John Lutz - Fear the Night

Kelli put her hand on Jason’s shoulder to get his attention, and they stopped at the corner and moved out of the flow of pedestrian traffic. She dug her cell phone from her purse and speed-dialed the work number of her husband, Warren, who was an architect with Lohan and Berner. Warren had been with the firm almost five years, and lately was doing very well. Which was how they’d managed to buy their eighteen-foot cabin cruiser Dream Waver .

They kept the boat docked in a slip at the Seventy-ninth Street Boat Basin. When Warren had to work late, which was often, he would stay in the city and spend the night on the Dream Waver. The boat slept six, so there was plenty of room on the nights when Kelli and Jason took a train into the city and met Warren for a late supper. The family would sleep on the boat. Kelli had resisted the idea at first, but Warren explained that the hotel bills they saved on the times he’d have to spend nights in the city would help to defray the cost of the boat.

The three years they’d owned the boat had proved him right. Not only that, Kelli came to love sleeping on the boat, feeling the gentle bobbing as water lapped at the hull, hearing the soft and subtle sounds of strain on wood, metal, and fiberglass. She also discovered that sex on a small boat was great, though not exactly private. Of course, it only happened on those rare nights when Jason wasn’t aboard. Kelli wondered if they might call Jennifer, the babysitter who sometimes stayed all night with Jason. Jennifer understood-

Warren picked up on the third ring.

“I’m in the middle of a meeting right now, hon,” he said, when he heard Kelli’s voice.

“Sorry. I’ll keep it short. We still on tonight for dinner at Four Seasons?” Kelli had never dined at the famous and expensive restaurant. This was to be a special dinner, celebrating the third anniversary of their purchase of Dream Waver.

“We’re still on. But I’m gonna be tied up here for a while longer discussing soil samples and city ordinances. I called and changed the reservation for eight-thirty. That okay with you?”

It has to be. But Kelli was only mildly annoyed. “Kind of late for Jason.”

“He never minded staying up past his bedtime.”

“That’s for sure. Jason and I can find someplace to kill time.”

“There’s a big new toy store over on Fifth Avenue.”

“I know the one you mean. We can cab over there and explore. But I can’t promise not to buy something.”

“With Jason along, it’s a given. Listen, I really gotta get back.”

“Of course. We’ll meet at Four Seasons a little before eight-thirty. Love you.”

“Love you back.”

The connection was broken.

“So what’re we gonna do?” Jason asked, as Kelli flipped the cell phone closed and slipped it back in her purse.

“Oh, I’m not sure. Maybe we could go explore a new toy store.”

“Kids’ toys?”

She had to grin. “I sure hope so.”

“We gonna buy something?”

She tried to ruffle his hair but he pulled away. Grinning, though.

“It’s a given,” she said.

The Night Sniper overheard most of what Kelli had said on the cell phone, her side of the conversation, on the corner near the Frick Museum. And he’d overheard both sides of the brief conversation between mother and child.

Time, place, opportunity. How carelessly people revealed themselves.

Crouching on the rooftop in the cool wind, he fitted the barrel and scope onto the collapsible aluminum stock of his custom-made Italian game rifle and smiled. The rifle was one of the more valuable in his collection, and it had a wonderful provenance. It had been a gift from Mussolini to Hermann Goering, himself an avid hunter, in 1939, only months before the beginning of World War Two. It was perfectly balanced, its hand-tooled components precise, its trigger pressure slight. So smooth was the mechanism that it was a pleasure for the Night Sniper to squeeze the trigger when the rifle was unloaded, simply to hear the buttery working of steel on steel. Steel that was machined to infinitesimal fractions of an inch.

Perfection.

The Night Sniper worshipped perfection.

And he’d found the perfect sniper’s nest, high enough to be unnoticeable from the street during the few seconds he’d be sighting in and vulnerable. Low enough so the angle of his shot was a good one. He had an unobstructed view of the corner of East Fifty-second and Park Avenue, and the entrance to the Four Seasons. The night was clear, and even on the rooftop the breeze was no more than a velvety caress of his bare wrists. Perfect.

His wrists had always been sensitive to even the slightest movement of air, which is why he always shot with his sleeves turned up.

They weren’t turned up now, because he had plenty of time. He glanced at the luminous dial of his watch. He was wearing his Tag Heuer chronograph tonight. It kept perfect time, and it indicated precisely fourteen minutes before 8:30.

Approximately fourteen more minutes for his target to live.

And counting.

Jason had fallen in love with a scaled-down radio-controlled model of the red Ferrari Formula One race car driven by his hero, Michael Schumaker. Kelli knew it probably cost more than Warren would have approved of on the spot, but since it was for Jason and it was a fait accompli, he wouldn’t be upset. The agreement between Jason and his mother was that Jason would carry the car, and it would remain in the box until they boarded the Dream Waver.

He didn’t have to carry the car far, because three cabs were lined up outside the toy store. No doubt the drivers knew that almost every adult who entered the store with a child would emerge with at least one bag or package. Pay or schlep.

When she bent over and climbed into the back of the cab after Jason, Kelli noticed the dashboard clock. Ten minutes past eight. They might get to Four Seasons before Warren, but that was okay. They could have something cold to drink while they waited for him, water or Sprite for Jason, a Bloody Mary for Kelli.

As the cab pulled slowly away from the curb, then lurched slightly as the driver nosed into the flow of traffic and accelerated, Kelli smiled.

Usually Warren chided her about arriving late for restaurant dates.

Not this time.

Repetto, Lora, and Zoe were halfway through their drinks, which were in oversize martini glasses. They were in the Campbell Apartment in Grand Central Station, a plush, secluded bar specializing in creative drinks. Repetto had ordered a regular gin martini. Lora and Zoe had drinks with chunks of fruit on toothpicks in them. Repetto had been here before and liked the ambience, lots of rich wood paneling, soft light, and a patina of wealth and excellence from a time when railroads ruled. Chairs comfortable enough to sleep in were arranged around low, generous tables where conversation came easily for lovers or various other kinds of people on the make. However, the conversation around this table had been strained, probably mostly because of Repetto. He’d been quieter than usual, wondering where the evening was going. He knew there was a reason Lora had pushed for this meeting with Zoe.

It was Zoe who’d chosen the place they were to meet. Through Lora, she was having too much influence on the Night Sniper case. And surely the case was the reason they were here. He thought he might as well be the first to mention the subject.

“Are you still sure our killer won’t shoot a child?” he asked, sipping his martini. He studied Zoe as he sipped. She seemed relieved that she hadn’t had to broach the subject. Lora was looking warningly at Repetto.

“Still am,” Zoe said. “He’s simply not a child killer. Or if he is, he breaks the pattern.”