John Lutz - Fear the Night

“I’ve got something that might help,” Repetto said, and told Murchison what Meg had figured out about the Sniper using closed tunnels and stops in the subway system to move around town.

“Interesting,” Murchison said. “He can get in and out of the crime scene fast and unseen, and it minimizes the risk of him carrying a rifle both directions.”

“Whatever weapon he’s using,” Repetto said, “it probably breaks down. Target rifles often do, for travel.”

“So he can kill somebody, then carry away the damned weapon in his pocket.”

“They don’t break down quite that far,” Repetto said. “But maybe some of them fit in a shopping bag or attache case.”

Murchison stared down thoughtfully at the pavement between his feet. “I wonder how many closed subway stops there are.”

“At present, permanently and temporarily, fifteen,” Repetto said. “I checked with the Transit Bureau.”

“You ask them how many miles of track there are?”

“No,” Repetto admitted.

“Damn near 240. My brother-in-law used to work for Port Authority told me that a while back. There’s another city underneath this one, Repetto. Our sniper has plenty of room to roam.”

“Still,” Repetto said, “knowing where he roams makes it easier.”

“Yeah,” Murchison said despondently, “we might be standing only a few hundred miles from him right now.”

Repetto decided not to point out to Murchison about miles as the crow flies, and that the crow didn’t fly underground. The subway system was laced with a crisscross pattern of tracks. They might be standing on top of the Sniper right now.

Murchison slipped his hands in his pockets and glanced up again at the surrounding buildings. “Our sniper roams high, too. Planning and preparation go into everything he does. He might be watching us right now.”

“Makes me glad I’m not the mayor.”

“If they’d take my advice,” Murchison said, “this rally would be canceled. But the mayor won’t hear of it.”

“Maybe he figures he’s in too far to back out.”

“No, not him. He wants to do this. And not only for political reasons. He takes it as a personal affront, what the Sniper’s been doing to his city.”

“So do I,” Repetto said.

Murchison looked at him to be sure he was serious.

Repetto was.

“You and the mayor,” Murchison said with mock disgust.

“You too,” Repetto said.

“Yeah, maybe. But I go only so far. Gotta give Hizoner credit for guts.”

“Gets my vote.”

Murchison turned and motioned toward Rockefeller Plaza, where a restaurant was serving outdoor diners in the sunken area where the ice rink was during the winter months. It was also where the city’s official Christmas tree would be displayed later in the year.

“We’re gonna set up a podium down there in the Plaza,” Murchison said. “Make the speakers, including the mayor, tougher targets below ground level.”

“Good idea. But probably not enough.”

“Probably not, but thanks to your man-”

“Woman. Detective Meg Doyle.”

Murchison nodded. “I’ll remember the name. What we’ll do is pull some people off the immediate area to cover the subway stops in the neighborhood. Have them look for anything suspicious, especially if it involves somebody possibly carrying a rifle-even one that’s disassembled.”

Repetto said he thought that was a good idea. He also knew the long odds against results, in a city where everyone schlepped everything.

“You’ll be in charge of subway stop security,” Murchison told him. “I’ll clear it with Melbourne.”

Repetto was surprised but didn’t argue. Daunting as the assignment might be, it was one he wanted. His city. His and the mayor’s.

Murchison waved an arm in an encompassing gesture. “We’ll have the area around the Plaza flooded with uniformed and undercover cops. Spotters and SWAT snipers will be stationed strategically in, and on, surrounding buildings.”

“The Sniper will be expecting that,” Repetto said.

Murchison nodded agreement. “That’s why the subway information and your assignment are so important.”

Repetto knew what Murchison meant, but Murchison went ahead and said it: “It’d be nice if we nailed the Sniper before he kills the mayor.”

The object of the game, Repetto thought.

The game.

The Night Sniper sat back from his typewriter and checked his letter to the New York Times. In it he complimented the mayor for his wisdom and fortitude in speaking at the upcoming TBTC rally. It was a time for strong leadership and the mayor was providing it. The city couldn’t let itself be held hostage by fear, and only someone with courage could break the chains of that fear through bold and definitive action. The mayor made the letter writer proud to be a New Yorker.

The letter was unsigned.

The Night Sniper doubted the Times would print such a letter from an anonymous source, but they’d count it in their pro and con survey. It would add weight, however slight, to the mayor’s political responsibility.

It would contribute to maneuvering the mayor closer to the point of his death.

The morning before the TBTC rally, the Night Sniper made his way on foot across town toward Rockefeller Center. He’d noticed a uniformed policeman stationed near the closed subway stop that provided access to a tunnel leading downtown. The subway tunnel was the route the Night Sniper had intended taking.

He stood looking at the policeman, a young man with a seriousness and tenseness about him. As if he expected trouble and perhaps wanted it.

Not willing to take a chance, the Night Sniper walked to his secondary entry point.

No uniformed cop there, but a decidedly suspicious businessman seated on a nearby bench and pretending to read a magazine while sipping water from a plastic bottle. He looked, he felt, like an undercover cop. And if he wasn’t, what about the homeless man with the good haircut slouching near the corner?

No problem, the Night Sniper told himself.

But as he walked toward Midtown, he saw that other subway stops were staked out by the police. No mistaking it now; they must at least suspect he was using the subways for shelter and to move about, especially the deserted tunnels and stations.

This shouldn’t be a complete surprise. Repetto wasn’t a fool. That was why he’d been chosen.

The Night Sniper walked on.

He finally found a long-deserted stop his pursuers had overlooked, on East Fifty-ninth Street. The surface structure leading to the stairwell was razed, its rubble piled nearby. The entry to underground was shielded from sight by a raised plywood walkway, the access to the stairwell covered by a square steel plate. The construction walkway was flanked by four-by-eight plywood sheets propped on their sides and nailed tight to upright supports, so that only the upper bodies of passersby were visible.

When no one was on the angled walkway, the homeless man with the backpack dropped down out of sight. The steel plate was screwed down, but was easy to pry up from the weathered wood walkway. He quickly slid the plate to the side, then lowered himself into the darkness beneath. Just as quickly, but with considerably more effort, he slid the plate back into place from below so it could be walked upon. In darkness, he began descending rusty steel rungs protruding from an old concrete wall that curved to remind him of a well.

The last ten feet of the ladder was smooth steel, as the entry widened to twice its diameter. The ground below was muddy but with a firmness just below the surface.

Standing at the base of the ladder, the Night Sniper could hear the muffled roar of subway trains. He got his small mag light from his backpack and shone the thin beam about.