Night Victims

an even stronger element of rage in his murders.”

“He did beat one of the guards from the van in the face and head,” Horn said. “I’d say he was enraged that night.” A taxi swerved to the curb near them and the driver leaned down so he could peer out at them like a lonely puppy, offering to save them some steps. Horn shook his head no and waved the cab away, and was made slightly uneasy by how much he didn’t want his stroll with Marla interrupted.

“Maybe Mandle’s wounded and in physical pain,” Marla said. “Exacerbating his anger.”

“If he’s wounded,” Horn said, “it’s minor and doesn’t affect his strength or agility. His MO was the same as always, except for the battering he gave his victim.”

“Was she alive at the time?”

“Yes. Losing blood fast but alive. The knife wounds hadn’t killed her yet.”

“Rage,” Marla said.

“Or callousness. He might be a stone killer who simply doesn’t care if his victim’s alive or dead at the time of disfigurement.”

“Stone killer?”

“Cop talk for somebody who’d just as soon kill another human being as munch a piece of toast. There’s something missing in certain people. They don’t relate to the rest of the human race. Like we don’t relate to bugs and just step on them or kill them with insecticide, then forget about them within minutes. Stone killers sleep well at night no matter what kind of hell they’ve created during the day.”

“Sociopaths.”

“Yeah. And something more. Not all sociopaths are killers. Some become successful corporate raiders or great NFL linebackers.”

“It must be truly liberating, being free of all human concern.”

“It’s probably addictive,” Horn said. “And it leads to the kind of hubris that contributes to serial killers being caught.” He reached into an inside pocket for a cigar, then decided against it. He understood the reluctance of many people, women especially, to endure cigar smoke indoors or out. Now wasn’t the time to find out how Marla felt about it.

“You mentioned insects,” Marla said. “It’s interesting, Mandle’s identification with spiders. And what came out during the trial, his history with his mother and the significance of spiders in her religion.”

“I’m sure if we were to dig through history we’d come up with some ancient cult of the spider,” Horn said. “Or maybe Mandle’s mother saw an old movie and it set her off because she was on the edge to begin with. People are afraid of spiders, and fascinated by them.”

“Fascinated because of their fear.”

“Definitely.”

“Spiders and snakes; religion and mothers. It’s no wonder we have serial killers. They’re created in childhood. The mechanism’s probably wound and set when they’re very young.”

“I’m not so much interested in how or why Mandle ticks,” Horn said, “as in stopping him from ticking.”

“There’s something else I think you should take into account,” Marla said. “You have to concentrate on guarding Anne because Mandle might be watching her, formulating a plan. But he also might be watching you.”

“What makes you say that?”

“The way he talked about you during the trial. He was full of hate for you. Obsessed.”

“I noticed.”

They were at Marla’s subway stop. The night was warm and clear, but thunder was bumping and rolling in the distance somewhere over New Jersey. It was a celestial reminder that no one was ever really safe anywhere. Lightning was whimsical.

She looked up at him. “I worry about you, Horn.”

He was surprised, not so much by her words but by the way they were spoken, like a confession. And by the look on her face. Horn didn’t know what to say, but he found himself wondering what would happen if he suggested he take her all the way home. Home and inside.

“I’d like to tell you not to worry,” is what he did say, “that I don’t want you to. But I can’t. A part of me’s glad you’re thinking about me that much.”

And a part of me doesn’t want to do this. A part of me still hasn’t given up on Anne.

Marla seemed to know what he was thinking, sensing his hesitancy and the reason for it. And he saw something else in her eyes, some sudden fear of intimacy, not only with him but with anyone. What’s your secret, Marla?

“I’d better get down to the platform,” she said. “My train’s about due. I’ve got them timed.”

He nodded and touched her shoulder. She smiled but turned away abruptly to discourage any further contact, then started down the concrete steps to the token booth and platform.

Horn stood watching her until she was out of sight, thinking she was probably right about Mandle observing him, following him.

He wondered if it would occur to her that he might have been followed tonight.

As soon as Marla entered her apartment, she went to where a bottle was tucked away on a top shelf of a kitchen cabinet.

It had been a gift, Crown Royal in a fancy box. She pried open the box’s flaps and removed the bottle, used a knife to slit the seal, then uncapped it.

She’d never intended to do this. The bottle was only on the shelf as a reminder, a temptation resisted on a daily basis. But she understood that self-delusion, even as she allowed it of herself. A part of her knew that she and the bottle might share an experience in a dark future.

She stood and poured the magic amber liquid down the sink drain, observing it swirl and disappear, growing more afraid as she watched.

Sociopaths, stone killers, serial killers, they knew about addiction.

So did she.

Years ago, one of her patients, an angry, middle-aged advertising salesman named Arnold Vernon, had followed her advice and calmly confronted his wife about her suspected infidelity. He’d progressed well in his therapy, and Marla was sure he was ready to manage such a situation.

She’d had the measure of her patient, but something unexpected happened-and continued to happen in Marla’s dreams.

Mrs. Vernon responded by strangling their infant daughter.

Arnold Vernon responded by stabbing his wife to death, then slashing his wrists.

Marla responded by drinking her way out of her profession.

She’d finally gotten her alcoholism under control and kept it there. Under control enough, anyway. She could hold down a job, function in life from day to day.

She was afraid now of how she was beginning to feel about Horn. Why the fuck did his wife have to leave him? Now Marla was even more frightened by what she might be losing if she fell into the bottle again. Not just another waitress job. So much more.

The last of the Crown Royal was gone. She turned on the cold water tap and watched the residue around the drain become clear. She felt relieved now, safe from herself.

She suddenly remembered there was a half-full bottle of vodka in the back of the freezer, behind the plastic bags of frozen vegetables she never really considered eating.

Or had she known all along that it was there? She’d noticed the bottle when she moved in and acquired the refrigerator from the previous tenant, and she’d never thrown it away. Vodka never completely froze in such conditions, only thickened somewhat. Drunk at temperatures below freezing, the crystalline liquid was numbing.

Marla knew that tonight it could numb how she felt about Horn.

Letty Fonsetta had appeared on the financial channel that afternoon. She’d been sent to represent the firm of Helmont and Brack as their financial-sector analyst. If anybody could help to restore trust in stock analysts it was Letty, with her heart-shaped, honest face and genteel manner. How could anyone suspect ill of this petite, sweet-