Night Victims

“It’s not a pastime for him. I’m sure he sees it as his calling. Convincing himself that what he’s doing is his destiny helps him to rationalize it, to reconcile it with the normal side of the self he shows to the world. His facade.”

“We talking split personality?”

“I don’t think so. Not even bipolar. I’d say your killer’s a sadistic, capable son of a bitch all the time. Only sometimes he acts differently, charms people so he can use them. But he’s probably quite conscious of doing that. Not like.. say, a Son of Sam type who hears voices or messages in a dog’s barking.”

“Any thoughts about motivation?”

She smiled sadly. “That could be a lot more complicated. Almost certainly he hates women, but that could be for a number of reasons. Possibly there was a formative traumatic event early on, something an important woman in his life did to him. A mother, sister. . But the reasons can also be cumulative, the turning point some seemingly insignificant act whose importance the perpetrator herself is unaware of. The profundity of these things can be entirely in the mind of the afflicted.”

Profundity. “You’re some hash slinger.”

“You’re some cop.”

“You’ve given me a lot to mull over. I thought you weren’t into profiling.”

She unwound the towel from her hand and smiled at him. “Just for friends,” she said. “And because I think it might help.”

Horn removed the cigar from his pocket again and examined it, rotating it with thumb and forefinger to check the tightness of the wrapper leaf. “It would help a lot more,” he said, “if you told me how to find him.”

“You probably won’t find him.”

“Oh?”

“But even though my opinions are based on estimation, I think I can tell you his vulnerability. He has a sick mind, but one you can get inside of. To a certain extent, you can know how he thinks.”

“That’s his vulnerability?”

“Not entirely. Everything in his actions suggests he’s built for risk. He can’t ignore a dare. You might be able to make him come to you.”

The bell above the door tinkled. A woman and three preschool children entered the diner in a rush of noise and motion.

Marla excused herself. She glanced back at Horn as she hurried around behind the counter. The woman and her charges were climbing onto stools. First up was the largest kid, a grinning blond girl about four who began to revolve.

Horn laid some bills on the table, then slid out of the booth and walked from the diner, the unlit cigar in his hand. As he left, Marla gave him a smile he’d never seen before.

One he didn’t understand.

Outside the diner, Horn stood near a doorway and fired up his cigar. He was strolling along the sidewalk, smoking and enjoying the fact that the sun was paying a visit this morning, when his cell phone chirped.

He dug the phone out of his jacket pocket, then removed the cigar from his mouth and watched the morning breeze claim the smoke he’d exhaled. With his free hand, the unimpaired left one, he held the small plastic phone to his ear. “Horn.”

“Captain Horn, this is Nina. Nina Count.”

“Am I going to be glad it is?”

“I didn’t call to give you any bullshit, Horn. I’m scared.”

She seemed to mean it. Her voice was different from any other time he’d heard it, a slight quaver making her sound as if she were cold.

Horn stepped aside, letting a knot of pedestrians who were going in the opposite direction pass by. Then he moved into the display-window-corridor entrance to a menswear store so he could hear better. “I didn’t think scared was a word you knew, Nina.”

“I got up this morning, dressed, and was about to leave for work, when I checked my bedroom window to make sure it was locked.”

Horn felt his hand tighten on the phone.

“It was locked,” Nina went on, “but I noticed something in the upper right-hand corner. Someone had scratched- etched is more the word-a design there. A spiderweb.”

“You’re sure.”

“No mistake about it. It’s rather artistic.”

“But it’s on the outside of the glass?”

“If it weren’t, I wouldn’t still be in my apartment talking to you.”

You might still be in your apartment. Dead. He found his gaze fixed on a pair of two-tone loafers with oversized tassels in the show window and knew he’d remember them the way he’d always remember this phone call. The human mind was something, with its overlapping layers of thought. Why would anyone wear a pair of shoes like that?

“What’s this mean, Horn?”

“You know what it means. You got the desired result through your newscast. Attracted the killer’s attention. Now he’s playing with you. Trying to frighten you.”

“He succeeded more than I thought possible.” The chill in her voice again.

“You want police protection?”

“Yes.”

No hesitation. Horn knew she realized the Night Spider didn’t have to spend his time etching windowpanes. He could have used his glass cutter and masking tape to unlock the window, then entered her bedroom while she slept and taken her as one of his victims. Spent his idea of quality time with her.

“Should I stay here, Horn?”

“For the time being. You’re probably safe enough. He obviously wants you alive for now so he can continue his terror campaign.”

Silence. Then, “Yeah, I guess that’s true. How long do you think that part of it will go on? I could make a story out of it.” Her fear was slackening somewhat. Thinking ratings again. She wasn’t short on guts. “The police protection might make a good angle for my newscast. Or maybe I shouldn’t mention it. Do you think I should mention what he did to my bedroom window?”

“You can mention the window, but not the protection. That’d only make your guardian angels’ job more difficult.”

“Do you really think he’d try for me if he knew I was under police protection?”

“I’m sure of it. In fact, I think it would make an attempt more likely.”

“Jesus, Horn!”

He can’t ignore a dare. .

“Nina, there’s something we need to talk about.”

The Night Spider sat on a bench just inside the entrance to Central Park and watched children using the playground equipment. And watched their mothers and nannies.

Nina Count is afraid. Right now. This second.

He played with that fact in his mind and was aware of warm sunlight on the part of his face that was exposed. He wore a short-sleeved shirt, but with the collar turned up, a Mets baseball cap, and oversized orange- tinted glasses that made the park’s foliage a more vivid green, and the flesh of the women and children all the more vital and sumptuous.

Nina Count is afraid. She knows it’s begun.

He could have taken her last night, as he dangled like death outside her window, watching her sleep through the web he etched in the glass. He’d used soap on his diamond glass cutter so it was silent. Nina Count hadn’t stirred. She lay on her side, partly covered with a white sheet that might become her shroud. One languid bare leg was extended, pale even against the sheet. He guessed she’d be a natural blonde, though these days, with all the improved dyes and techniques, it was difficult to know. He’d find out for sure soon enough.