Night Victims

might not be able to move.

She returned to her parking space, which was midway between two streetlights and in the shadow of a big maple tree. Today she’d brought along a plastic portable device that enabled her to relieve her bladder without leaving the car. She’d never shown this valuable accessory to Bickerstaff, who usually availed himself of concealing foliage or dark passageways. There was no need for such a thing when they ran stakeouts together, and he would wait and watch while she found a public rest room. Such a gentleman.

She’d had to use the portable potty only once tonight, squirming to gain proper position in the car, then congratulating herself on her neatness, when a man emerged from the Lincoln house.

Paula hastily rearranged her clothes and got comfortable again behind the steering wheel, glancing at the luminous hands of her wristwatch. Almost ten o’clock.

She was too far away to recognize Lincoln for sure from his photograph, but the man’s height and weight looked about right, and he’d come out of Lincoln’s house. He also walked past the pickup truck, on down the driveway, and got into a ratty-looking twelve-year-old Pontiac, tan with a black cloth roof, that was parked near the house. Figuring the decrepit pickup truck wasn’t regular transportation, Paula had already checked the license plates of the cars on the street. Like the truck, the rusty old Pontiac was registered to Will Lincoln.

The old car needed exhaust work. It growled loudly when it started, then popped and rattled like a machine gun when it pulled away from the curb. Paula followed in the unmarked. She thought that if this guy was smart, he’d trade both his clunkers in on one reliable vehicle that wasn’t a tetanus risk. But the Pontiac quieted down to a steady roar when it got up to speed.

Lincoln didn’t drive very far, only about five blocks to Minnie’s Place, the neighborhood bar Paula had checked out earlier. She hoped no one in there would mention to Lincoln that she’d been around asking about him. There was a chance they wouldn’t. Probably there’d be a different bartender on duty by now and mostly different patrons. And contrary to TV, movies, and popular fiction, lots of citizens actually didn’t mind helping the police.

Some citizens, anyway.

Minnie’s must not have been crowded, because Lincoln found a parking space almost in front of the entrance. Paula parallel-parked between a van and a compact pickup truck and watched him climb out of the old Pontiac and enter Minnie’s.

When he crossed a patch of bright light beneath the bar’s illuminated sign, Paula got a good look at him for the first time and knew for sure she’d been following the right man. Dark hair with a bald spot, slim, muscular build, long neck and jaw. There was an arm-swinging swagger in his stride that was a challenge. Try me. I’m easy to provoke.

Paula considered going into Minnie’s and unobtrusively watching Lincoln, then thought better of the idea. Maybe it would work if she knew the place was packed with drinkers who’d provide some cover. As it was, she figured her wisest course was to stay in the car and wait for Lincoln to come back out.

She settled low in the seat and listened to salsa on the factory-installed radio. The evening was warm, so she cranked down the unmarked’s front windows. The back of her neck rested against the lowered, padded headrest. She half closed her eyes, slipping into stakeout mode. Though she wouldn’t sleep, she’d still rest, and a part of her mind would be alert to the comings and goings at Minnie’s Place.

Minnie-if there was a Minnie-must do all right. Somebody entered or left the bar every five minutes or so. Mostly men, but a few women. Paula wondered if someone was making book in there. Or dealing drugs.

Time passed, and more time. Paula, thinking about Lincoln in there drinking all that draft beer (Budweiser, the day bartender had informed her), used the portable potty again. It was getting full and she was beginning to worry.

She’d barely finished and put the contraption aside when three customers staggered out of Minnie’s and charted an unsteady course toward the unmarked. When they got near, Paula saw that they all looked like teenagers and were undoubtedly underage. Minnie, Minnie. . At least the boys weren’t driving. They snickered and hesitated near the car. One of them, wearing a black T-shirt with red lettering that said Pervert, leaned down and asked if Paula was a working girl. She said she sure was and flashed her badge. The boys hurried away. She kept an eye on them in the rearview mirror, making sure they really were on foot and not simply parked farther down the street.

When she looked back, the battered tan Pontiac was pulling away from the curb.

Paula hurriedly started the unmarked and followed, raising the windows and switching on the air conditioner as she drove.

Lincoln retraced his earlier drive and returned home, parking in exactly the same spot he’d left. He climbed out of the Pontiac and strode up his driveway, moving with the same confident swagger and walking as if he’d consumed nothing alcoholic.

Paula waited a few minutes, then drove slowly past the house. When she glanced up the driveway, she saw there was now a light on in the garage.

She looked at her watch. Almost midnight. Lincoln kept odd hours, as Mrs. Neidler said. Mrs. Neidler, who might well be watching her.

Paula knew what she had to do now. She parked in the shadow of the maple tree again, killed the engine, opened the windows to the cooling night air, and settled in for what she knew might be a long time.

She made it till 3:00 A.M. before deciding she was simply too tired to maintain the stakeout.

When she drove past Lincoln’s driveway, she saw that the light in the garage was still burning. With the car’s windows down, she could hear the faint, rhythmic banging of metal on metal wafting from the garage. Bangedy-bangedy-bang!

It was much the same the next few nights when Paula kept a loose tail on Lincoln. Days were no problem; he seemed to sleep through them. And Paula got a good look at Kim Lincoln as she followed her to the grocery store one afternoon. She got within two feet of her as she shopped. Kim was a slightly overweight woman with drab brown hair and defeated eyes. There were what looked like strawberry birthmarks on her right forearm. No signs of bruises, though. Paula could tell the difference and wondered if Mrs. Neidler could.

Every night Paula watched. Instead of being in bed with his wife, he would simply drive around, or drink beer at Minnie’s, then spend long hours in his garage studio shaping and welding hard metal.

Paula thought it was something, what people did for love, hate, and art.

23

Neva was having her dream again, the one where she was gently swaddled and drifting warmly through a dark void. Floating, turning, turning. . Someone, something, touching her lightly, caressingly. Prenatal memory. ?

I must be waking up, to wonder that. .

And she couldn’t breathe!

She quickly sucked in air through her nose, her sleep-fogged mind whirling before she realized something had been clamped over her mouth. She was lying on her back. Awake!

Her eyes flew open and she tried to sit straight up in bed.

Her head and upper back rose a few inches off the mattress, straining her stomach muscles, and she flopped back down.

She couldn’t move! Not her arms or legs or even her fingers, which were pressed firmly to her thighs!

Cold fear closed tightly around her. She was wrapped in fear.

There was a movement of air across her face, and she realized the window must be open. She was sure she’d closed it, since the night was warm and the air-conditioning was working. Again she tried to move, tried to call out. She could only emit a muffled moan, and her internal silent screams built an unbearable pressure that swelled painfully in her throat and lungs.

A faint noise. The floor creaked softly. Something dark, huge, and spindly moved in the dimness. Neva had