John Lutz - Fear the Night

He placed both palms on the lectern and glanced at his notes, leaning slightly forward to be closer to the microphones:

“Citizens of New York. This night we lay claim. . ”

He lapsed into silence and looked around as if astounded, then slumped over the lectern and slid to the floor. His notes fluttered down around him like white birds in the night as the echoing report of the rifle reverberated along the avenues. Women began to scream.

Meg saw the mayor’s security rush forward. Several of them stood over the fallen mayor and desperately scanned the surrounding buildings. It was impossible to know which way to look for the source of the shot.

The aide who’d introduced the mayor was suddenly at the microphones. “Ladies and gentlemen, please stay calm. All of you, damn it! We’ve got an emergency here!”

Buffeted by the crowd, Meg saw the TV screens above the podium go blank. She tried to call Repetto on her cell phone but it was knocked from her hand. A big man in a yellow shirt elbowed her aside and she punched him in the ribs.

Be professional!

She gave up trying to retrieve the cell phone; it was probably trampled flat anyway. Instead, she began fighting her way through the crowd toward the podium, not sure what she’d do when she got there. She could hear sirens wailing in the distance now, converging on the Plaza from every direction.

Why didn’t they plan for this? It was sure to happen. They should have had an ambulance waiting nearby.

But somebody at City Hall was ahead of Meg. Men and women were frantically clearing away the lectern and chairs on the podium, creating a large, flat platform. Blue uniforms and suited security surrounded the platform, moving back the crowd, sometimes not so gently.

Lights, a loud fluttering sound, and a helicopter dropped almost straight down from the night sky. Its skids settled perfectly on the stage that had become a landing pad, and within less than a minute the mayor, already on a stretcher, was transferred to the chopper through a wide side door.

Three blocks away, the Night Sniper saw the helicopter approach from beyond the Plaza and drop between tall buildings to land on the platform. Very efficient.

He removed the frame from its brackets and scooped gravel over them so they weren’t visible from inside the hotel.

The Sniper was back in his suite before he saw the helicopter, with what surely must be the mayor’s body, rise back into the dark sky above the bright haze of the city.

He was more excited than he’d anticipated as he broke down the frame and rifle, then fitted them in his Louis Vuitton bag.

There had been a change of plans. He was sure he hadn’t been spotted outside, and with the flash suppresser, even if someone had been looking in his direction from the distant podium, they wouldn’t have seen the muzzle flash. He felt safe at the hotel, at least for a while.

He began undressing, trying to stay calm. Jesus! This is something! His fingers were trembling as he fumbled at his belt buckle.

The mayor! This is something!

He heard a high-pitched giggle and was startled until he realized it was his own.

Not good! This wasn’t like him. He had to gain control of himself, of his actions, during the rest of the evening.

He worked his legs out of his jeans, then sat on the edge of the bed to change socks. He glanced at his watch. More time had elapsed than he’d thought, but he refused to make himself hurry. Every move was deliberate and economical.

Get hold of yourself, of your emotions. Not like you. Not like you. Get hold.

Jesus, this is something!

Twenty minutes later, the Night Sniper looked nothing like the homeless wretch he usually became immediately after claiming a victim. He was wearing a navy blue Armani suit with a subtle black weave, black Italian leather shoes, a white shirt with gold cuff links, and a maroon and black silk tie. His wig was neatly affixed and almost impossible to distinguish from his real hair. He was tanned, smoothly shaved, and carried the faint scent of cologne.

He took the elevator to the lobby, to make sure nothing he should know about was occurring.

Everything seemed normal, considering the news was out that the mayor had been shot. People were clustered in small knots and talking to each other, some of them standing and staring at a TV screen in the lounge. Outside, beyond the hotel’s bank of tinted glass doors, two valets stood beneath the awning talking to half a dozen teenage girls, while a third valet was trying unsuccessfully to hail a cab.

He’d managed to hail two cabs, and the girls were piling in, when the Night Sniper pressed the Up button.

As he waited for the elevator that had just descended to empty out, an attractive, midtwenties woman, escorted by an older man, glanced at him appraisingly and smiled as she walked past. He smiled back, used to being noticed by women. She glanced back at him as two businessman types stepped into the elevator, and one of them held the door so it wouldn’t close until a woman who might have been an airline attendant made it inside. Moving into the elevator, the Night Sniper saw that she not only had the sort of folded hanging bag used by flight attendants, but there was an American Airlines employee’s tag on it. She thanked the man who’d held the door, then noticed the Night Sniper paying attention to her and smiled at him. “I was checking out and remembered I left something in my room,” she said, as if he’d asked her a question. “I’m a flight attendant. Gotta get to LaGuardia. Not that there’ll be anything flying out for a while, after what just happened.”

He merely nodded, not wanting to be remembered by the woman if she was asked about him later.

“What just happened?” one of the business types asked.

“The mayor was shot while he was giving a speech.”

“That rally thing?” the man asked.

The woman nodded.

“Damn! The mayor of New York … He dead?”

“Dunno.” She glanced at her watch.

“Your room near the elevator?” the man asked. “We can hold it here for you while you get whatever it is you forgot.”

“Thanks, but don’t do that. It’ll take me a while, and I might make a phone call.”

She got off on the tenth floor. The businessmen-if that’s what they were-got off on the twelfth. As they strode together down the hall, they were talking about the mayor being shot, wondering out loud if he’d been killed.

Natural enough, the Night Sniper thought. He was wondering the same thing.

But there would be time to learn the mayor’s condition. The connection had been made, the bullet sent true to its target. Despite the difficulty of the shot, he was reasonably sure the mayor was dead.

He rode the elevator all the way up to the hotel’s Pot-O-Gold Room, for dining and dancing with the woman he’d arranged to meet there.

He was confident of how the rest of the evening would go. The mood in the Pot-O-Gold Room would be subdued at first, but the pianist and cabaret singer who’d been performing there for years would manage to lift spirits. The food would be delicious, the wine at least acceptable, and when the singer finished his set, his four-piece backup band would play soft music.

The Sniper and his companion would sip champagne and dance and stay late and have a grand time.

Zoe would get a little drunk.

The Night Sniper wouldn’t.

Captain Lou Murchison was standing back beyond the podium where the press couldn’t get to him. Even from this distance he looked as if he’d just been sentenced to be hanged. The cops around him were keeping their distance; they knew what Murchison had and didn’t want to catch it.