Fear the Night

A doughnut bag! That was good. Bobby wondered why so many people often threw away doughnut bags with one or two doughnuts still in them. Bought more than they could eat, maybe. Or calorie guilt caught up with them and they left a doughnut or two to reassure themselves they were still on their diets.

Bobby didn’t care. He reached farther down into the trash receptacle and pulled the crumpled white bag out from beneath a warped and water-stained old paperback somebody had thrown away. He glanced at the title: Six Rules for Sensational Sex. Self-help. Fuckin’ joke.

He ignored the book but did remove one of several discarded newspapers in the wire basket. This one, a Post, was barely used, as if whoever had thrown it away merely glanced at the headlines, then discarded it.

With the folded paper tucked beneath his arm, he opened the doughnut bag. Half a powdered jelly. Okay, that’d do.

Bobby shuffled down the block until he came to the doorway of an import shop that had its steel shutters down over the windows. He sat back so his lower legs wouldn’t be out on the sidewalk where he might trip somebody, then bit into the doughnut. Great. Still fresh.

It took him only a few seconds to down what was left of the doughnut. After swiping his hands together to brush away the sugar, he licked a stubborn glob of jelly from a knuckle, then leaned back against the shop door and unfolded the Post.

“Shit!” he said, loud enough that a guy in a dark business suit walking past turned his head and gave him a look.

Right there on the front page was more news about the Take Back The City rally, under the headline NEWYORKERSFIGHTBACK. Thousands were expected to attend.

Thousands of targets, Bobby thought. No, one target, really. TBTC, as it had come to be known, had seemed to Bobby a bad idea from the beginning. Somebody should have talked to the mayor and made him see reason. He was taunting the Night Sniper, the deadliest killer the city had seen in years, and a real sicko. Bobby was no profiler, but there was no doubt in his mind a guy like the Sniper couldn’t pass up a challenge like this one.

Across the street, a young woman hurrying toward a bus stop casually left behind a plastic water bottle on a display window ledge. Even from this distance Bobby could see that it was almost half-full.

He was thirsty, after the doughnut.

He stood up and stuffed the crumpled, empty doughnut bag into his hip pocket to be thrown away later. (Bobby was neat; didn’t foul up his city.) The newspaper he refolded and tucked beneath his arm. He’d read it later in the park.

When there was a break in traffic, he crossed the street to get the water bottle, still thinking about the TBTC mass of humanity that was going to be in Rockefeller Center. A wonderful place to die.

The mayor had balls. Bobby had to give him that. Maybe Bobby would even register so he could vote for him in the next election, if they were both still alive.

“This is a nightmare,” Captain Louis Murchison said to Repetto. He was a tall man with the slimness of youth and steel-gray hair. Repetto had seen him around over the years, usually in uniform. Today he had on a well- tailored gray suit and looked more like a Wall Street baron than a cop. “We don’t have enough people to cover every rooftop and window the Sniper can use for cover.”

The two men stood on Forty-ninth Street, adjacent to Rockefeller Plaza, and surveyed the surrounding neighborhood. Repetto saw that Murchison was right; this was one of the busiest areas of Manhattan and was vertically developed. There were possible shooting points from overlooking buildings even blocks away, taller than the buildings between them and the Plaza.

“I’ve got something that might help,” Repetto said, and told Murchison what Meg had figured out about the Sniper using closed tunnels and stops in the subway system to move around town.

“Interesting,” Murchison said. “He can get in and out of the crime scene fast and unseen, and it minimizes the risk of him carrying a rifle both directions.”

“Whatever weapon he’s using,” Repetto said, “it probably breaks down. Target rifles often do, for travel.”

“So he can kill somebody, then carry away the damned weapon in his pocket.”

“They don’t break down quite that far,” Repetto said. “But maybe some of them fit in a shopping bag or attache case.”

Murchison stared down thoughtfully at the pavement between his feet. “I wonder how many closed subway stops there are.”

“At present, permanently and temporarily, fifteen,” Repetto said. “I checked with the Transit Bureau.”

“You ask them how many miles of track there are?”

“No,” Repetto admitted.

“Damn near 240. My brother-in-law used to work for Port Authority told me that a while back. There’s another city underneath this one, Repetto. Our sniper has plenty of room to roam.”

“Still,” Repetto said, “knowing where he roams makes it easier.”

“Yeah,” Murchison said despondently, “we might be standing only a few hundred miles from him right now.”

Repetto decided not to point out to Murchison about miles as the crow flies, and that the crow didn’t fly underground. The subway system was laced with a crisscross pattern of tracks. They might be standing on top of the Sniper right now.

Murchison slipped his hands in his pockets and glanced up again at the surrounding buildings. “Our sniper roams high, too. Planning and preparation go into everything he does. He might be watching us right now.”

“Makes me glad I’m not the mayor.”

“If they’d take my advice,” Murchison said, “this rally would be canceled. But the mayor won’t hear of it.”

“Maybe he figures he’s in too far to back out.”

“No, not him. He wants to do this. And not only for political reasons. He takes it as a personal affront, what the Sniper’s been doing to his city.”

“So do I,” Repetto said.

Murchison looked at him to be sure he was serious.

Repetto was.

“You and the mayor,” Murchison said with mock disgust.

“You too,” Repetto said.

“Yeah, maybe. But I go only so far. Gotta give Hizoner credit for guts.”

“Gets my vote.”

Murchison turned and motioned toward Rockefeller Plaza, where a restaurant was serving outdoor diners in the sunken area where the ice rink was during the winter months. It was also where the city’s official Christmas tree would be displayed later in the year.

“We’re gonna set up a podium down there in the Plaza,” Murchison said. “Make the speakers, including the mayor, tougher targets below ground level.”

“Good idea. But probably not enough.”

“Probably not, but thanks to your man-”

“Woman. Detective Meg Doyle.”

Murchison nodded. “I’ll remember the name. What we’ll do is pull some people off the immediate area to cover the subway stops in the neighborhood. Have them look for anything suspicious, especially if it involves somebody possibly carrying a rifle-even one that’s disassembled.”

Repetto said he thought that was a good idea. He also knew the long odds against results, in a city where everyone schlepped everything.

“You’ll be in charge of subway stop security,” Murchison told him. “I’ll clear it with Melbourne.”

Repetto was surprised but didn’t argue. Daunting as the assignment might be, it was one he wanted. His city. His and the mayor’s.