John Lutz - Fear the Night

Loss, not pain.

The game had changed and the Sniper had even left Repetto clues to tantalize and torment. That was another good reason to save Repetto for later. He should suffer. He should know he’d been outsmarted. Let the law and the media think the Sniper was displaying the serial killer’s well-known subconscious desire to be stopped, to be caught. Zoe might even tell them that, encourage them. Wonderful!

But it was the game. The vengeance game.

Another loss for Repetto. Another grave. Another emotional bullet to the heart. No blood, no pulped flesh, but another rend that would never heal as long as Repetto lived.

Lying silently in the dim room, listening to Zoe breathe, the Night Sniper quietly composed in his mind his next theater seat note:

Rapunzel will take a tumble.

Bobby spent the night in the Dismas Shelter in Lower Manhattan. Ordinarily he preferred the street, especially during those times of year when the weather was bearable. But with the rally uptown, he thought the entire borough would be too active, not only with the people who roamed the streets before and after the affair at Rockefeller Plaza, but with those who saw them as prey. With all the muggers, rapists, pickpockets, con men, car thieves, and various other criminal types on the prowl, the shelter was a safer place.

The food was miserable but free-if you didn’t count the sermon-and the beds were little softer than park benches or subway seats. But once you warned away the crazies and resolved to sleep lightly, the shelters would do for a night or two.

The coffee was free that morning in small Styrofoam cups. Bobby took his outside the shelter, sniffing cool morning air that smelled fresh after the dormitory scent of stale booze, vomit, and pine-scented disinfectant he’d just left. Sipping the strong black brew, he trudged two blocks across town, then uptown, putting distance between himself and others who’d ventured from the shelter at about the same time.

No one had mentioned the news while Bobby was in the shelter. It was a place where life-changing events were smaller and more personal, and horizons nearer. When Bobby noticed a harried-looking business type dropping a folded Times in a trash basket, he stopped walking. He went to dig out the paper before it might become damp from discarded garbage, and saw for the first time the headlines proclaiming the mayor had been shot.

There was no place nearby to sit down, so he leaned his back against a building and read, ignoring the glances of people hurrying past on the sidewalk.

The mayor would live. That was good. The asshole Sniper had missed for the first time.

Why?

Too much security, Bobby figured. He knew a few things about being a sniper. It must have been necessary for the Night Sniper to set up and shoot from farther away than usual. And of course, if he’d set up too close to the Plaza, he’d have a harder time getting away after the shot.

Bobby read that the police thought the Sniper might be using subway tunnels to get around. Even hiding out in subway stops that were permanently or temporarily closed. Bobby had spent his time down there. It was a rough place to live. The Sniper was one tough guy if he was using subway stops and tunnels for shelter and to travel on foot.

It could be done, though, Bobby thought. It could be done. He recalled seeing the ragged man who didn’t fit his surroundings going down into a subway stop. Bobby had assumed the man wasn’t real, but now, considering what was in the paper, maybe he had been real.

Bobby’s legs and feet were beginning to ache. He folded the paper and tucked it beneath his arm to read more carefully later, then pushed away from the building and stretched in the warm sun heating up the concrete.

It took him about twenty minutes to get to Washington Square, where he found a bench, shooed away half a dozen lethargic pigeons, and sat down. Tired as he was, he didn’t lie down; he didn’t want to be chased. He sat leaning back with his eyes half closed, his face to the heat of the sun.

After a while he felt stronger, but he was hungry. He’d have to scare up some food, or the money to buy some, pretty soon. He remained on the bench, but he kept his eyes open for someone throwing away anything edible-a doughnut or breakfast muffin or pizza slice. It was amazing how many students from NYU liked cold pizza for breakfast.

So the ragged man is real.

Bobby couldn’t get the man with the hurried gait and the worn-out backpack out of his mind.

A girl about twenty, college girl probably, wearing a tight T-shirt and jeans that were slung low on her hips, walked past. Bobby’s gaze went with her. She had some kind of tattoo just above the crack of her ass. And she was talking on a cell phone.

“Way, way wrong!” a female voice said nearby. This woman was wearing a business suit and carrying a leather case in one hand. Her other hand held a cell phone pressed to her ear. She ignored Bobby as she swished past on high heels. She was built better than the college girl and he wished she were the one wearing those jeans.

He noticed that beyond the woman a man stood talking on a cell phone. Bobby settled back on his bench and studied the people around him in the square. It was amazing how many of them were talking on cell phones.

He watched the woman in the business suit lower the phone from her ear and place it in her purse. She left the purse open as she strode from the square and began moving faster, flailing an arm in an attempt to hail a cab. A woman was seated about two benches down, reading a magazine, her purse beside her, a small leather case that probably contained a cell phone alongside the purse.

Bobby was no thief. It wasn’t that he was so honest, more that he was stubborn. Despite his lowly position in life, he held on to his essential self. Or so he told his essential self. He drew lines. He didn’t cross them. He might be down on his luck, but he wouldn’t let circumstances make him a thief.

But this was different, what he had in mind. This was one of those rare times when the end actually did justify the means.

He knew he was going to steal a cell phone.

Repetto immediately understood the meaning of the note. Another nursery tale: Rapunzel. The beautiful girl held captive by a witch in a tower. The girl who let her braided golden hair grow so long that her lover could climb it and join her.

Only the witch had foreseen what would happen. The witch was in control.

Repetto knew who Rapunzel was in the Sniper’s note, in his mind, in his sights: Amelia Rapetto.

“You’ve got to move out of this apartment,” Repetto told his daughter, after showing her the note. “We can get you someplace safe.”

Amelia didn’t stir from where she sat on the sofa. “It wouldn’t do any good. The Sniper might simply follow me. Or find out where I went. From what you say, and what I’ve read about him in the news, he might even have sources inside the police department.”

Repetto couldn’t deny it. He was amazed that she didn’t seem frightened. Her features were so composed, so calm. He found himself proud of her, even if he wanted to grab her long braid and drag her out of this apartment. Maybe he’d do just that, to save her life.

“I have a life to live, and I’m not going to let some sick killer decide how I’m going to live it. People aren’t like chess pieces he can move around anytime however he wants.”

“Amelia-”

“I’m twenty-one, Dad.”

“Meaning I can’t make you move out, even for a while?”

“Awhile?”

“Until this killer is caught.”

“That could be forever.”