Fear the Night

44

He was pleased by the results of his latest kill.

The Night Sniper settled back in the soft support of the leather sofa in his East Side luxury apartment, sipping expensive scotch and watching the plasma TV screen that took up much of the living room’s south wall. Local cable news was on, covering almost nothing other than the Libby Newland shooting.

The popular actress’s death had caused such outrage in the city that the police and political machines were running wild with frustration. The serious blond woman on the screen proclaimed this with exaggerated lip and chin motion, beneath eyes that were obviously reading. Many businesses were deserted after dark. They were reconciled to great financial loss and closed early every day. Serious Blonde segued to an interview with a mayoral aide, an angry-looking man with a shock of gray hair who said the city was considering shutting down the theater district. Those in the theater world could hardly object. Tickets were being scalped at a third of their box office price, and with Libby Newland’s death, fewer than half the seats were occupied. Tourism and business travel were dropping off precipitously. Aircraft were landing at JFK and LaGuardia with more empty seats than anyone had seen in a major airliner in years.

Wonderful!

The Night Sniper took a sip of aged single-malt scotch and congratulated himself. Things were going better than planned.

He stood up and carried his glass to the window that provided the broadest view of the night-bejeweled city and wondered who his next victim should be. The nursery rhyme required a doctor. He knew a doctor. In fact, he was currently having an affair with one.

Too close to the bone. Too risky.

Now wasn’t the time to increase risk; it was the time to reduce it.

Why not change the game at this point? Or at least the rules? The Night Sniper enjoyed the advantage and always would, if only he’d use that advantage. He who controls the rules controls the game.

He looked out over his vast view of the city and again pondered the identity of his next victim. Possibly his handpicked nemesis, Vincent Repetto?

No, not yet. Killing Repetto would almost be like destroying himself. Besides, it would precipitate a new game, and the Sniper was enjoying this one too much to end it and start over with new, untested opposition. Perhaps opposition that wasn’t up to the task.

Lora Repetto! There would be an interesting choice, the beloved wife who was now and then mentioned in the press as Repetto’s aide and confidante, and who herself had been fond of Repetto’s dead protege, Dal Bricker. Like a son to them. First a son, then a wife. Terrible loss. Poor Repetto.

But an even more terrible loss was possible. If Repetto couldn’t actually lose a son, he could lose a daughter. Amelia Repetto. Lora would blame her husband for their daughter’s death, and Repetto’s marriage would disintegrate before his eyes. First his daughter, then his wife would be lost to him.

Loss. The Night Sniper knew loss as Repetto never could. He caught a glimpse of his reflected self in the dark windowpane and felt his heart grow cold. Staring back at him was his other self, his true self.

He made himself smile, a death’s-head grin in the glass, and raised his tumbler of whiskey in a silent salute.

But the transparent figure in the glass didn’t raise his drink in response, and now appeared to be weeping. Loneliness. The glittering night world of the city was spread out behind him, and he was alone, fragile as the glass itself.

He turned away, swiping a tear from the corner of his eye with a finger of his free hand.

There on the TV was another City Hall spokesperson, this one a severe-looking middle-aged woman with dark bangs. She was speaking earnestly into a microphone held by one of the male journalists who appeared regularly on local TV, but too softly to be understood. The Night Sniper went to the sofa, picked up the remote, and increased the volume:

“. . for the Take Back The City rally,” the woman was saying. “It will be at Rockefeller Center on a date to be determined. Its purpose will be to demonstrate that life can go on as usual in New York despite the Sniper murders.”

“Has the mayor okayed this idea?” asked Media Man with the microphone, a male version of Serious Blonde.

“Not only has he okayed it,” said the woman with the bangs, “he’ll personally speak at the rally.”

The Night Sniper suddenly became as still as if he were sighting in on a difficult target.

A juicier target than either Lora or Amelia Repetto.

He switched off the TV and went into his combination office and collection room. With the practiced ease of a surgeon, he slipped thin, flesh-colored rubber gloves on his hands. From a cabinet beneath a bookshelf he got out the ancient Royal typewriter he’d bought at a roadside antique shop in New Jersey for twenty-five dollars. He’d made minor repairs on the manual typewriter himself, then bought a ribbon at an office supply store and fed it onto one of the old reels. The typewriter worked fine and was perfect for his purpose. Let the police trace the typeface of a fifty-year-old machine in the century of technology.

No point in wasting time. He placed the typewriter on his desk and got an envelope and sheet of paper from a bottom drawer. He addressed the envelope, then rolled the paper onto the machine’s platen.

The note he typed was brief:

Game changed. Stakes Higher.

When the paper was folded and sealed in the envelope, he placed the envelope in an inside pocket of one of his blue blazers. He removed the gloves from his hands and stuffed them into a side pocket.

After shrugging into the blazer, he lightly tapped its pockets to make sure nothing had fallen out.

Then he left to buy a theater ticket.