John Lutz - Fear the Night

For a few minutes he’d stood at the window, staring out at the edge of Central Park. A jogger passed on the trail beyond the low stone wall that marked the park’s perimeter. Another jogger. A Rollerblader. Then a woman walking a small child on a leash as if it were a dog.

How can people do that to children?

The apartment, he decided, was well suited to his needs.

Now here he was, dressed in chinos and a pale blue shirt, brown walking shoes. The uniform of the forgettable.

Not that it mattered. As before, no one had seen him as he made his way into the lobby, elevatored to the fifth floor, and entered the vacant apartment.

He went to the window. Darkness was falling, but a nearby streetlight threw faint illumination along the park’s edge. The trail itself was barely visible and would be almost impossible to see with the naked eye within the next fifteen or twenty minutes.

The Night Sniper carried a tiny flashlight, but there was no need for it. The apartment was bright enough for him to see as he removed the custom-made Feinwerkbau target rifle from his backpack and assembled it. Even wearing the thin latex gloves, he could assemble the rifle by feel, and needed no light. He’d once done exactly that in total darkness to amuse himself.

He attached a magazine to the spare, deadly-looking rifle and made sure there was a round in the breech, then fitted the scope to the barrel. Placing the backpack against the wall where he’d be able to get to it quickly, he kneeled at the window that overlooked the park and raised it about six inches. Cooler evening air flowed into the warm apartment that had probably been closed up all day.

After adjusting his body so he could remain kneeling comfortably and steadily for a while, he raised the rifle and sighted in on the trail in the park across the street.

It was much darker now and there were fewer people on the path. Hardly anyone wanted to enter the park after nightfall, and who could blame them? There were dangerous people out there. Human predators.

Two young men bopped past on the path, wearing gang-banger pants that looked about to be left behind as they talked to each other and waved their arms. One of them was carrying something that looked like a closed umbrella, though there was no rain in the forecast. A man and woman walked past in the opposite direction, moving fast. Half a block down, they climbed over the low stone wall and were out of the park.

These were not the Night Sniper’s targets. Not worthy of his gift of death.

There was another figure on the path. A man in dark slacks and a jacket, hands stuffed in pockets. Maybe looking for someone to mug.

The Night Sniper waited, unmoving. When he saw his target, he’d know it.

Ah! Here came another figure, jogging slowly through the shadows, almost at a walk. But this figure moved with a practiced, graceful motion. Interesting. Was this the one?

He leaned forward and peered through the rifle’s infrared scope. A woman. She was young, slender, graceful, her long hair-a braid or ponytail-swaying with each step. Though she was laboring as if she might be in some sort of discomfort, there was a lithe elegance in her every shortened stride.

This was the one. The chosen.

He focused in on her, keeping the crosshairs trained on the thickest part of her figure, her torso. He knew the rifle would make noise, but it was doubtful that any other building occupants would suspect that what they heard was interior. And of course he counted on the echoing crack of the shot to add to the city’s fear factor. He wanted people to jump at even slight abrupt sounds that might mean death. What was lightning without thunder?

Because of her graceful stride, the woman was moving faster than it first appeared. Darker shapes across the street, trees, would soon block his shot. If it was to be tonight, he had to make up his mind.

He allowed for the faint breeze, calculated his lead, then squeezed the trigger. Thunder cracked and echoed among the tall buildings.

Target down.

For a few seconds the Night Sniper studied the prone figure through the powerful night scope. There was no movement.

Time to leave.

He recovered the ejected brass casing from the floor and slipped it into a pocket. Then he quickly broke down the rifle and jammed it into his backpack. Carrying the pack in his right hand, he was in the hall, then the elevator and lobby, in less than a minute. Still without being seen.

There was no one in the lobby, but he didn’t want to take the chance of changing clothes here or in the restroom, as he’d thought he might. Instead, he casually walked outside, noticing that none of the hurrying, obviously uneasy people on the sidewalks had apparently yet been made aware of the woman’s body on the path.

That made things easier.

In the deep, dark doorway of a closed and boarded-up Chinese restaurant, the Night Sniper found the darkest point, then with practiced quickness and economy of motion removed his shirt and pants and stuffed them into the backpack, along with the disassembled rifle. He was wearing other clothes beneath them: baggy, filthy-looking pants and an oversize shirt with a torn collar and an unbuttoned cuff. One costume for another. He mussed his hair, put on his well-worn Yankees cap, then slipped his arms through his backpack’s straps and made his way back to the street.

Now he was a shuffling, homeless soul making his way to the abandoned subway stop where he sought shelter. He looked not at all like the straight-arrow type who’d just exited the building down the street.

A block away, he lengthened his stride. There was no need to hurry, but he did anyway. Though not so much that he’d attract attention.

Bobby Mays was seated on his folded blanket, his chipped coffee cup before him, doing business a block off the park, when he heard the shot.

From his years as a Philadelphia cop, he knew it was a gunshot. Rifle fire.

Bobby shifted sideways so he could get on his hands and knees, then leaned against the building wall and started working his way to a standing position. He was stiff from sleeping in a doorway most of last night on his blanket, and he’d been panhandling where he was since early evening. His knee hurt where a punk on the prowl had kicked it out of meanness a week ago. His right shoulder ached where the pins had been put in after the accident. As long as his head didn’t hurt the way it often did, he didn’t mind the rest of the pain; it was something he’d learned to live with, and he knew that after he moved around for a while it would lessen.

He snatched up the cup as he stood, so he wouldn’t have to bend over again, then glanced down at it-about five dollars. Not bad. He stuffed the money into the baggy side pocket of the ancient suit coat he’d found in curbside trash, then raised his face to the sky like an animal testing to pick up the scent. He was trying, as best he could, to determine at least the general direction of the echoing gunshot.

Curious, and with nothing else to do, he hitched up his belt and began walking unsteadily in the direction of the report. People glanced at him and looked quickly away. No one blocked his path, or said excuse me as they stepped aside to let him pass. Bobby the invisible. Sometimes it seemed he was disappearing even from himself.

When he reached Central Park West, he could see blue and red flashing lights several blocks down the street, on the side where the park was. The emergency lights might have something to do with the shot he’d heard-might have heard. But there were emergencies all the time in the city. He began moving in that direction.

That’s when he looked across the street, and there was the homeless man he’d seen at Columbus Circle. Bobby remembered him for the same reason he’d noticed him in the first place. The man was, at a glance, one of the homeless, like Bobby. But a closer look revealed something not quite right about him. He didn’t fit. It was obvious to an ex-cop like Bobby, even if people only glanced at the ragged man and moved out of his way. No one wanted to disturb the man or attract his attention. People with nothing to lose could be dangerous.