Fear the Night

the Sniper he could have a clear shot into Amelia’s lower-level living room, and into one of the bedrooms.

He went to the window overlooking the street and raised it about six inches, adjusted the blinds, and sat down in a small but comfortable wing chair he’d pulled close. From where he sat he could peer down the street at Amelia’s apartment and calculate his shot if the opportunity arose. The angle was acute, but his field of fire would cover approximately a third of both rooms. The challenge was certainly easier than that which he’d faced when he made the mayor a target.

He settled into the softly upholstered chair and propped the Webb-Blakesmith rifle against one of its arms, where he could easily snatch it up.

Though he was relaxed, he was alert, listening to the faint sounds of the city he’d slowed, and the subtle noises of the old building.

He was confident Amelia Repetto was in her apartment across the street. She would be closely guarded, not only by cops on the street, but probably by someone in the apartment with her.

But nobody was careful all the time. The Sniper had tonight and several more nights before the risk of occupying the subleased apartment would become too great to justify. Plenty of time.

Patience …

A shooter’s patience was usually rewarded.

It was merely a matter of waiting.

Parked across the street from Dante Vanya’s apartment, Officer Nancy Weaver glanced at her unmarked’s dashboard clock and decided this had gone far enough. She could afford to wait no longer. She had to cover her ass and make the best of what she had.

She’d actually realized this fifteen minutes ago and had been reasoning it out. She’d go back into the Elliott Arms, as a cop this time, and bullshit the doorman and whoever else needed bullshitting to give her access to Vanya’s apartment. Once inside, she could maybe find what she needed in order to contact Repetto, who could then obtain a warrant and prompt a wider search.

Not quite legal, Weaver knew. If she found nothing suspicious in Vanya’s apartment, she’d politely thank everyone involved, make her exit, and hope for the best. Which would be that an infuriated honest citizen named Dante Vanya wouldn’t complain to the department.

If she did find something definitive and incriminating, it might save Amelia Repetto’s young life; then Repetto, with Melbourne’s help, could smooth out any problems she might have with improper entry.

Like hell he could.

But being responsible for nailing the Night Sniper could overwhelm a lot of mistakes and make a lot of things right.

What she was about to do was risky and Weaver knew it. She also knew she was at a point in her career where it was time to take a risk.

And she knew this bastard was the Night Sniper.

Taking a chance, though. Hell of a chance. .

Weaver glanced across the street at the grandly uniformed doorman standing like a sentinel at the building entrance, looking intimidating, or trying to. He’d be good at his job, but Weaver figured she could get around him, win him over, bully him if she had to do it that way. Who’d he think he was, anyway? Big jerk-off standing there like the president of some country with weapons of mass destruction. She had the entire force of the NYPD behind her. Fuck him!

She summoned up her most official attitude, put her shield on display, and climbed out of the car.

60

Amelia’s relentless pacing was beginning to get on Meg’s nerves. The regular prushh, prushh, prushh of her slipper soles on the carpet was almost constant. Twenty-one-year-olds were restless, Meg reminded herself, even if they weren’t sniper targets.

It meant Meg could never relax. There was always the danger that Amelia would wander into a far part of the apartment alone and do something foolish, or peer out a window before Meg could stop her, or instinctively answer a knock on the door that led out onto the exposed stoop and sidewalk.

Local news was on TV with the sound off, but there was plenty to learn from the crawl at the bottom of the screen or by lipreading the anchorwoman. Meg, seated on the sofa and trying to keep one eye on Amelia and the other on the TV, decided that all the silent information insinuating itself into the living room might be too much. She used the remote to flip through the channels, stopping at a 1970s repeat of The Price is Right. It was all about profoundly excited people who needed haircuts and wore starched-looking loud clothes. They were ecstatic about prizes received if they came closest at guessing prices. Everything in life had its price, Meg reflected. And coming close was about as well as you could do.

Meg’s cell phone chimed and Amelia stopped pacing. She stared as Meg pressed the phone to her ear and listened to Repetto.

“We’re on high alert,” Repetto said.

He told Meg about Bobby Mays, and the homeless man who didn’t quite fit even in Bobby’s remote and lonely world.

“Doesn’t sound like enough,” Meg said, imagining dozens of RMP cars and scores of uniformed and plainclothes cops silently closing in on the blocks surrounding where she was sitting. They’d soon establish a loose cordon around the area; then they would inexorably tighten it. Inside its perimeter, others would position themselves near subway and bus stops, halt vehicles at intersections for traffic checks, or walk the neighborhood searching for the homeless man with a rifle who might be real.

Whoever the Night Sniper was-and Meg had private doubts about this homeless guy another of the homeless had described-if he knew the forces closing in on him, he’d wish he’d chosen another night.

“Amelia holding up all right?” Repetto asked.

“Well as can be expected.” Meg decided not to mention Amelia’s incessant pacing, or the growing apprehension Amelia would describe as simply nerves. Better than simply terror.

“Everything still tight there?”

“Like the city budget. Don’t worry about this end.”

Repetto hung up without asking to talk with Amelia. Things were moving fast and he was busy, his thoughts concentrated. He had to stay that way to remain on top of events that might be about to give him quite a ride. Meg understood. Amelia wouldn’t.

“Who was it?” Amelia asked, watching Meg clip the phone back on her belt.

“Your dad. I think he had more to say, but he got called away.”

“So why’d he call?”

Meg told her.

“He puts a lot of faith in what he calls instinct,” Amelia said. “Or hunches.” She began to pace again. Prushh, prushh. . “It’s really just subconscious reasoning, what your mind knows before it lets you in on the secret.”

Maybe she would understand.

Meg decided it might be a good idea if they talked about this. She switched off the distracting TV, where a woman in an evening gown was grinning and caressing a refrigerator as if she were in love. Woman and appliance shrank and disappeared in a point of light.

When Meg looked away from the blank screen, Amelia was approaching a window and reaching for the heavy closed drapes so she could part them and peer out.

Meg was instantly up out of the sofa, crossing the room swiftly but smoothly, so she didn’t spook Amelia and cause her to yank at the drape.

She saw Amelia’s fingers close on the thick velvet material and moved faster so she could rest a hand on her shoulder.

“Amelia, don’t-”