Night Victims

21

It hadn’t taken long for Horn to find out about Rett Jackson, the suspect in Philadelphia.

Horn’s source with the Philadelphia police called him back within an hour and told him Jackson had finally fallen victim to an old war wound. The previous year he’d had a steel rod inserted in his spine, as well as a complete knee replacement. All were delayed problems resulting from injuries sustained when the man in front of him stepped on a mine, blowing shrapnel and bone fragments into Jackson’s lower body. Horn was informed that Jackson had walked with the aid of a cane since his hospitalization.

Not a climber. Not nimble enough to dangle on a line and use tape and a glass cutter, then silently raise a window and steal into a victim’s bedroom without waking her.

So there were only two suspects left on the list Altman gave Horn. It seemed the CIA agent’s assurances that the Night Spider was unconnected to the secret Special Forces unit were correct.

Horn was sitting in the leather armchair in his living room contemplating this when the jangle of the phone broke into his thoughts. Not the cell phone, but the landline phone he’d used to talk to his source in Philadelphia. As he lifted the receiver, he wondered how long phones would still have cords in this rapidly changing world.

“This is Nina Count,” the caller said, after Horn had identified himself. “Do you remember me, Captain Horn?”

“I wouldn’t forget you, Nina. And I see you often on cable news.”

“Which is why I’m calling. To ask for confirmation, as you’ve been good enough to come out of retirement to ramrod the investigation into the Night Spider murders.”

“I’m not so sure ‘ramrod’ is the word.” But close. “I’m acting in more of an advisory capacity.”

“Ah, the official line. You’re being modest, Captain Horn.”

And you’re fishing. “What is it you want confirmed, Nina?”

“That you’ve consulted with the famous alpinist Royce Sayles.”

“Is ‘Alpinist’ a real word?”

“I don’t know. That’s not what I need confirmed.”

So full of drive and duplicity, these media types. Nina Count among the worst of them. “I didn’t think you’d drop the subject.” And you know the answer or you wouldn’t be asking the question. “Yes, I did consult with Sayles about the Night Spider case. You can say he was helpful.”

“Are you making any real progress on the case?” she asked in a confidential tone that meant nothing. “I mean, will you confide in me instead of handing out the usual media bullshit you give the other news hounds?”

“Why would I treat you differently?”

“You like me.”

That was true, Horn had to admit to himself. Nina had more daring and imagination than any of her competitors. She’d once crashed one of the mayor’s private dinner parties and sent back the wine. Horn thought she would have made a great cop. “I think you’re full of more piss and vinegar than the rest of them, Nina. Like a crazy aunt I was fond of as a kid. But you didn’t answer my question, and I’m going to be as persistent in asking it as you would.”

She laughed. “Okay, nephew. You should treat me differently and confide in me because I’ll confide in you. We should work together.”

“If you have something to confide and don’t, Nina, you might be guilty of concealing evidence of a crime. I wouldn’t want to see you get in trouble with the law.”

“I don’t have anything to confide yet, but I might. And you know us members of the news media, how we don’t have to divulge our sources or tip our hands.”

Horn thought about this. “Nina, are you planning on being up to something?”

“I am, Captain Horn. And when you see what it is, you’ll want to talk with me in the worst way.”

“To read you your rights?”

Again the laugh. “I know my rights. Watch my news reports. Tell your friends and relatives. I can always use the ratings.”

“Nina, ratings aren’t worth your life. This Night Spider psycho is more dangerous than you know.”

“You’re worried about my safety?”

“You bet I am.”

“When you’re ready,” she said in an amused voice, “let me know and we’ll cooperate and nail this sick fuck.”

“Nina-”

“Loved talking to you, Captain.”

And she hung up and left him with a buzz in his ear.

And a new worry on his mind.

“That was the lawyers,” Joe Vine said, hanging up the phone. “The subpoenas have been served.”

His wife, Cindy, was wearing her faded red bathrobe and sitting with her knees drawn up in a corner of the sofa. They’d had hamburgers for lunch, and the scent of the fried beef and onions still permeated the apartment. “I wish Alan would get well and come home so none of this was necessary.”

“We all wish that,” Vine said, irritated. He’d hoped she’d cheer up when she learned the lawsuit was going forward. “Don’t you think I wish that?”

“Of course I do. I know you’re suffering just like me. But I also think you want revenge.”

“Sure, I want them to pay for what they did to Alan. Especially that bitch in charge of the radiology department.”

“That’s what I mean, Joe. With you it’s personal.”

“Personal is our son lying in a hospital bed for weeks without moving unless somebody turns him over. Personal is me listening to you grinding your teeth all night while you whimper with bad dreams. And personal is me having to listen to you imply I care more about revenge and money than I do about our son.”

“I didn’t mean it that way, Joe, and you know it.”

“Stop telling me what I know.”

She looked away and wrapped her arms tightly around her bent knees, gently rocking back and forth. “I’m afraid for Alan. I’m afraid of what your hate might do to us, Joe. I’m afraid of courts and lawyers. I can’t help it, I’m fucking afraid!”

“This might not even get to court. The hospital might try to settle.”

“They already tried once.”

“Cindy? Stop rocking! You look like a goddamn nutcase!”

She seemed to hear only her own internal rhythm.

“Cindy? Honey? Damnit! Answer me!”

She did, in a mumble he couldn’t understand. She was talking more and more like that lately, as if they were speaking underwater and she was drifting away from him.

He leaned closer. “Cindy?”

She mumbled again. It sounded something like “God help us.”

“A subpoena!” Anne cried to Horn that evening as soon as she came home from work. “For Christ’s sake, a subpoena!” Stress had clenched her face like a fist. A strand of blond hair stuck out above one ear, while another dangled over her forehead. She slammed the door behind her, shutting out the world beyond the brownstone.

“I’ve seen them before,” Horn said, staying calm, hoping it would be catching. He put the Cuban cigar he’d been contemplating taking outside to smoke back in his pocket, then gently pried the envelope she was waving around from her hand.

He unfolded the document inside, kinked from the pressure of her tense fingers, and scanned it.

“Court date’s not for two months,” he said, handing the subpoena back to her. “Give yourself some time to think about this, Anne. Plenty of things can happen over two months.”

“Such as?”

“A settlement.”

“You don’t seem to understand that I, the radiology department, the ER personnel, the hospital, have done nothing wrong!”

“I do understand. I’m usually the one trying to reassure you of that. Remember, you were telling me the other day about how guilty you felt.”

She gave him a weary, disdainful look, then turned her back on him and trudged up the stairs, moving like an arthritic.

“Feeling and knowing are two different things,” she said without looking back.

They are, Horn thought. They surely are.

He took the cigar back out of his pocket and went outside to smoke and walk, and think.