Night Victims

read the papers, watched TV news. She knew now what was happening. She knew!

The cold paralysis of fear turned to horror, then panic. Neva’s lithe, powerful body, shrouded tightly in her bed-sheets, stiffened and began to vibrate.

The thing in her room moved swiftly around a chair and came toward her. The mattress sagged; bedsprings sang. Neva opened her eyes wide and tried to crane her neck to see but could make out only a large, shadowy form at the foot of the bed. Fear caused her to lose control, and a wet warmth spread rapidly inside the taut sheets. Humiliation touched on her terror.

Then there was weight on her. Heavy, but she could breathe.

Dark eyes stared into hers, reflecting what faint light was in the room. The eyes fixed her in a gaze that oddly mixed compassion with cruelty. Neva and her attacker were alone now, was the unmistakable message in the unblinking stare. Only the two of them in the world. Everything was under complete control, but not hers. Certainly not hers. No one to help or hear or care. She was trapped, held suspended and motionless, while around her time and events continued to flow. No longer did any of it have anything to do with her. For her, everything had been decided. It was now pointless to hope.

Nothing of mercy in those eyes.

Hoarse, ragged breathing.

The real pain began. .

When Paula swerved the unmarked toward the curb to park across the street from the Home Away the next morning, she saw Horn standing outside, motioning with his long arms.

Paula realized he wanted her and Bickerstaff to stay in the car. She eased closer to the curb but left the engine idling as Horn timed the traffic and jogged across the street toward them. Running pretty well for a retired guy, she thought.

Paula lowered the window, letting warm morning air tumble in.

“We’ve got another Spider murder,” Horn said. “Weldon Tower on the East Side, last night. We hurry, we’ll be early on the scene.”

Bickerstaff stretched out an arm to unlock the car’s street-side back door, and Horn slid into the car. Paula checked the outside mirror for traffic, then tromped the accelerator and they were away. “Use the siren?” she asked.

“Too early,” Horn said. “It’ll give me a headache.”

“I’ve already got one,” Bickerstaff said.

“Just drive like hell,” Horn said.

The car swerved and slowed, and then abruptly shot forward around a van that was trying to turn a corner. A ballpoint pen tucked beneath the passenger-side visor slid out and bounced off the dashboard. Bickerstaff grabbed for it but missed, and it fell to the floor. He didn’t try to retrieve it.

“You look rough this morning, Paula,” Horn said from the backseat. He’d been observing her reflection in the rearview mirror and noticed the bags under her eyes.

“Stakeout till late,” she explained, taking a corner too fast and ignoring a pedestrian in a business suit who’d had to skid to a sudden stop in his wing tips. She didn’t let up as they flashed past a line of parked cars. There was a ticking sound, as if they’d nicked somebody’s outside mirror. Look rough, huh? Let’s see if I can get the guy in the backseat to pray.

“Maybe it’ll pay off,” Horn told her, sounding as excited as if he were sitting in that big leather chair of his.

“For God’s sake!” Bickerstaff said. “Slow down, Paula! This isn’t a suicide run!”

Some satisfaction.

The Night Spider had returned. He couldn’t stay away. He wanted to see Thomas Horn, the man the beautiful Nina Count obviously worshipped. She’d predicted it wouldn’t be long before Horn would rid the city of the Night Spider. Inevitably, Nina said, Horn would locate this malicious and dangerous psychotic and stamp the useless life out of him.

Dangerous is the operative word, the Night Spider had felt like telling her. Had even contemplated calling the TV station and actually telling her.

But mightn’t that be precisely what she wanted? Ratings. Television personalities fed on ratings and didn’t seem to care where they came from or how. Nina Count, Nina Cunt, was no exception. Nina, with her long legs and pithy insults. As if she understood him in the slightest.

Everyone was a psychologist these days. Everyone knew from a mere few facts what everyone else was thinking, as if people could be read like books of simple prose. Psychoanalysis for Dummies.

He replayed in his mind part of last night’s Nina Count newscast. A mental case like most serial killers. . sick individual. . pathetic subhuman. . afraid of women. . afraid of her!

Not likely, thought the Night Spider.

He was not like most serial killers.

Nor was he afraid of Thomas Horn.

As Paula turned the corner of Neva Taylor’s block, she had to hit the brakes hard to keep from running up the back of a white Saturn sedan with a dented trunk, which was moving slower than the rest of the traffic.

“Idiot!” Bickerstaff said. “Kinda asshole causes accidents.”

“Too bad we’re not Traffic, we could ticket him,” Paula said, forcing herself to be patient.

She saw two police cruisers angled in at the curb in front of the building and steered toward them. There was a uniformed cop keeping people from gathering near the entrance, but a knot of onlookers stood about fifty feet down the sidewalk, talking and pointing and wondering what was happening.

“Looks like the public just caught on to this one,” Bickerstaff said. “Media vultures will be here next. Nina Count.”

Horn paused getting out of the car. “Why Nina Count in particular?” Horn asked.

Bickerstaff looked surprised. “You must not have caught the news last night. She went off on a riff, got all emotional, put you on a pedestal, and then called the Night Spider every insulting thing she could think of but larva.”

“Taunting him,” Horn said.

“And how. And it looks like she’s trying to set up a mano a mano showdown.”

Horn smiled. “That would be nice.”

“Any way we can arrest the dumb bitch?”

“That would be nice,” Horn said again.

“Maybe it’s really possible,” Paula suggested. “She’s interfering in a homicide investigation.”

“And half the TV audience in New York watches and sympathizes with her,” Horn said.

“Try and get her fired,” Bickerstaff said to Paula, “and she’ll get a couple hundred e-mail marriage proposals and you’ll be eating doughnuts in the Bronx.”

“Let’s go meet the victim,” Horn said. “Do our job and let Nina worry about hers.”

“Maybe we can get there before Harry Potter,” Paula said, working the door handle and climbing out of the car. Both men looked at her quizzically but said nothing. Paula could be a puzzle.

The Weldon Tower rose over forty floors above its phony Greek Revival lower facade. It had a glass entrance so darkly tinted it was a mirror, a doorman who looked like a general in the army of some small country more given to ceremony than war, and bulky concrete planters that held a variety of colorful blooms, none of which grew taller than six inches. The wide sidewalk in front of the building was wet; it had been hosed off recently, probably before the more important business upstairs was discovered.

As the doorman pulled open one of the mirrored glass panels for them, Horn hesitated. “You two go on,” he said to Paula and Bickerstaff. “I’ll stay down here for a while and scan whoever shows up.”

Bickerstaff knew what he meant. Sometimes when a crime scene was fresh, the perp couldn’t resist becoming one of the spectators. There could be an irresistible temptation for such a sicko to return and see what he had wrought. And maybe he’d do something to attract suspicion or give himself away. Bickerstaff recalled stories about a pyromaniac who was apprehended while having an orgasm at the scene of a fire he’d set. Wasn’t sure if he