Night Victims

believed them, but he’d heard them.

As Bickerstaff and Paula entered the building, Horn moved away and tried to look unlike a cop. He buttoned his suitcoat so the breeze wouldn’t flap it open and make visible his holstered revolver. Usually he wore the gun in a belt holster at the small of his back, but he didn’t like sitting in a wooden booth or riding in a car with it that way. Not only was it uncomfortable, but he didn’t like the remote prospect of the gun firing accidentally and shooting off the end of his spine.

An ambulance showed up, without lights or siren, braked sharply, then angled backward into the curb. Then came the ME, who parked directly in front of the entrance and placed a medical examiner placard in his windshield, just in case anybody might not know there was a homicide in the building.

Horn looked away from the ME in case he might be recognized and greeted. Then he sauntered along the sidewalk, farther away from the entrance, wishing he had an attache case like most of the executive types striding past. Maybe he could play the tourist. It occurred to him there might be something that looked like a camera, or maybe even a real camera, in the unmarked.

As he strolled casually toward the car, he saw that a crowd had gathered on the opposite side of the street. Traffic was slowing down as it passed the building: gawkers on foot and on wheels.

Might need a uniform out here to move things along.

Horn was ten feet away from the car when he noticed a white Saturn sedan with a dented trunk easing along the opposite curb. The car Paula had to brake for to avoid hitting. At least its second time around the block. The driver was alone in the Saturn, wearing a baseball cap pulled low on his forehead. Though it was a warm morning he had his shirt collar turned up so only a small part of his face was visible.

But it was when he glanced over at Horn that there was a definite reaction. Dark eyes beneath the cap’s bill widened then focused sharply. Horn actually felt a chill.

This could mean nothing, he told himself, deliberately not changing pace as he strode toward the car. The Saturn driver might simply be a guy on his way to work who couldn’t tear himself away from breaking news. But there was recognition in those eyes. Fear and hate. So maybe it was someone who recognized Horn, someone he’d helped put away. More than two decades in Horn’s job and you had enemies.

He should reach the unmarked about the time the Saturn got to the intersection, then he’d get into the car casually, in case he was being observed in a rearview mirror. He’d watch carefully to see if the Saturn turned the corner.

Don’t rush. . Walk slowly, slowly. . Should be time to catch up and follow. .

And he was at the unmarked, fumbling for the door handle while he observed the Saturn from the corner of his vision.

The handle slipped from his grip, bending back a fingernail.

The car was locked, and Paula had the keys.

He saw me!

The Night Spider fought the impulse to tromp on the Saturn’s accelerator and screech away, try to outrun trouble.

But he knew that wouldn’t help. He might have been seen, and, undeniably, something had passed between him and Horn, whom he’d immediately recognized from seeing all those photos Nina Cunt had featured on her nightly newscast that was almost completely about Horn. And about the Night Spider. What she said about me! What she called me!

A check in the rearview mirror, without the slightest head movement, revealed Horn trying to open the door of a parked car. No doubt it was an unmarked police car.

The Saturn was at the intersection. The Night Spider waited a few seconds for a cab to get out of the way, then made a right turn. Just before the street scene behind slid from the mirror, he was sure he saw Horn’s head tilt slightly. Watching to see which way I turn!

Traffic was heavy in this direction, too. A bedlam of sun-warmed steel that yearned to roar and run. Blaring horns, frustrated shouting. Noise and exhaust fumes. Goddamn city’s a madhouse!

The Night Spider eased the Saturn into the faster lane, which, in Manhattan, meant traffic moving forward in twenty-foot increments instead of ten.

Horn has the same kind of traffic! Won’t use the light or siren!

Another lurch forward. Halfway down the block now.

Heart hasn’t pounded this hard in years!

Horn decided to follow on foot. Traffic was slow enough he should be able to catch up with the bogged-down Saturn. At least get close enough to see a license plate number.

He began running in the direction the Saturn had gone, not making very good time in his expensive black dress shoes, not made for speed. Leather soles. As Horn veered around a woman pushing a wire cart stuffed full of plastic grocery bags, he skidded and almost fell.

“Excuse you!” the woman shouted after him.

Horn ignored her and gained speed, lengthening his stride, starting to feel a stitch of pain in his right side. Old retired fucker, thinking you can still sprint. . He kept his gaze fixed on the intersection where the Saturn had turned.

The Night Spider moved his hand to blast the horn, then thought better of it. He didn’t want to call attention to himself.

Why the hell aren’t we moving?

The little Saturn sat still, hemmed in by a delivery truck on the left, a cab behind, and a dust-covered Lincoln ahead. Exhaust fumes from the Lincoln shimmied in the heat then disappeared like ghosts in front of the Saturn’s white hood. The seconds the traffic had been at a dead stop seemed like minutes!

Don’t panic. Horn’s sitting in the same traffic, blocks behind me.

The Lincoln’s brake lights went dark, its rear end dropped about six inches, and the big car shot forward.

Only to come to a halt again less than twenty feet down the street.

The Night Spider thought about edging around it, but there was no room. Not without going up on the sidewalk, which wouldn’t take him very far, as crowded as they were with people still heading for work. Kill about a dozen, then the car would come up against mass, would be stopped, and they’d be on him.

Don’t panic. Horn’s sitting in the same tra-

Or is he?

The Night Spider hadn’t actually seen Horn get into the car, only stand by the door. He might have noticed how slow the traffic was because of the gawkers near the Weldon Tower. The Nina Cunt was right that the man wasn’t stupid. He might have made his calculations, then decided he had a better chance of catching up with the Saturn on foot.

Might be running now like an aging football back, shoulders hunched, head down, knocking people aside, making time. . gaining ground!

Traffic was inching ahead again. The Night Spider veered the car slightly so its right front wheel was only a foot from the curb, then braked to a halt near a NO PARKING sign, obstructing traffic.

He switched off the engine, slid over the console to the passenger seat, then scrambled out the right-hand door onto the sidewalk.

“Hey, asshole!” the cabbie yelled behind him. “You gonna leave that there?”

The Night Spider ignored him and joined the throng of pedestrians striding past the stopped traffic. He sped up, but not too much. Just enough so that he was surrounded by people who’d been ahead of the white Saturn when he’d exited it.

Then he turned into the entrance to a used-books store.

Familiar musty smell. Only a few other customers.