Night Victims

The empress of ice cream. The cunt! The evil, satanic, hurtful cunt!

He couldn’t stand to look at her. Couldn’t look away from her.

Couldn’t wait much longer.

My God, it was almost routine.

Nina thought this was going better than she’d anticipated. The advice of Marla the waitress-psychologist was golden; she really knew what Nina should say to get to this guy. If only it weren’t for the constant and cold lump of fear in Nina’s stomach, the loss of appetite and sleep.

She went through the motions of her day, studiously not looking right nor left to be sure she was protected. Denying herself the reassurance. She went to bed as usual, locking the bedroom window but leaving the drapes parted about five inches, per Horn’s instructions.

Horn. He phoned her frequently, checking on her, making sure her resolve wasn’t crumbling. Which showed how little he knew about her.

Nina carefully locked her apartment door behind her, then kicked off her high-heeled shoes and strode into the kitchen. She paused at the door, scanning before entering. A habit. Had she recently acquired it?

She wasn’t drinking alcohol these days, needed to keep her mind clear. So she went to the refrigerator and ran cold water from the ice maker into a glass. Before taking a sip, she held the glass against her warm forehead. Another tension headache tonight. That was what they were. Had to be.

It’s worth it. Every night is worth the fear!

Every night her ratings were climbing. And when this horror was over, some of that success would stick. She’d have the highest-rated local newscast for years, until something else came along that could be ridden like this crisis to her desired destination. She’d possess the fact that she’d trapped this fuck-head killer. Have it on her resume always. That could be good for a lot. Her ticket would be punched for the next ride. A bigger show. Network. Or maybe politics were in her future.

Meanwhile, her days were terrible but mundane journeys of boredom, trepidation, and frequent spikes of terror. The unfamiliar face with eyes observing her, the sudden moves of strangers-almost anything abrupt and unexpected- could strum her taut nerves and make her almost scream.

Routine. Repetition. Moving through it like an automaton.

Work, occasional late-night drink, occasional late-night dinner, occasional late-night dread. Home, watch a little TV, bed. Now and then uncontrollable trembling.

Relax! They’re there, they’re there! Watching over me like guardian angels with guns.

But she knew someone else might be there, watching her. Someone whose compulsion and psychotic game was watching and waiting. Someone clever enough and lethal enough.

She wished something would shatter the routine!

Or did she?

Another night or two, another newscast or two. Audience share was building like loan-shark interest, in quantum leaps.

She’d read in the Post how there were office polls that bet on her day of death and on how many times she’d be stabbed.

Oh, Christ!

It helped to fall asleep thinking about ratings.

Sometimes it was the only way.

Horn couldn’t think of anything more he might do to protect Nina, yet not alert the Night Spider.

“You’re not sleeping well,” Anne would tell him, before leaving for the hospital in the morning. At this point, he was sleeping mainly during mornings. And afternoons, when Nina Count was safely ensconced at the TV station. Captain Thomas Horn, working the night shift like a rookie cop or a precinct detective on a stakeout. In a strange way, it felt good. Maybe he wasn’t as old as he thought. Maybe age was a matter of thought and not time.

Maybe the Night Spider would try for Nina tonight.

Marla said it would happen, and probably soon. The tension would mount in the killer, the pressure would build. Nina’s newscasts turned the valve up slightly higher every evening at six and eleven. Psychosis would become urgent, would vibrate like a boiler building steam, would become speculation then decision. Madness would become movement, like physics of the mind.

Marla said.

Anne said again, after leaning over the bed and kissing him on the lips, waking him all the way. “You’re not sleeping well.”

“Neither are you.”

“It’s the damned Vine family lawsuit. They’ve filed more motions.”

“If you ever do go to trial, it’ll be months before you see the inside of a courtroom,” Horn assured her.

“It can’t be too soon for me. I want this over. I want to be vindicated.”

“You will be.” This wasn’t how she was talking before; she would have done anything to avoid a court fight.

“You really think so?”

“Sure,” Horn lied. He knew juries could do anything. Make up their own laws, if they wanted. Juries were not in the least predictable, and they were as different from each other as snowflakes.

“I just want it to be over.”

He caught motion in the corner of his vision and heard the retreating tak, tak, tak of her high heels on the hardwood floor.

Unmoving on the bed, he closed his eyes and considered.

She wants vindication and legal absolution; assurance and recognition that she didn’t take away a child’s conscious life.

I want to stop a killer by preventing a murder; I want to save an unknown number of lives.

I want to change the future.

She wants to define the past.

But he knew he wasn’t being fair. Anne lived a life much different from his. She moved in a different daily world with different priorities. It wasn’t a trivial thing, being sued for professional incompetence.

He listened to the front door open and close.

Knew she was locking it behind her. He at least imagined he could hear the snick of the dead bolt as she stood outside and turned her key. Locking something out, or in?

Security. At least the illusion of it. That’s about all you get in this world.

Horn fell back asleep, into dark dreams he knew were waiting. Intermission was over. Back to the nightly horror movie. Latest installment. Made for TV. Ratings. The whole thing was being fueled by ratings. Something blacker than night stirred, then turned toward him. Nina Count was waiting for him in his dreams.

Can you promise me that, Horn?

The Night Spider closed the door and locked it. He was inside his apartment. Safe. No one could stare at him here. No one could wonder about him, or somehow know he was the one. Marked like Cain. . marked like Cain. .

Their eyes couldn’t find him here. He was safe.

But he knew he wasn’t safe. And he knew pieces of his soul were being bitten off and spat out for public spectacle. Another evening of broadcast insult and humiliation. Questions-no, statements!  — about his sanity and sexuality.

He emptied the contents of a large shopping bag onto the carpet, then sat cross-legged before them on the floor.

There was no point in wasting time. There was every reason not to waste time.

And every reason to be careful and daring.

He used his thumbnail to slit cellophane, open packages. Then he studied what was spread out before him on