“Oh, I think it is a fairly common nightmare. For women, anyway.”
“How can he be sure they’re asleep before entering their apartments?”
“Probably by observing them from outside their windows with a night scope or infrared glasses.”
“So he can see in the dark,” Horn said, “like a real spider.”
“And your killer’s a nocturnal predator, like a real spider. Or like a former SSF trooper.”
Horn regarded Kray curiously. The colonel had to know what he was wondering.
“I took a chance coming here,” Kray went on. “I’m going to have to trust you.”
“Why?” Horn asked.
“SSF troopers are the most skilled secret assassins in the world, but after they’ve served, and after psychological readjustment, they become-almost to a man-fine citizens in the military or in civilian life. But the fact is, one of the reasons I’m here is that I feel partly responsible for having aided in creating such capable killers.”
“You said
Kray smiled again, sadly, as if he might break into MacArthur’s “Old Soldiers” farewell speech. “Nothing’s perfect, Captain Horn. That’s why the SSF exists. I’d like to think I can depend on you to keep what I’m about to reveal confidential, but I realize the risk; at some point you might have no choice but to pass on the information and its source.”
“I can’t ask for more.”
“It’s obvious you think one of your SSF troopers might not have adapted well in his return to civilian life.”
“I have to admit it’s possible.”
“Do you have a particular man in mind?”
“No. I’m going to leave that up to you. I’m a soldier, not a detective or criminologist.” He reached into a side pocket of his uniform coat and brought out a folded sheet of white typing paper. “I’m going to give you this list of names; all are former SSF troopers.”
Perfect, Horn thought. Another list.
“Those in present service don’t have the opportunity to commit such crimes.”
Horn had heard that sentiment before. It was probably true.
“I’m going to place the list on your desk, then finish my scotch and leave. I’m asking that you forget I was here, or how these names came to your attention.”
“Agreed,” Horn said.
Kray stood up, squarely aligned the list on a corner of the desk, then tossed down the rest of his drink. “There’s no need to show me out.” He smiled. “I’ll finish the excellent cigar on the street. Cuban, isn’t it?”
“Cuban,” Horn confirmed.
He thought Kray might do a smart about-face, but the colonel simply turned around in normal fashion, tucking his cap under his arm, and strode from the den.
Shortly thereafter Horn heard the front door open and close.
He walked to the foyer and saw that Kray’s coat was gone from its hook. There was only a puddle on the floor beneath where it had been draped to indicate the colonel had ever been there.
Horn went back into the den and picked up the list from the desk. Kray might have no idea that Altman had already contacted the police. These names might be duplicates of the ones on Altman’s list.
But they weren’t.
Horn didn’t recognize any of the names.
He stood thinking. A lot of things were possible. The SSF units might be organized in cells, unaware of each other’s existence in order to retain strict secrecy. Or the names supplied by Altman might be cutoff names to deflect any investigation into the unit. If that was the case, Altman might not even be aware of it. Why would the federal government trust Altman?
Either way, Altman the spook wasn’t supplying as much information and cooperation as he pretended.
Horn decided not to inform him of Kray’s list and a secret unit beyond the one revealed by Altman and the military.
He placed the list in his desk drawer, then glanced at his watch. 10:30 P.M. Anne was running some kind of late-shift efficiency study and wouldn’t be home for several hours.
Horn decided to hell with today and went to bed.
There was no shortage of concerns to keep him from sleep. This morning they had run out of suspects, and now they had a list of too many suspects, all of which probably wouldn’t pan out. Demonstrable progress on the case had stalled, another woman had joined the grisly parade of victims, and Nina Count was trying to force a showdown by publicly taunting the killer. Horn thought he could expect another call from Assistant Chief Larkin. And probably, before very long, another murder. It was a bewildering deluge of dread.
He fell asleep worrying about whether Anne would smell cigar smoke from when Kray walked through the ground floor of the brownstone and out into the night. Kray, who had never been there.
Rainy nights depressed Paula and put her on edge. She was exhausted but knew she couldn’t sleep, so she hadn’t gone to bed. She’d gotten home late, managing to step in a puddle just outside her building, and scarfed down a deli Chinese dinner she’d picked up on the way. Now she had indigestion, one foot still felt wet despite the fact that she’d taken off her shoes and dried it, and she suspected she might be nurturing an ulcer.
The Job. Was she an idiot to continue doing this for a living? Why did a monster who crept through bedroom windows and tortured and killed women have to be her personal responsibility? What would it be like to keep regular hours? Have a circle of friends who weren’t intimate with the darker side of life? Not carry a gun?
Sitting on the sofa with her bare feet propped up on the coffee table, she studied her lower extremities. Ankles puffed from too many hours on her feet. Toenails trimmed short and threatening to become ingrown and painful. She could only dream of pedicures, elegant pink toes beneath her black cop’s shoes.
She made the effort to reach out and get a hand around the half-drunk can of beer she’d left on the table. On the TV screen that flickered beyond her tortured feet, a promo for an upcoming movie had ended with a matchstick-thin former model, wearing skintight bicycle shorts, standing and waving triumphantly on the rocky plateau of some mountain even the Night Spider couldn’t climb.
Leaning back, Paula took a pull of beer, then with her free hand picked up the remote and pressed the volume button so the sound she’d muted would return.
There was a flawlessly coifed Nina Count looking glamorous and serious as the camera moved in on her icy perfection. Her elegant hands were folded before her, bejeweled and beautifully manicured.
“More trouble in the Middle East,” Nina said. “Today a Palestinian. .”
Paula figured the woman probably had pedicured feet that would drive a fetishist wild.
“In local news-”
Paula began paying attention again.
“-serial-killer-hunter NYPD captain Thomas Horn came close to apprehending the murderous psychopath that is the Night Spider. In a dramatic morning chase on Manhattan’s East Side. .”
Paula sat listening to the news anchor’s account of Horn’s desperate attempt to catch up with the man who might have been the Night Spider.
Nina Count embellished the story so Horn seemed almost a mythical nemesis of the killer, as if it were just the two of them-Horn and the Night Spider-in deadly macho combat. At the same time, the haughty blond anchorwoman made disparaging remarks about the killer, using terms like
