Fear the Night (21 page)

Alex made sure the door to his workshop was locked. He wouldn’t want Detective Meg to enter unexpectedly, as she might very well do. It seemed to be her nature. The cop in her.

The hiss of fine sandpaper on the custom gun stock he was toiling over soothed him as his hands lovingly worked the fine walnut. He’d created the stock out of a single block of prime wood over a yard long. Hours with the saws, the lathe, the sander, and now his hands separated from the wood only by the flimsy, clothlike sandpaper that allowed him almost to feel the grain. The graceful gun stock, of Alex’s own design, was for a .280 Remington rifle with an extended barrel. After the fine sanding, he’d get his wood chisels and spend long hours engraving the stock with exotic, sometimes erotic designs. It would become a work of art that Detective Meg might not comprehend.

There were plenty of ready customers for his custom stocks. Lots of people understood, like Alex, the fascination and repulsion of long guns that delivered death from a distance. While in a sense he loathed such weapons, he was also drawn to them, and he didn’t want to consider too carefully the depth of satisfaction he got out of creating beautiful wooden stocks for such firearms. Hate and love, fear and love, were sometimes so similar as to be indistinguishable. Like opposite sides of a rapidly spinning coin.

Detective Meg wouldn’t understand that.

Or maybe she’d understand it too well.

He sanded until the muscles in his arms began to cramp, thinking about Meg.

After a dinner of potatoes, broccoli, and cheese, all mixed in some kind of casserole she’d learned about on one of those half-hour-recipe TV cooking shows, Meg surveyed the mess in the kitchen and vowed never to make the dish again. It hadn’t been bad, but then it hadn’t been good. It had tasted like potatoes, broccoli, and cheese, and so what?

Well, there was enough of the stuff left over for tomorrow night, that was what. And these days Meg had a lot on her mind and was mostly eating for fuel rather than pleasure.

After cleaning up the kitchen and putting the leftover casserole in the refrigerator, she went into the living room.

She didn’t feel like watching television; she’d had enough of the world outside the apartment and didn’t want to watch news or some idiot’s idea of reality. Instead of sitting down on the sofa, she went to her desk chair, booted up her computer, and was told she had mail.

E-mail. One message from [email protected].

Alex.

She fought against opening the e-mail, then admitted to herself that eventually she was going to read it anyway, so why not soon? She moved the mouse on its
Dilbert
rubber pad and clicked.

Alex’s message was brief, like most of his others:
Thinking of you.

Meg deleted it from her e-mail but not from her mind.

She leaned back in her desk chair, thinking of Alex. Damn him! Why couldn’t he leave her alone? At least until the Night Sniper case was solved? He’d been a cop. He should understand.

She shut down the computer, went to the sofa, and used the remote to turn on the TV in order to pass the time and not strain her brain. A commercial was playing, a woman sitting on top of a speeding car with her legs down through the open sunroof. A handsome young guy was driving while fondling her bare feet. They were both grinning. Music blared and another, identical car was speeding toward the first, driven by a woman. A handsome man was sitting on that car with his legs down through the open sunroof, and the woman driving was fondling his bare feet. They were smiling, too. Everyone was smiling and speeding. Both men needed to shave. Both women looked as if every hair other than the ones on their heads had been depilatoried out of existence.

Meg wondered what any of this had to do with cars, then stopped watching and listening, and saw and heard nothing more of it. With so much else to occupy her thoughts, there was no way she could concentrate on television fare.

Thinking of you . . .

35

1991

To Adam Strong’s amazement, Dante’s performance on the target range wasn’t a fluke. He continued to shoot well, though he was such a natural shot that learning the fine points only marginally improved his aim. He was phenomenal at both skeet and still target shooting, accurate with a handgun, but particularly efficient with rifle or shotgun. And Dante continued to grow scholastically, especially in mathematics. Calculating distance, speed, and angles in shooting, and taking aim at solutions requiring similar calculations in mathematics, were talents that nourished each other.

Dante became increasingly important to Adam Strong, and Strong made it obvious. It was as if he’d found a son, and Dante had a father again. Dante grew in confidence and ability. The other boys respected him, especially when he began to defeat them regularly in the games they played. In everything from matchstick poker to chess, Dante became an obsessive and fiercely competitive opponent. He seldom lost. Then, after a while, when he had the measure of each of his opponents on the ranch, he never lost.

Strong gave Dante much more individual attention than he did any of the other children, and none of them complained. They all seemed to see something special in the relationship of Strong and the boy with the scarred face. Or maybe they figured that Dante had an extra measure of grief in the world, the way his face was, so he deserved special attention.

After one of their shooting expeditions plinking varmints—mostly jackrabbits and voles—on the ranch’s outskirts, Dante and Strong were walking side by side toward Strong’s pickup truck. The Arizona sun was brilliant and the temperature high. Neither Dante nor Strong was perspiring, but the heat still had to be taken into account. It worked internally and created a slight nausea. It discouraged fast or sudden movement.

They walked leisurely without talking, as they often did, content and comfortable with silence and each other’s company. The only sound was the regular slapping of their leather boot soles on the dry ground. Rooster tails of dust sprang up at their heels and settled back to earth slowly in the dry, still air.

Strong was wearing jeans, a western shirt, and a broad-brimmed straw hat. Dante had on jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt and was wearing a long-billed baseball cap.

Beside Dante, Strong slowed his pace slightly. He had his European single-shot breechloader broken down and balanced over his shoulder, freeing both his hands. This enabled him to remove his hat with his right hand and simultaneously swipe his left forearm across his forehead, where the hat’s leather brim had left a red indentation.

“Sun bother your scars?” he asked Dante.

Dante momentarily broke stride, surprised by the question. His burn-scarred face was something Strong never mentioned. Everyone on the ranch had learned not to mention it.

“Some,” he said, hoping Strong wasn’t going to pursue the subject.

“I been talking to some doctors in Phoenix,” Strong said. “Will you hear me out on what I learned?”

“Don’t I always hear you out?”

Strong smiled. “Yeah, I guess these days you do.”

“What kinda doctors?”

“The kind that can repair the damage to your face. It’s their specialty, helping people like you.”

Dante stopped walking. He swallowed. “I don’t wanna hear no more. Nothing about plastic surgeons.”

They began walking again. Strong said nothing for another dozen steps.

Then: “You scared?”

“It isn’t that.”

“Okay, we’ll let it drop.”

Neither of them spoke until they reached the truck.

“Not plastic surgeons, though,” Strong said, as they made sure their rifles were unloaded and placed them in padded cases, then in blankets in the pickup bed. “Cosmetic surgeons, they call themselves. They showed me pictures. They can show them to you. It’s amazing what they can do.”

“I thought we were gonna let it drop.”

Strong slapped the side of the pickup, startling Dante. “Listen, I know how you feel, and I’m only gonna push this so far. But I’m duty-bound because I’m fond of you, Dante. I want you to hear the facts, to think about them. Affection works both ways, you know. You really oughta give me a chance.”

Dante looked off to the horizon. The distant mountains were purple. The sun would be setting soon.

“I’ll listen,” he said.

For the next twenty minutes, then on the drive back to the ranch house, Strong told him what the doctors in Phoenix had said. They couldn’t make Dante perfect, but there’d been important advancements in dealing with scar tissue, and burn scar tissue in particular. They could make him normal.

It was dark when Strong parked the pickup alongside the tractor shed, in what he knew would be morning shade. He and Dante got out and walked around to the back of the vehicle to remove their rifles.

Strong smiled. “You gonna think on this, Dante?”

“Not much use. I’ve done some reading about it myself.”

“Then what do you mean, not much use?”

“I know how expensive it is. And I know I’m here because I don’t have any money.”

Strong removed his rifle from the back of the truck and shook his head. “I’ve got money, Dante.”

“Foundation money. You fix my face, you might have to do stuff for everyone here.”

“My money,” Strong said. “It’ll be my personal money.”

Dante stared at him in the dying orange light. “Why would you do that?”

Strong bit his lip. “Because I . . . think of you as a son.” He reached out with his free hand and drew Dante close, hugging him.

Dante hugged him back. They stood that way for a long time, each awkwardly clinging to the other with the arm that didn’t hold a rifle.

Dante began to cry. Strong held him even closer until he gained control of his emotions.

It was several minutes before the sobbing stopped. By then Dante knew he’d do whatever Strong wanted.

He knew that this time the father-son bond would never break.

36

The present

Officer Michael Skeppy was dropped off by a radio car at his intersection at eight that evening. Con Ed was doing street repairs in midtown, and select strings of traffic signals were scheduled to go black a few minutes past eight and remain so until ten o’clock. For two hours, that section of Manhattan would have to do without electric signals and rely on old-fashioned traffic cops.

Skeppy had drawn the busy intersection of Fifty-fifth and Lexington. He stood on the corner observing the still-functioning traffic signals, noting that there were still a lot of vehicles on the street despite the end of the after-work rush. Pedestrians veered around Skeppy’s stolid blue form with a glance; he was as much a part of the New York scene as the Empire State Building or Radio City Music Hall—the fabled New York cop. You could buy into whichever fables you chose, from Serpico and corruption, to the Twin Towers and incredible heroism. Skeppy could study the faces passing him by and pretty much know what their owners thought. There were variations, unless they needed directions or had just had their pockets picked. When people needed help, the faces were the same.

A subtle change in the rhythm of the passing traffic, then the distant blaring of horns, told Skeppy that the signals up Lexington were going dark one by one. Time to do his thing. He waited for a break in traffic, then strode like an emperor out into the middle of the intersection, whistle clamped in his teeth.

He surveyed the traffic, reading what must be happening blocks away on Lexington, then gave a shrill blast with the whistle and took charge. He raised a hand and fixed the driver of a minivan with a neutral but stoic stare, stopping traffic from turning off Fifty-fifth onto Lexington. Then he waved on the twenty or so cars that had raced the last block to arrive at the intersection and were waiting at the blank signal.

Skeppy knew how to direct traffic. A part of him even enjoyed it, when the weather was good like this evening. He used his hand signals expertly, getting into the rhythm, extending a hand palm-out, using his other arm to wave through vehicles waiting to make a left turn. In heavy traffic, like tonight, it could be almost a dance. Skeppy didn’t hotdog it like some of the cops working traffic, but he definitely was into it. So much so that a few people stopped and watched his skillful ballet done to the tempo of traffic and the shrill music of his police whistle.

They watched him spin like a dancer and wave an arm gracefully but decisively for a stopped truck to make its left turn, then come square with Lexington traffic, and with a blast of his whistle summon waiting vehicles on with both hands raised to shoulder level. Husky as he was, he possessed the elegance, balance, and daring of a matador. Onlookers watched as he demonstrated an amused disdain for speeding cars that almost brushed his clothing as they passed. They watched him not so much ignore danger as embrace it.

They watched him drop to his knees, as a sudden, reverberating crack like near thunder rolled and echoed along the avenues.

Skeppy kneeled there with his arms limp at his sides as traffic streamed around him. A few drivers glanced over at him as they passed and their expressions changed slightly. Inside their cars they’d heard the report of a rifle and knowledge was beginning to sink in.

Onlookers up on the curb saw the blood on Skeppy’s chest and the growing puddle of scarlet at his knees. They saw the police whistle drop from his lips and dangle on its cord slung around his neck. Then they saw him pitch forward and his chest and face strike the concrete hard. He hadn’t moved his limp arms or turned his head to avoid contact with the pavement. There was a collective gasp when he fell, because the way he fell, everyone somehow knew he was already dead.

Traffic began moving disjointedly on Lexington, and a scattering of blasting horns became a chorus, then became a crescendo and filled the warm evening.

Within minutes traffic had stopped. Three men on the sidewalk took advantage of the stalled traffic to run out in the street to see if they could help Skeppy, but when they reached him they saw that was impossible and simply stood staring. Sirens screamed and yodeled, making their way toward the dead man lying facedown in the middle of the intersection. Since traffic was stalled up and down Lexington, as if it might never move again, a few drivers got out of their cars and stood a respectful ten feet or so from Skeppy and his would-be saviors.

There were noticeably fewer people on the sidewalks, and a growing number of drivers and passengers were abandoning their stalled vehicles now and entering buildings. Some of them were walking swiftly, glancing uneasily around as they made their way to shelter. Word was spreading fast about how the dead cop had gotten that way.

By the time the first radio car arrived, after a twenty-minute journey through nightmare traffic, cops from the surrounding blocks had made their way on foot to Fifty-fifth and Lexington, and were standing in a circle around Skeppy, guarding his body and preserving the crime scene. They appeared angry, many of them looking around at surrounding tall buildings as if daring whoever had killed Skeppy to show himself, to take a shot at them.

It took another twenty minutes for the crime scene unit to arrive, and for the ME to reach the scene and pronounce Skeppy dead. While they worked, traffic was rerouted and began to flow again.

Shortly thereafter, Skeppy had been removed, and vehicular traffic streamed down Lexington and across the Fifty-fifth Street intersection. The river of traffic parted to avoid a small area in the center of the intersection, marked with yellow crime scene tape, and with NYPD sawhorses ten feet on either side of the cordoned-off square of pavement where Skeppy’s blood was still soaking into the concrete.

Repetto stood with Meg on East Fifty-fifth Street and looked out at the intersection where Skeppy had lain. There wasn’t much to say, because most of it was beyond words. The investigation had become intermittent, tragic routine. Melbourne had no trouble procuring uniformed officers, who were already canvassing neighboring buildings. Eventually they’d find where the Night Sniper had concealed himself while aiming at Skeppy and squeezing the trigger. It would tell them nothing. Perhaps there would be a smeared print from a latex glove, or faint evidence of someone kneeling or standing. They might even figure out where the Sniper had rested the barrel of his rifle to steady it. None of this would lead anywhere they hadn’t been.

“We learn only what he wants us to learn,” Repetto said.

Meg looked at him, not liking the expression on his face. “He’s controlling the game.”

“We have to figure out how to get control away from him.”

“We’ll find a way,” she said.

“It’s reached the point where he tells us what he’s going to do, and we still can’t stop him.”

“The rich man, poor man nursery rhyme ... maybe we shouldn’t have given that to the media.”

“They’d have it anyway,” Repetto said. “What the NYPD does world-class is leak.”

Meg had to agree. It had even leaked her phone number and e-mail address to Alex.

Repetto’s cell phone chirped, and he pulled it out of his pocket and answered. The flip-up phone seemed toylike in his big hand as he pressed it to his ear.

As he spoke, he absently drifted away from Meg, not as if he didn’t want her to overhear, more because of an impetus to walk and talk at the same time, as if one made the other easier.

Within a few minutes, he broke the connection and she saw him slip the phone back in his pocket. He looked around as if he’d just awakened and found himself ten feet away from her.

“That was Birdy,” he said, when he’d returned to stand in front of her. “Mrs. Michael Skeppy’s been told.”

“Jesus!” was all Meg could think of to say. How must it feel to answer the phone or open your door and
know
, and then be told? Like drowning, Meg thought. It must feel like drowning.

“She’s in a lot of pain,” Repetto said, “not making much sense.”

“What happened to her doesn’t make much sense. Did Birdy break the news to her?”

“No. Melbourne did. But Birdy accompanied him. She’d already heard on the radio about a cop being shot, and she had a feeling it was her husband.”

Meg wondered if every cop’s spouse or lover who’d heard the news had experienced that feeling.

“Birdy did find out one thing,” Repetto said. “He checked the public record to make sure it was true. The Skeppy family filed for bankruptcy two weeks ago.”

Meg stared out at the yellow crime scene tape flapping in the wind and cordoning off where Michael Skeppy had died. Hallowed ground for another half hour or so, until the sawhorses were picked up and the tape removed. The thought sent a twist of pain through her. “Rich man, poor man . . .”

“I’m getting tired of that one,” Repetto said with a quiet anger. “Have you heard the one about how an honest cop is a poor cop?”

“I’ve heard it,” Meg said. “The rest of it is,
But he sleeps well.
”

“We can hope Michael Skeppy’s sleeping well,” Repetto said, “because it’s going to be forever.”

Bobby Mays had dozed off seated on his coat spread out on the sidewalk, his back against a brick wall. It was early evening. He hadn’t begged enough money to pay for his prescription medicine, but he knew where he could buy a single Ambien to help keep the demons at bay.

The pills had worked well enough before, but they made him sleepy. He’d taken his last one this morning, but its effects were wearing off. Now he was wide awake, with a fierce headache, and with a terrible taste along the edges of his tongue. His legs, his pelvis, were numb. He wished he had a watch so he could know how long he’d slept sitting up against the building.

Bobby observed the people walking past. They didn’t return his gaze. He looked at the streetlights, the sparse traffic. The evening was warm, but hadn’t it been warmer when he sat down? He remembered taking up position on the sidewalk about seven o’clock. Now it
felt
much later than that.

He shifted his weight slightly to confirm that he was too numb and stiff to stand up right away. The way he was sitting now, though, circulation would return in his lower body and he’d soon have some mobility. The back of his thumb made contact with something, and he looked down to see his coffee mug. There were some crinkled dollar bills in it, and bright loose change visible at the bottom.

That was as good a measure of time as he had, so he picked up the cup and counted the money.

Four dollars and sixty cents, in bills and change. And something else. He felt and traced the familiar contours with his fingers.

An empty shell casing. As sure as he was sitting here.

He glanced down and saw the brass color in his hand.

A shell casing.

Then he looked more closely. The object wasn’t brass at all. It was copper. A copper penny. His fingers, his mind, had played a trick on him again. It was happening more often.

The object even felt different now. It felt exactly like a coin. Why hadn’t it felt like a coin before?

Bobby threw the penny away in despair, hearing it nick off the sidewalk. A woman striding past glanced down at him in alarm and picked up her pace, unconsciously clutching her purse closer to her side.

Bobby looked past her, across the street, and there was the raggedy man who walked with too much purpose. The homeless man who didn’t belong even in that anguished and desperate society. The man was moving too fast, with his gaze fixed straight ahead—not glancing around, not wary.
Not right. He doesn’t fit. Bobby knows. Bobby’s got the eye.

Had the eye.

This time Bobby wouldn’t let himself be taken in. He couldn’t deny the evidence that he hadn’t been thinking straight lately. He’d been losing yesterdays, imagining todays. This wouldn’t be like the shell casing that turned out to be a bullet. No, a penny. A coin that felt like something shaped completely unlike a coin.

How could my mind do that to me?

As he watched, the raggedy man went down the steps of a subway stop and disappeared.

He was there; then he was gone.

That was when Bobby was sure the man wasn’t real, because the subway stop was closed.