Fear the Night

The woman’s eyes appeared to be closed. At first the Night Sniper thought she might be asleep; then her right hand rose and went to her book, slowly turned a page, and returned to her side and was still. The rest of the woman hadn’t moved.

Deep into whatever she was reading, the Night Sniper thought. Good.

He stood all the way up and opened the door.

At the motion and sudden rush of sound, the woman raised her gaze from the book and turned her head to look at him. He closed the door and met her bleary-eyed, baleful stare.

She knows something, everything. On a certain level, she knows.

He opened his coat and raised the rifle from its sling, bringing it to his shoulder. The woman’s expression remained the same until an instant before he squeezed the trigger. There was a slight change in her eyes-perhaps they widened-and she opened her mouth to speak.

The train was traveling fast now, making a racket. The shot was barely audible over the clatter of steel on steel. When the bullet tore into the woman’s heart, her body jerked and her book dropped to the floor. She slumped lower on the bench seat, as if settling down awkwardly for a nap.

The Night Sniper went to her and pulled her up so she was seated somewhat straighter. It was surprising how light she was. He retrieved her book from the floor, glancing at the cover. Six Secrets for Sexual Success. That didn’t seem at all like the woman. He placed her fingers around the cover and propped the book in her dead hands. Her heart had stopped pumping immediately, so there wasn’t much blood. He arranged her fringed red scarf so it tumbled down over her chest, concealing the glistening scarlet stain. With a deft, brushing motion of his fingertips, he closed her eyes.

Gripping a vertical bar for support, he moved back and surveyed what he’d done. The woman appeared much as she had when he entered the car. She might be sleeping or reading.

Or dead.

He glanced again at her book and found himself wondering, what were the six secrets?

The train rattled on through the dark tunnel toward its next stop. When it arrived, if the platform looked clear enough, the Sniper would get off and make his way up to the street. As sparse as subway passengers were these dangerous nights, it should take quite a while before someone discovered the woman slumped in her seat was dead and not reading or sleeping.

Whatever the situation at the train’s next stop, the Sniper was sure that if he needed an alternate plan, one would come to him.

He was confident in a new way and with a new knowledge. It was going to be impossible for Repetto and his minions to bring him down. He understood that now, and the understanding was like a gift granted at birth and finally found. He couldn’t fail and he wouldn’t.

God or the devil was with him, and he didn’t know or care which.

63

“He can’t go far on foot,” Birdy said. “He’s gotta come up at the next stop or the one after.”

He and Repetto were standing next to the unmarked Ford Victoria Birdy had just arrived in, parked well away from the subway stop where Dillon had burned. They could still hear the siren as the ambulance that had left with Dillon made its way through traffic. They both knew, after having seen and talked with Dillon, that there was no real rush. Nobody in Dillon’s condition could have lived, or would want to live, much longer.

Three police cruisers were parked near the blackened area on the sidewalk where Dillon had lain, and techs from the crime scene unit were still busily measuring and photographing. Most of the cops were standing back. Two of them were smoking, one a cigarette, the other a cigar. They smoked for good reason. Burning tobacco created a different sort of smoke, with a different sort of odor that was definitely the lesser of two evils.

Repetto and Birdy were also keeping their distance because of the sweet scent of burnt flesh that hung in the air and became taste at the back of the tongue. The stench was still too cloying and evocative even at this distance. If Repetto had a cigar on him, he would have lit it.

“He comes to the surface, we’ll get him,” Birdy said confidently.

“He might branch off and take another tunnel,” Repetto said. He knew Melbourne and some other NYPD brass types would be second-guessing him if the Night Sniper-Dante Vanya-escaped capture or death tonight.

If they’d kept secret that they had the Sniper’s identity, he might have felt safe and returned to his apartment after his attempt to kill Amelia, and there encountered half the NYPD.

Repetto had understood his choice and made it. He’d opted to put out the killer’s identity while they had him inside the cordon, rattled and on the run. They had his name and description now; they’d soon track him down. Someone who knew him might call the police. And if he did slip the police tonight, there was always the chance he might still return to his apartment without knowing the media had spread his identity all over the city.

Odds. Everything was about odds.

“Wherever our guy is,” Birdy said, “I bet he’s covering ground fast. Gonna make it hard for us.”

Repetto pulled his cell phone from his pocket and pecked out the number for the Transit Bureau liaison, a lieutenant named Collingwood. He told Collingwood the situation.

“What he’s doing, running around in those dark tunnels, is damned dangerous,” Collingwood said in a grating voice.

“I wanna make it even more dangerous for him,” Repetto said. “How trapped is he?”

“Where he is, there aren’t many transfer points along the way,” Collingwood rasped. “Until he gets to. .” His voice trailed off as if he might be consulting a map. “. . Lexington Avenue.”

Repetto knew the stop, one of the major subway junctions in the city. If the Sniper shook himself loose there, he might slip away. “What trains travel along the tunnel he’s in?” Or at least entered.

“He’s following a route still used by the E and V lines.”

“What I want is to flood stops along those lines with cops, along with intersecting lines at transfer points. And soon as possible I want the subway system shut down temporarily for a police action.”

“I’ll pass along the order for the troops to be deployed,” Collingwood said, “but I think you oughta call Melbourne for authorization to shut down the line.”

“Not the line,” Repetto said, “the system. I don’t want there to be any possibility the Sniper can get into another tunnel or somehow board a train traveling who knows where.”

“The entire system? I dunno. . Like I said, you better call Melbourne.”

“I’ll call him,” Repetto said. “Then I’ll see your ass is called on the carpet if you don’t shut down the system.”

“Hold on, now. The whole system can’t be shut down just like that. What you’re asking-”

Repetto broke the connection and punched out his number for Melbourne.

“Problem?” Birdy asked, while Repetto was pacing and waiting to get through.

“Goddamn disconnect,” Repetto said.

“Phone, you mean?”

“Fuckin’ bureaucracy!”

“Ah,” Birdy said, understanding. He started to fidget, drumming his fingertips against each other, gazing up the block toward where Dillon had burned.

Still with the cell phone pressed to his ear, waiting for an answer, Repetto moved toward the car. “Let’s drive,” he said.

Birdy stopped fidgeting and stepped off the curb to walk around to the driver’s side. “Where to?”

Repetto was already lowering his bulk into the car, so Birdy got in behind the wheel before expecting a reply.

“Melbourne?” Repetto said, as his call was answered. Then to Birdy, his hand over the tiny phone’s flip mouthpiece: “Third and Lex.”

Approximately two minutes after his conversation with Melbourne, Repetto’s cell phone chirped.