Night Victims

41

More than anything, Alice Duggan wanted to die, to escape the pain. Her entire body seemed to be on fire. She couldn’t cry out, with the heavy tape over her mouth. She no longer even tried. Only lay still, listening to her own whimpers, praying for it all to end.

The bed creaked as the dark, lithe figure beside her moved to the side of the mattress and straightened up. She barely paid attention to it-to him-now. The pain was inside her forever, and he was merely a dark, moving shape in her nightmare. It was horrible, he was horrible, but even in horror, in terror, there was a saturation point. There must be!

And now there was the hope, the knowledge, that it would soon be over, that the nightmare the world had become would fade and disappear, as would she. Alice would no longer be Alice. Alice would be safe.

In the blurred lower edge of her vision she saw the lean figure standing before her dresser. Preening in the mirror?

No, picking up something. A statuette.

On Alice’s dresser were two twelve-inch-tall plaster figures: one was Fred Astaire, the other Ginger Rogers. Alice had fallen for them as soon as she’d laid eyes on them at the

Twenty-sixth Street flea market. They’d adorned her dresser for more than a year. Sometimes, when she was in a role that required a hairpiece, she used Fred as a wig stand.

But the nightmare intruder had reached toward the right side of the dresser. It was Ginger he was holding, hefting it in his hand as if testing for weight.

He returned to the bed where Alice lay whimpering.

She saw him raise Ginger and closed her eyes.

The heavy plaster statuette crushed the bridge of Alice’s nose. She felt blood spurt warmly from it and run down onto her neck. More blood began trickling at the back of her throat, then suddenly flowed heavily. She tried to spit it out, but the backwash from where it was blocked by the tape across her mouth made her swallow. She choked, gagged, frantically tried to spit out the blood again but couldn’t. The mattress and springs began shuddering and making a low, fluttering sound. Her body began to tremble and rock so hard she momentarily levitated off the bed.

The blood flow continued. She had no choice but to inhale, to try desperately to breathe. It was instinctual, automatic, to inhale and expect air. To struggle to live.

Alice began to drown.

“I knew this one,” Horn said to Marla. “Not personally. I saw her onstage. She was the stand-in for the star in Leave Her, Take Her, She’s Mine”

“Broadway?”

“Off.”

“Uhm.”

“Why did he beat as well as stab her?” Horn asked.

The Home Away had closed, and he and Marla were walking along dark streets to her subway stop. The media were alive with news of Alice Duggan’s murder. night spider on the hunt again! the Post proclaimed in a gigantic headline. The story was above the fold in the Times. There were long-winded speeches in the state capitol and at

City Hall about reviewing procedures to transfer prisoners. Television pundit panels wondered how it could be-how it could conceivably be-that a serial killer so lethal hadn’t been under constant guard and in direct view of law enforcement eyeballs. Was it incompetency or conspiracy that had led to Mandle’s escape? Alice Duggan’s parents in Pittsburgh were interviewed every time they ventured out of their house. “New York,” Rollie Larkin had remarked dryly to Horn in his office, “is getting press like John Rocker’s revenge.”

Horn listened to the regular clacking of Marla’s heels on the pavement as he strolled beside her. She hadn’t answered his question immediately. It wasn’t an easy one.

“If I had to guess,” she said finally, “and I do, I’d say Mandle wanted to disfigure his latest victim for two reasons: He wanted to show you what he was going to do to Anne, to taunt you, and he wanted to further terrify Anne.”

“I feel taunted,” Horn said. “And I sometimes wish Anne were more terrified so she’d agree to go into hiding.”

“She’s confused right now as well as scared, and trying hard to establish her independence after years of marriage.”

“She always had plenty of independence,” Horn said a bit defensively.

“I’m talking more about her mental state than whether she pretty much did what she wanted.”

They walked for a while without talking. Horn wondered if he’d irritated Marla with his claim of Anne’s independence.

But no; she’d been thinking.

“Another possibility,” Marla said, “is that Mandle is changed after his conviction and escape. That now there’s an even stronger element of rage in his murders.”

“He did beat one of the guards from the van in the face and head,” Horn said. “I’d say he was enraged that night.” A taxi swerved to the curb near them and the driver leaned down so he could peer out at them like a lonely puppy, offering to save them some steps. Horn shook his head no and waved the cab away, and was made slightly uneasy by how much he didn’t want his stroll with Marla interrupted.

“Maybe Mandle’s wounded and in physical pain,” Marla said. “Exacerbating his anger.”

“If he’s wounded,” Horn said, “it’s minor and doesn’t affect his strength or agility. His MO was the same as always, except for the battering he gave his victim.”

“Was she alive at the time?”

“Yes. Losing blood fast but alive. The knife wounds hadn’t killed her yet.”

“Rage,” Marla said.

“Or callousness. He might be a stone killer who simply doesn’t care if his victim’s alive or dead at the time of disfigurement.”

“Stone killer?”

“Cop talk for somebody who’d just as soon kill another human being as munch a piece of toast. There’s something missing in certain people. They don’t relate to the rest of the human race. Like we don’t relate to bugs and just step on them or kill them with insecticide, then forget about them within minutes. Stone killers sleep well at night no matter what kind of hell they’ve created during the day.”

“Sociopaths.”

“Yeah. And something more. Not all sociopaths are killers. Some become successful corporate raiders or great NFL linebackers.”

“It must be truly liberating, being free of all human concern.”

“It’s probably addictive,” Horn said. “And it leads to the kind of hubris that contributes to serial killers being caught.” He reached into an inside pocket for a cigar, then decided against it. He understood the reluctance of many people, women especially, to endure cigar smoke indoors or out. Now wasn’t the time to find out how Marla felt about it.

“You mentioned insects,” Marla said. “It’s interesting, Mandle’s identification with spiders. And what came out during the trial, his history with his mother and the significance of spiders in her religion.”

“I’m sure if we were to dig through history we’d come up with some ancient cult of the spider,” Horn said. “Or maybe Mandle’s mother saw an old movie and it set her off because she was on the edge to begin with. People are afraid of spiders, and fascinated by them.”

“Fascinated because of their fear.”

“Definitely.”

“Spiders and snakes; religion and mothers. It’s no wonder we have serial killers. They’re created in childhood. The mechanism’s probably wound and set when they’re very young.”

“I’m not so much interested in how or why Mandle ticks,” Horn said, “as in stopping him from ticking.”

“There’s something else I think you should take into account,” Marla said. “You have to concentrate on guarding Anne because Mandle might be watching her, formulating a plan. But he also might be watching you.”

“What makes you say that?”

“The way he talked about you during the trial. He was full of hate for you. Obsessed.”

“I noticed.”

They were at Marla’s subway stop. The night was warm and clear, but thunder was bumping and rolling in the distance somewhere over New Jersey. It was a celestial reminder that no one was ever really safe anywhere. Lightning was whimsical.

She looked up at him. “I worry about you, Horn.”

He was surprised, not so much by her words but by the way they were spoken, like a confession. And by the look on her face. Horn didn’t know what to say, but he found himself wondering what would happen if he suggested he take her all the way home. Home and inside.

“I’d like to tell you not to worry,” is what he did say, “that I don’t want you to. But I can’t. A part of me’s glad you’re thinking about me that much.”

And a part of me doesn’t want to do this. A part of me still hasn’t given up on Anne.

Marla seemed to know what he was thinking, sensing his hesitancy and the reason for it. And he saw something else in her eyes, some sudden fear of intimacy, not only with him but with anyone. What’s your secret, Marla?

“I’d better get down to the platform,” she said. “My train’s about due. I’ve got them timed.”

He nodded and touched her shoulder. She smiled but turned away abruptly to discourage any further contact, then started down the concrete steps to the token booth and platform.

Horn stood watching her until she was out of sight, thinking she was probably right about Mandle observing him, following him.

He wondered if it would occur to her that he might have been followed tonight.

As soon as Marla entered her apartment, she went to where a bottle was tucked away on a top shelf of a kitchen cabinet.

It had been a gift, Crown Royal in a fancy box. She pried open the box’s flaps and removed the bottle, used a knife to slit the seal, then uncapped it.

She’d never intended to do this. The bottle was only on the shelf as a reminder, a temptation resisted on a daily basis. But she understood that self-delusion, even as she allowed it of herself. A part of her knew that she and the bottle might share an experience in a dark future.

She stood and poured the magic amber liquid down the sink drain, observing it swirl and disappear, growing more afraid as she watched.

Sociopaths, stone killers, serial killers, they knew about addiction.

So did she.

Years ago, one of her patients, an angry, middle-aged advertising salesman named Arnold Vernon, had followed her advice and calmly confronted his wife about her suspected infidelity. He’d progressed well in his therapy, and Marla was sure he was ready to manage such a situation.

She’d had the measure of her patient, but something unexpected happened-and continued to happen in Marla’s dreams.

Mrs. Vernon responded by strangling their infant daughter.

Arnold Vernon responded by stabbing his wife to death, then slashing his wrists.

Marla responded by drinking her way out of her profession.

She’d finally gotten her alcoholism under control and kept it there. Under control enough, anyway. She could hold down a job, function in life from day to day.

She was afraid now of how she was beginning to feel about Horn. Why the fuck did his wife have to leave him? Now Marla was even more frightened by what she might be losing if she fell into the bottle again. Not just another waitress job. So much more.

The last of the Crown Royal was gone. She turned on the cold water tap and watched the residue around the drain become clear. She felt relieved now, safe from herself.

She suddenly remembered there was a half-full bottle of vodka in the back of the freezer, behind the plastic bags of frozen vegetables she never really considered eating.

Or had she known all along that it was there? She’d noticed the bottle when she moved in and acquired the refrigerator from the previous tenant, and she’d never thrown it away. Vodka never completely froze in such conditions, only thickened somewhat. Drunk at temperatures below freezing, the crystalline liquid was numbing.

Marla knew that tonight it could numb how she felt about Horn.

Letty Fonsetta had appeared on the financial channel that afternoon. She’d been sent to represent the firm of Helmont and Brack as their financial-sector analyst. If anybody could help to restore trust in stock analysts it was Letty, with her heart-shaped, honest face and genteel manner. How could anyone suspect ill of this petite, sweet-natured woman with the warm smile, who could strip a bank or brokerage firm’s financial statement to its bones within minutes using her long experience as examiner with the Fed?

Letty had cheered up the financial channel staff and viewers with a rosy forecast of unchanging interest rates and a recommendation to buy three promising small savings and loans in the Midwest. Sleeper stocks, she’d called them. No, she didn’t own them. No, Helmont and Brack had no sort of financial relationship with them. They were simply undervalued stocks with clean financial sheets and solid multiples. Buy ‘em!

All three stocks had gained share price by the time the market closed.

Letty was feeling good as she left Helmont and Brack’s new offices near the former site of the World Trade Center, looking forward to dinner at home and a warm bath before going over the numbers on a prospective New York bank merger.

On the subway ride uptown to her apartment, she studied her reflection in the dark window on the opposite side of the car. There she was, looking back at herself, much as she must have appeared on the TV screen. Would you trust this woman? Have secret fantasies about her? She cocked her head, then smiled slightly. She’d been professionally coached for her television appearances, but maybe she should practice more in front of a mirror. Who knew where TV spots might lead, especially if her stock recommendations panned out? Maybe to one of the regular financial panel shows.

What would her father think of her now, she wondered, after his admonitions and cautionary lectures about gambling in the stock market? Her own portfolio was flourishing and well hedged. She was even thinking of moving into another, larger apartment.

That is, if the television appearances worked out, if she struck a spark with viewers. Someone who knew one of the producers told her, in confidence, that ratings more than held up for her announced spots. The viewers liked her. Letty gazed steadily at her framed reflection across the aisle and let herself dream.

She had no idea she’d made a new fan that afternoon, who’d boarded at the same stop and was riding with her in the subway car, watching her watch herself.

“Why don’t you come to bed?” Paula asked Linnert from the bedroom doorway.

He’d been sitting for over an hour at his computer. Paula thought he looked particularly handsome shirtless and in his boxer shorts, seated in his Aeron chair in the soft lamplight and working the keyboard. But she had other ideas about how he could use his nimble fingers.

“Almost with you,” he said, without looking at her. Kind of miffed her.

Another few keystrokes and he turned to smile at her.

“What was that all about?” she asked.

“Bought some stock on-line.”

“I thought the markets were closed.”

“The main ones are. But there are after-hour markets, or you can place an order anytime that’ll be executed when the markets open the next day.”

Paula grinned. “Are you one of those notorious day traders who lost their shirts? I look at you, I don’t see any shirt.”

“Nope, I’m an investor, not a trader. Done okay, too. How do you think I pay for you, Miss High Postage?”

“With your passionate love.”

“Cheap at the price.” He shut down his computer and stood up from his desk chair.

“What’s the hurry?”

He looked puzzled. “I thought you were madly moist.”

“I am. I mean, why did you have to buy stock tonight instead of waiting till tomorrow morning?”

He shrugged powerful tanned shoulders. “I was in the mood. And an analyst I respect recommended these stocks this afternoon on the financial channel. Small savings and loans. Sleeper stocks in the Midwest.”

“Ah, and you want to get in before it’s too late.”

“Well, as early as possible. This analyst knows her stuff; she moves a stock for more than a day’s pop. She’s a solid researcher.”

Paula’s grin widened. “Come over here,” she said, “and I’ll show you some research.”

Letty stopped at a newsstand a block from her apartment and picked up Business Week. Her eye fell on a tabloid’s bold headline: city of fear. Beneath it was a photo of the New York skyline. what woman is safe? asked the caption of the lead story.

Ridiculous! Letty shook her head and smiled, paying for the magazine and turning away. A city of over eight million people, and women are supposed to be afraid a serial killer will single them out. Her smile stuck. Hell, a serial killer might be preferable to some of the losers I’ve dated recently.

Only kidding, she said to herself a little uneasily as she quickened her pace and pressed on toward her apartment.

Toward the security of home.