Night Victims

Marla sat on the sofa and stared at the swift backward flow of numerals, the reversal of tape and time. Cause and effect becoming effect and cause. Consequences known ahead of time. If only it could be that easy. . editing life like editing tape.

She sipped her water with its faint tang of lemon and thought about bourbon and soda. About Thomas Horn.

All the things she couldn’t have.

Horn sat next to Anne in fourth-row-center orchestra, and watched the closing first act number of Mortgage and Marriage. Anne seemed to like the elaborately staged musical; Horn figured it would have a brief run. The male lead was miscast and had little voice, preventing the female lead and supporting actors from salvaging the play. The poorly choreographed dance numbers were a waste of wonderful talent, seeming more like exercise classes than Broadway dance numbers. The reviewers tried to warn us, Horn thought. The Time’s theater critic had been right. It happened.

The dancers in the chorus struck awkward poses while the athletic young man who played the bank’s loan officer did a series of back flips across the stage. Then the theater went dark.

Intermission, thank God!

When the houselights came up, Horn stood and stretched. Anne looked over at him and smiled. She did like this monstrosity of a musical. So did the people around them, who were talking and laughing and saying how good the first act was. It made Horn wonder. He whispered in Anne’s ear, then edged out into the crowded aisle to make his way to the lobby and join the line outside the men’s room. Unlike the stage, it was a place where people knew what they were doing.

As he emerged from the auditorium into the cooler air of the carpeted lobby, a man standing near the bar detached himself from the knot of people waiting to order drinks and came toward him.

Horn was astounded to see it was Luke Altman.

“Great first act,” Altman said, smiling.

“I’ve got to think,” Horn said, “that you being here is more than coincidence.”

“I thought Breaking the Code was still playing.”

“A spook with a sense of humor.”

“Not so unusual. Nothing’s funnier than geopolitics.” Altman reached into the pocket of his dark blue suitcoat and pulled out a letter-size white envelope. “While I happen to be here enjoying the show, I might as well give you this.”

Just as if you didn’t follow us here from home or the restaurant.

He handed the envelope to Horn, who accepted it and slid it into the inside pocket of his sport jacket.

“It’s a list of names,” Altman said. “Former members of that special unit you mentioned during our last conversation.”

“Why have you changed your mind?” Horn asked.

Altman shrugged. “Because I did a more detailed check on you, Thomas Horn. You’re a very capable fellow. And looking over your record, one can only conclude that you never give up. That even a stake through the heart wouldn’t make you give up. Since you’d probably get what you wanted, eventually, we thought we might as well give it to you up front and prevent you from making a lot of waves.”

“So you’re taking the easiest course.”

“Oh, no. You wouldn’t want to know the easiest course.”

“You said former members.”

“Present members needn’t concern you. They’ve already been considered and cleared.” He smiled. “These men wouldn’t have the time or opportunity to commit civilian crimes.”

Horn knew he was probably right.

The lobby lights blinked. Act Two of the debacle was about to begin.

“We’d better get back to our seats,” Altman said. “I want to see if the cute young couple gets loan approval from the banker who does back flips.”

“I don’t look for a happy ending,” Horn told him. “At least not one anybody’d believe.”

“It’s your business to be cynical,” Altman said. “In my business we hope for long runs.” He turned and strolled toward the carpeted stairs leading to the balcony.

Horn knew this theater; there was a side exit on the landing.

He took what little intermission time was left to continue to the men’s room. He found an empty stall and had a preliminary look at Altman’s list.

Only nine names. Apparently, the members of this special unit stayed in the military, or often didn’t survive long enough to complete their hitch.

It occurred to Horn that his wasn’t necessarily the most dangerous profession.

He was the last one in the theater to return to his seat, just before the houselights died and the curtain rose. He caused quite a stir, trampling toes and asking to be excused over and over.

As the auditorium faded into darkness, he saw Anne glaring and smiling at him simultaneously, as if he were at the same time annoying and amusing.

He ignored her and what was happening onstage and thought back on his conversation with Altman out in the lobby. Altman had a subtle sense of humor you usually didn’t find in a spook. Give the bastard that.

And nothing else.

19

Paula noticed a space across the street from the Home Away and didn’t have to double-park. Driving Manhattan’s narrow streets had proven no problem for her, despite the fact that in New Orleans, once out of the French Quarter, she’d seldom had to worry about both sides of the car.

“You might remark on it,” Paula said.

Bickerstaff went all innocent. “Remark on what?”

“My luck at finding parking spaces in this rabbit-warren of a city.”

“Oh. Sure. But who needs ‘em? Why don’t you just double-park all the time like me?”

“So some citizen won’t be tugging on my sleeve asking me to move so he can get his car out.”

“Yeah, I guess there’s something to that. Anyway, I was thinking about other things and didn’t notice.”

Paula wished he’d think about dropping off his suit at the cleaners. On damp days it was beginning to give off an unpleasant musty smell. “You were thinking about ice fishing, I suppose.”

“You’re unnecessarily cruel to me, Paula. I was wondering about the list the spook gave Horn. We start trusting information from the CIA, we might be headed off in the wrong direction.”

“If you can’t trust your government, who can you trust?”

“We both know the answer to that.”

Paula dropped the visor showing the car was NYPD so they wouldn’t get a ticket. Then she and Bickerstaff got out and crossed the street to the diner that had become their unofficial headquarters since Horn had gotten involved with the case.

Bickerstaff held the door open for her, probably because he thought it would annoy her.

The diner was warm, like the morning outside, and most of the customers eating breakfast were at the counter or tables nearest the door. Paula saw Horn seated in his usual booth, in a small alcove a comfortable distance from the other customers. He had his head down and was reading a folded newspaper, a cup of coffee and his half-eaten breakfast before him on the table. Damned corn muffins! Paula knew that because of Horn she was going to try them one of these mornings-animal and vegetable fat, and probably even mineral fat, if there were such a thing, racing straight to her hips.

She had to admit the toasted muffins smelled good, along with the fresh coffee. She and Bickerstaff said hello and slid into the booth to sit opposite Horn.

He set aside his newspaper. Paula saw that he’d been reading a theater review.