paced some more. Tried to read. Tried to watch television. Paced.

Cleaned his rifles.