Fear the Night

57

Almost an hour passed before Bobby saw the homeless man who didn’t belong. He emerged from a dark passageway across the street, then headed in the opposite direction, away from Bobby.

Bobby squinted at the man. He was real, all right. He had to be real.

Playing it casual, Bobby walked several more steps before pausing and removing the cell phone from his pocket.

He pressed the power button and the tiny screen glowed dimly. One tiny rabbit icon. Still some battery power, anyway. Bobby had committed the phone number of the nearest precinct house to memory. № 6s. He punched out the number and listened to the phone ring on the other end of the connection.

As he did this, he slowly turned and began following the man across the street, staying on the opposite sidewalk and well back, almost out of sight.

He got through to someone who identified himself as Sergeant Britain.

“My name’s Bobby Mays,” Bobby said in a hoarse whisper, hoping the Amickson phone transmitted as clearly as it received. “I’m at Amsterdam and West Eighty-ninth Street, in Amelia Repetto’s neighborhood, and I’m following a man who might be the Night Sniper.”

“And why would you suspect him?” Sergeant Britain sounded remotely interested. Probably this wasn’t the only Night Sniper tip he’d received this evening.

“He’s wearing a long raincoat,” Bobby said. “One that could easily conceal a rifle. And he’s pretending to be one of us.”

“Us?”

“The homeless.”

“You’re one of the homeless?”

“That’s right. And he isn’t. I’m sure of it. I’m a former cop, a while back in Philadelphia. I got the eye. This isn’t a real homeless man.”

“Ex-cop?”

Was Britain hard of hearing? “Right. In Philly. Name’s Bobby Mays. I’ve seen this guy before and he doesn’t set right.”

“How so?”

“He isn’t one of us. He’s walking with too much haste and purpose.”

Britain waited a few seconds. “That’s it? Other than the long raincoat?”

“I’ve seen him before in the areas of some of the Night Sniper shootings.”

“So where is he and where are you?”

“I told you-”

“I mean, are you in a car or a building, looking out a window?”

“We’re both on foot. I’m following him along Eighty-ninth Street while I’m talking to you on my cell phone. He’s walking with too much haste and purpose.”

“You told me that. You say you’re homeless, so where’d you get a cell phone?”

“Bought it,” Bobby said. “Listen, this isn’t about me. It’s about-”

“We get a lotta calls,” Britain said. His disinterested gaze went idly to a photo of Yankees shortstop Derek Jeter that was hanging on the wall across from the desk. Jeter was grinning, holding a bat, and wearing an NYPD cap. Young stud millionaire, Britain thought enviously. Not a care. “I gotta check.”

Bobby forced calm on himself. “Yeah. Sure. But if you don’t do something this guy’s gonna get away from me. He’s average height, wearing a dark baseball cap, green or gray raincoat down almost to his ankles. Got a little hitch in his walk this time, as if he might be carrying a rifle in a sling.”

“My, you are observant.”

“I’ll stay on the phone,” Bobby said. “I’m gonna keep following him and talk you guys to him.”

“No, Mr. . ”

“Mays. Bobby Mays.”

“Right. Ex-cop, Philly. Don’t follow him, Mr. Mays. You understand me? That’s our job.”

“Damn it, you don’t believe me! I can tell.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“This time he’s real! I know it. He’s real!”

“This time? Real?”

“I told you there was another time. I even went to the police and tried to get them to listen.”

“Ah.”

Bobby didn’t like his tone. “Britain. Sergeant Britain. Please, listen, I-”

“You listen, Mr. Mays. I don’t want you hurt. I’ll see a car is sent. The police’ll take care of this matter. Stop following this man, whether he’s real or not. Don’t interfere in any way. I’m. . ’elling you for. .”

Britain’s voice was fading. Breaking up.

“Sergeant? You gotta take this seriously.”

“I. . ’sure you I am. .”

The tone of Britain’s voice changed; then the silence in the phone was no longer alive. Bobby lowered it from his ear and looked at the dimming screen. No rabbit. No power. Nothing but a tiny battery icon indicating that the phone needed charging.

The phone was dead.

At the other end of the connection, Sergeant Roland Britain realized he was now talking to himself.

“Don’t interfere in any way,” he said again into the phone, just in case the caller might hear.

He’s real this time.

There was no way Britain could recommend sending a car on the information he’d just been given. And from such a source.

He hung up and forgot about the call.

Disgusted, Bobby wiped his fingerprints from the dead cell phone and dropped it down a sewer grate.

For another two blocks he followed the homeless man who was walking too fast, who didn’t quite belong. Then he lost him.

He was like a shadow moving into another shadow, and he didn’t emerge.

Bobby retreated into a dark building nook and watched the street for a while, thinking maybe Britain would actually see to it that a car was sent to investigate his phone call.

But a car never came.

Not that Bobby saw.