consciousness, something like a fact or a name from the past that he couldn’t quite recall but knew was there. It was there all the time, inches beneath the surface where it could only be glimpsed. .
By the time the cigar was smoked, he was tired and had thought of nothing useful.
But at the same time he had the feeling he was missing something important.
He snuffed out the cigar stub and poured himself another two fingers of scotch. He knew the alcohol would help him get to sleep but not stay asleep. Using scotch for a sleeping pill always caused him to awaken in a few hours with his mind awhirl.
It seemed there was a price to pay for everything in life.
Nadine, wearing jeans and carrying an umbrella because of unreliable weather forecasts, left the Projections Theater before the last showing of
She was watched from across the street.
For a while the figure that moved out of a shadowed doorway paralleled her course on the opposite sidewalk, then fell back half a block and crossed the street at an angle to be directly behind her. Though there were other people out walking, the sidewalks weren’t crowded. However, there were enough pedestrians that Nadine’s follower could be reasonably sure she wouldn’t notice him.
As she crossed another street, he followed, staying now about half a block behind her.
Suddenly he noticed they were walking past Kincaid Memorial Hospital, where Anne Horn worked, where she’d recently returned to work as if to defy him. Venturing out of the apartment where Horn tried to hide her. Would it be possible to act impulsively and enter one of the hospital’s side doors, make his way to Anne’s office, and then. .?
No. He realized that wouldn’t allow for the ritual. And she would undoubtedly be closely guarded.
Anyway, it wasn’t yet time. They both knew it wasn’t yet her time.
He saw that a woman had turned the corner from the street where the hospital’s main entrance was located and was walking toward Nadine. Since it was a warm night she wore no coat and in her nurse’s uniform was stark white against the darkness. A bright thing seeking light. Maybe that was why she held the Night Spider’s attention.
His gaze fixed on her and didn’t stray.
A short, compactly built woman with a graceful walk, head held high, arms swinging freely. She and Nadine didn’t acknowledge each other as they passed, and the nurse strode toward the man walking toward her half a block down the sidewalk.
He pulled his Mets cap down lower as she approached. A car was coming up behind him. Good. He’d be backlighted, and the headlights might temporarily blind the nurse. She wouldn’t remember him.
She veered ever so slightly toward the curb to give him a wider berth, the way women do, just as the car drove past. Headlights illuminated her almost beautiful features and the hospital name tag pinned to her white uniform top.
The nurse didn’t so much as glance at him as they passed.
He slowed his pace, turning his head to see the retreating nurse’s back, then glanced again at Nadine.
Suddenly changing his mind, seizing opportunity, he turned all the way around and began walking in the opposite direction.
Forgetting the girl from the ticket booth and following Nora the nurse. He was smiling, thinking what a sense of irony fate had, and how it sometimes dispensed opportunities like dark party favors.
He stayed well back of Nora, watching the repetitive switch of her hips beneath the tight white uniform skirt, the flash of white stockings above her soft-soled shoes. Motion marking off time. Made for the night. So easy and natural to follow.
The
By the time she entered an apartment building about six blocks from the hospital, he’d settled on
Two nights later, working the late shift, Anne took the call on the desk phone in her office. It was 2:12 A.M. exactly. She would remember that later when the police asked her.
“Anne Horn?” A man’s voice. He’d called her direct number rather than go through the hospital switchboard, so he must know her. She should know him.
“Yes? Hello?” Her own voice sounded thin.
“I’m calling to ask about Nora Shoemaker. Do you know her?”
“Not personally. If you want to talk to her, you’ve dialed the wrong number. She’s a maternity nurse in another part of the hospital. I can switch you if you-”
“No, no, I wanted to talk to you about her.”
Anne felt a draft on the nape of her neck, an ache in her stomach. She knew it was fear that might be the beginning of terror. “Who is this?”
“I’m calling from Nora’s apartment. I’m afraid something terrible has happened to her.”
“I’m sure you know who. I called to tell you not to worry too much about Nora. You’ll be seeing her soon enough.”
“Are we talking about the same Nora?” Anne asked, having trouble breathing, getting her legs to work as she stood up from the desk and silently placed the receiver on the desk.
She ran for her office door and flung it open, motioning frantically and quietly for the guard stationed outside.
He wasn’t the guard with the scar on his face. This one was middle-aged and Anne thought that with the right sort of mustache he’d look amazingly like Hitler. She frenetically pointed toward the phone.
His bright blue eyes narrowed, and he caught on immediately and didn’t make a sound.
Of course, when he picked up the receiver it was dead.
Anne told him about the phone call, spilling out words that sometimes didn’t make sense.
A tracer had been placed on Anne’s office phone. The guard did some punching on the keypad and got the location of the phone last used to call in to it.
The call hadn’t originated from Nora Shoemaker’s apartment, but from a public phone on the other side of town.
“Is Nora Shoemaker in the building?” the guard asked.
Anne took the phone from his hand and checked.
“She worked the last shift and went home,” she said, replacing the receiver in its cradle. Her face was pale. Fear was clawing at her guts.
“Get her home phone number,” the guard said. “Let’s call her.”
Anne complied, then watched the guard’s impassive face as he stood silently for almost a minute with the receiver pressed to his ear.
He hung up the phone. “No answer.”
“She should be in bed.”
“Maybe she doesn’t wanna answer the phone,” the guard said. “Or has her answering machine turned off and the volume down so the ringing won’t disturb her sleep.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“I’m trying.”
Anne’s legs were too weak to support her. She took three unsteady steps and slumped into her desk chair, then glanced down and saw that both her hands were made into fists tightly clenched around her thumbs.
“It was probably a crank call,” the guard said, obviously noticing how scared she was, “but it won’t hurt to
