Night Victims

He also had to admit he was feeling too sorry for himself. If there was any emotion Horn hated it was self- pity. It robbed you of everything worthwhile. It made you vulnerable.

He mentally castigated himself for falling into such a funk. Don’t be such an asshole. You’ve got a life to live. A job to do.

A job. .

He tried to concentrate on the Mandle case: how the murderous bastard had escaped, what a capable killer he must be. A man trained to kill in the service of his country now killing in the service of his psychosis.

Was it a psychosis? Or was Mandle simply evil? The truth was that Horn had never much bothered himself about the distinction. His job, his calling, was to stop people like Aaron Mandle, to remove them from society. The world didn’t set itself right. For everyone who broke things material or human and upset the balance, someone had to repair and restore and realign. Horn wasn’t only working for the city; he was working for the victims. Justice was not an abstract to Thomas Horn.

Illness or malevolence or both, whatever fueled his intent, Mandle was certainly doing evil. And if he wasn’t found again and stopped, the evil would resume. That was enough motivation for Horn, enough reason to live and to rouse himself and confront each fresh new morning.

Or so he told himself.

He snuffed out what was left of his cigar, drained the last quarter inch of his drink, and trudged upstairs to bed.

Sleeping alone was nothing new. Because of the hours a cop kept and the hours a hospital administrator kept, Horn and Anne had often slept alone.

But going to bed alone wasn’t the same thing as going to bed lonely.

Getting up early wasn’t the same thing as waking up early, either. Horn had been awake for hours before finally climbing out of bed when dawn light began filtering into the room.

He put on a robe, stepped into comfortable lined leather slippers, and went down to the kitchen. After getting the

Braun coffeemaker clucking and gurgling, he padded into the foyer, expecting to hear Anne’s footfall upstairs or see a note from her on the hall table explaining where she’d gone. When she’d return.

Not gonna happen! Stop messing with your own mind!

Time to step outside and get the morning paper, if no one had stolen it. He knew that by the time he stepped back inside there’d be at least a faint scent of fresh coffee in the brownstone. He’d have a cup at the kitchen table while he scanned the news. Then he’d shower, dress, and walk down to the Home Away for a proper breakfast.

When he opened the door, he wasn’t surprised not to find a paper on the concrete stoop or within sight on the sidewalk.

But there was something on the porch. A chess piece. A plastic red knight about four inches tall.

Horn thought it was interesting the way it had been placed on the porch, tucked up against the inside of the wrought-iron railing so it couldn’t be seen from the street. Someone would have to walk up on the stoop and then turn almost all the way around in order to spot it. Or open the door and look out.

He bent over, picked up the piece, and examined it. Nothing unusual. Cheap plastic from a mold. The red knight was from the sort of set that could be bought at just about any store that sold games.

Horn carried the chess knight into the house and placed it on the kitchen table. He poured a too strong, half cup of coffee, then sat down at the table and looked at the knight, wondering what it might mean. Almost surely someone had placed it on the porch deliberately where he-or Anne- would notice it when leaving the brownstone.

Horn sipped and thought, while the bitterness of lukewarm coffee displaced the stale aftertaste of last night’s cigar. Some trade.

The thing about the knight, he mused, was that it was the only chess piece capable of moving above other pieces. It could drop straight down to capture an opponent’s piece.

Did that really mean something? Was he making too much of this? Had some homeless person or wandering kid simply found the chess knight on the sidewalk and placed it out of harm’s way on the stoop, thinking it might belong to whoever lived in the brownstone? A thoughtful gesture. Such things could happen in New York. Along with the brusequeness, mayhem, and murder, such things could happen.

The phone rang.

Setting down his cup, Horn twisted his body and stretched out his left arm to lift the receiver on the kitchen extension. He glanced at the microwave clock as he put plastic to ear and said hello, wondering who’d be calling him at 6:45 in the morning.

It was Anne.

She was screaming.

39

When Horn finally got Anne calmed down enough to be coherent, she told him over the phone that someone had been in her apartment.

“You’re sure?”

“I called, didn’t I?” Fear was becoming anger. But plenty of fear remained vibrant in her voice.

Horn fought down his initial alarm. Like him, Anne wasn’t used to living alone, and she was in a precarious mental state due to the hospital lawsuit, and the loss of her marriage and job. Who could blame her for overreacting to whatever it was that had scared her?

“How do you know someone’s been there?”

“Things aren’t the same as when I went to bed last night.”

It was a sublet apartment on East 54th Street; most of the furniture and incidentals belonged to the regular tenant. “A new place, Anne. Maybe you’re not sure yet where everything belongs.” Maybe you made a mistake, leaving. Maybe you belong here.

“I’m not an idiot, Thomas! It isn’t only that items seem to have been moved about. There are things that weren’t here when I went to bed.” Her voice broke and he thought she was about to lose control again. But she remained calm. “Some things on my dresser. To think someone was right here while I was sleeping a few feet away, unaware. Christ, it gives me the chills!”

But he knew how strong she was. What had set her off so! Rattled her so that she was screaming when she phoned?

“What was it you found on your dresser, Anne?”

“I. . I’m not sure. Yes, I am. It looks like a tooth with. . maybe part of the gum still attached.”

“A tooth? You certain?”

“I think that’s what it is.”

“Maybe from the previous tenant.”

“Sure, Thomas. That happens all the time, somebody moves out and leaves a tooth.” Sarcasm. Good.

“Could be there was a pet there and it’s a dog’s tooth. Does it look like an animal tooth?”

“Well. . I guess it could be.”

“What else, Anne? Stay with what’s on the dresser.”

“Something not so disturbing. A little black figurine.”

“What kind of figurine?”

“Cheap, plastic. The neck and head of a horse.”

Horn went cold. “A chess piece?”

“Now that I hear you say it, yes, it could be. It probably is a chess knight. I suppose that’s something I overlooked last night. I should have known what it was right away.” She sounded peeved, as if he’d accused her of