Night Victims

16

When Horn walked into the Home Away that morning, Paula and Bickerstaff were already there, occupying the booth where they’d sat before, where private conversations wouldn’t be overheard. He wondered how many trysts, confessions, and conspiracies had taken place in the booth over the years.

Horn said good morning then slid into the booth, taking the smooth wooden seat across from the two detectives. Marla came over and placed a cup of coffee before him. Paula and Bickerstaff already had coffee. There was a scattering of crumbs on the table. A plate with a fork on it smeared with egg yellow was in front of Bickerstaff, a smaller plate with half a slice of buttered toast in front of Paula. Marla topped off the coffee then began picking up plates and clearing the table of silverware except for spoons, stacking everything on a tray she’d placed on an adjacent table.

“Toasted corn muffin,” Horn told her.

“I know. It’s on the grill.”

After Marla brought Horn’s breakfast, along with a napkin and flatware for him, she considerately went back behind the counter to read a newspaper and wait for another customer. She would pump Horn for information later. He wondered again what her background was, and what had brought her here to the kind of job that sometimes provided escape and anonymity. Hell of a city, Horn thought. Half the people waiting tables were also waiting for a break so they could rise to success as actors, writers, dancers. The other half, if they weren’t simply working a job to pay the bills, had never gotten their break, or had been broken themselves.

Horn slathered butter on a muffin half, watching it melt almost immediately and penetrate the toasted surface. “I was paid a visit by a guy named Luke Altman.” He glanced up from the muffin at his two companions, who made faces and shrugged to indicate Altman’s name hadn’t struck a chord.

Between bites, Horn described his meeting with Altman.

“Guy has to be CIA,” Bickerstaff said, when Horn was finished talking.

“As much as said so,” Paula agreed. “That’s as much as you get from them, because a spook never says anything right out. Sounds like your phone call to the number Sayles gave you stirred up something.”

“The question is,” Horn said, “did what it stir have anything to do with the Night Spider murders?”

“You’ll never get the answer from Altman,” Paula said. “You’ll probably never see him again. CIA spooks are like that. We had one in New Orleans turned out to be watching a potential terrorist. He set up the guy for us, then totally disappeared. We had his man on narcotics possession. Third time. He’ll be in jail another twenty years. End of terrorist threat. The CIA let us and the local courts do their work for them.”

“Tom Sawyer,” Bickerstaff said.

Paula stared at him. Was something going around that kept people from saying things directly?

“You painted the CIA’s fence.”

“I get it. Twain.”

“It happened more than once?”

Horn interrupted before Paula and Bickerstaff got into what he’d come to recognize as another of their frequent dustups that were mostly, but not all, good-natured ribbing. “The CIA and FBI catch a lotta crap from people who don’t know what they’re talking about. They have their screwups, but they’re a helluva lot more effective than some people seem to think. Point being, if Altman is CIA, the possibility the Night Spider’s in the military could be bad news for Night Spider.”

“Point being,” Paula said, “we might just be duplicating their efforts if we don’t veer from the military angle and concentrate on the civilian population.”

“Just what Altman said,” Horn pointed out. “More or less. Also pretty much what Assistant Chief Larkin said, when I met with him last night.” He looked at Paula and Bickerstaff, anticipating their questions. “Larkin says we’ve made a splendid beginning, which means he wishes we were further along.”

Paula took a last sip of coffee and made a face. “Everybody’s so fucking cryptic.”

“It’s the times,” Bickerstaff said. He craned his neck so he could peer toward the front of the diner, then summoned Marla over from where she was reading her paper.

Ordered a toasted corn muffin.

Monkey see, Paula thought.

After Paula and Bickerstaff had left Horn to another cup of coffee and, they were sure, another muffin as soon as they drove away, Marla sauntered over and topped off Horn’s cup.

“Making progress?” she asked.

“We won’t know for sure until we know for sure.”

“Is that another old cop saying?”

“Yeah. It means we can’t know what’s valuable until it turns out to be gold.”

“Like in life.”

Horn grinned. “Very much so.”

“Seriously, are you getting anywhere?”

He filled her in, telling her only what he thought she should know. He didn’t mention his conversation with Altman.

As he talked, she looked at him in the sunlight that revealed every moment of his age. Still a handsome man, but he was older than she was and married. Yet Marla couldn’t deny the attraction that was growing in her. And she knew, in the way the heart sensed these things before the mind, that he was attracted to her. She also knew the attraction shouldn’t lead anywhere, should remain-as such feelings usually did-between people who were already attached-sort of low-grade infections of heart and groin, held in check by common sense.

“I asked you about yourself the other day,” Horn said, sitting back and relaxing in the booth. “You seemed hesitant to answer.”

He can read my mind, the way lovers do. “Still am, I guess.”

“Then I’ll drop it.”

She knew she should turn away and walk back behind the counter, but for some reason she couldn’t move. The soles of her shoes might as well have been glued to the floor.

“I was a psychoanalyst in my previous life,” she said.

He looked up at her, surprised. “Can I ask why you changed careers?”

“You mean, was it booze or was it drugs?”

“Or sex,” he said, playing with her now, letting her know that whatever had brought her down, he wasn’t going to judge her.

Giving her a way out.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” she said with a grin. They were customer and waitress again, trading friendly barbs to pass the time, to show they were buddies.

“Should I call you Dr. Marla?” He was still joking; it was in his eyes.

“It’s Dr. Winger,” she said. “But just Marla will be fine.”

Horn sat staring up at her. Jesus! She means it!

Marla gave him a parting grin and made her way back behind the counter, feeling safer there, less vulnerable. She needed the counter as a barrier. Why did I reveal myself? Who will he tell? There’s no going back now. . no going back. .

She looked over; he was still watching her, sipping his coffee. Her face was calm, professionally blank, but her heart was banging and banging away. Her blood was rushing and she felt flushed, felt as if she’d just accepted a dangerous dare. Why did I open up that way? Why did I confide in him?

But Marla knew why. It was because she trusted him. It made no sense. It was trust based on emotion and not logic.

Worse still, she realized with a pang that seemed to cleave her heart, he was the only person in this fucked-up world she did trust.

What she feared most, because of where it might take her, where it might leave her, was trust.