while as a street kid, got himself badly burned in a subway station fire, then rehabilitated at a charity foundation ranch out in Arizona. That’s where he learned from an expert how to shoot.”
An orphan who’d grown up on the street, trying to kill a girl too stubborn to run. Sons and daughters, Repetto thought. Put the tape on rewind, and almost every crime could be prevented. “We sure about all this?”
“We are. You were right about Weaver. She did a hell of a job gathering facts. Vanya’s also got a room in his apartment with a door that doesn’t look like a door, and inside it is the biggest collection of rifles and shooting paraphernalia you ever saw. Ballistics is gonna be in heaven.”
“I take it Vanya wasn’t home when you arrived with the warrant.”
“No, and we both know where he was.”
“None anywhere in the apartment, which is also curious. Vanya never had much to do with his neighbors-not so unusual in New York-but the doorman describes him as average height and build, in his thirties, black and blue, good-looking guy, and a sharp dresser.”
“Get the name out to the media. Spread it all over the city, along with his description. Somebody’ll know him and tell us more.” Repetto thought about the NYPD personnel stationed in the neighborhood, and the cordon of cops in the wider area, closing in, tightening the trap so there were more and more cops to the square block, the square yard. “We have him. I can feel it.”
“When he knows he’s trapped,” Melbourne said, “he’s gonna be desperate and even more dangerous. And he can shoot the buttons off your shirt, only he won’t be aiming at your buttons.”
“We put out his description,” Repetto said, “and maybe he’ll surprise us and surrender in remorse.”
“I believe you hope he doesn’t.”
Repetto didn’t see any point in answering that one. “Better make sure the public knows he’s armed and dangerous.”
“Right now I’m making sure you and the rest of your people know it,” Melbourne said. “Right now I’m reminding you, this guy is deadly.”
Repetto said, “Tell it to Meg.”
“Word just came in on another line, she was hit in the shoulder and should be okay. She look to you like she was gonna make it?”
“There is no okay when you’ve got a bullet in you,” Repetto said. “And we’ll find out soon who’s gonna make it, and who isn’t.”
61
A chill ran through the Night Sniper as he saw a man carrying what looked like a small duffel bag, crossing the street half a block down. He slowed his pace, stalling until the man had climbed half a dozen steps to a concrete stoop and disappeared into a building.
Relieved, the Sniper picked up his pace.
He hadn’t expected this kind of security. Since leaving the apartment across the street from Repetto’s, he’d spotted uniformed cops, then people who might be working undercover. Real or suspected, he’d managed to avoid them all.
Other people walking the dark streets, who fortunately weren’t police, paid little attention to the homeless man in his long, rumpled coat, shuffling dazedly along the sidewalk. The fact that there were somewhat fewer homeless in New York these days seemed to make him even less noticeable, less of an actual person. He was a problem that was ended, or at least made manageable, and was no longer of concern. If anyone did look at him closely, the brown paper bag jutting from a pocket would explain his apparent disorientation. There was nothing unusual about people like him in New York. They existed in the thousands and drew no particular interest.
Yet he didn’t feel the smug invulnerability that usually sustained him when in his homeless persona. His heart was beating faster and he was slightly out of breath, hyperalert.
There was another police car, gliding across the intersection at the next block. The Sniper barely managed to halt and become part of the shadows. Again, he was sure he hadn’t been noticed.
Reasonably sure.
What was going on here? Security in Amelia Repetto’s neighborhood, yes. But this sudden and relentless tightening of a net was beyond what he’d anticipated.
One thing was for sure. They knew something. They’d been ready for him and had a plan that was now in effect. No surprise there. Everyone in the game knew that Amelia Repetto was being used to lure him. Like a staked lamb. But the number and intensity of the Sniper’s pursuers were upsetting.
For the first time since the game had begun, his confidence was shaken.
He was frightened.
He had to admit it.
But, as always, he knew where he was, and what he had to do. He changed direction and walked several blocks to the west. To a subway stop that had been closed for several months, awaiting renovation.
He managed a smile but didn’t like the nervous twitch at the corner of his mouth. Like a fox, he’d go to ground and let the hounds pass over him, near him, unaware of his presence, not realizing how lucky they were not to find him. He was pleased by the analogy. He drew comfort from it.
When he reached the darkened subway stop, he paused near the narrow concrete stairwell descending to the plywood-boarded entrance. No one seemed to be observing him, but just in case, he removed the bagged whiskey bottle from his pocket, pretended to take a swig, then started down the stairs that descended to blackness.
He was in familiar territory now, where a part of him had never left and still knew where it belonged, a discard and a freak hiding away from the rest of humanity.
His probing fingers found a rough wooden edge in the darkness, and he inserted them beneath it and began prying a plywood panel loose on one side to provide entry.
Through his fear he knew he was going home. Home to the ferocious security of a demon in hell.
Bobby had heard two guys standing outside Rocko Bill’s Sports Lounge talking about this Vanya, about the Night Sniper. They’d observed something on TV inside the lounge and seemed to think Vanya and the Sniper were one and the same.
One of the guys gave Bobby a shit-kicker look, and Bobby moved on.
They were both big and they might have been a little drunk, so he waited until they’d left before returning to the lounge entrance. He edged the door open to the sound of talking, laughing, and a baseball announcer doing a Braves game on the channel out of Atlanta. Bobby had a clear view of one of the big TVs above the bar. There was a news crawl across the bottom of the screen, but he couldn’t make out what it said. He did hear the name again-“Vanya”-in the conversation of people seated near the door.
“Hey, you!”
Bobby looked in the direction of the voice. A bald man behind the bar was waving what appeared to be a white towel at him. “Out! Get the fuck out!”
Bobby backed away, letting the door swing shut. Things had changed. Now he-and the police-knew the name of the Night Sniper:
If he
