John Lutz - Fear the Night

“You’re sure he didn’t?”

“Oh yes. I was on duty that morning from early morning until past checkout time.”

A man and woman arrived at the desk with a flurry of luggage wielded by an eagerly helpful bellhop. Repetto nodded to the clerk so he could move to the opposite end of the desk and check them in.

“Doesn’t feel right,” Meg said.

Repetto got out his wallet and removed one of his cards. “I wanna write down this guy’s name before I forget it.”

He leaned over the open registration book and used one of the hotel’s ballpoint pens to copy the guest’s name on the back of the card, then suddenly stopped writing, staring at what he’d done.

“Get some uniforms and freeze that suite,” he said. His features had become hard.

Meg was too surprised to move right away.

“Asshole and his games,” Repetto muttered. He finished writing on the card and looked up at her. “Zoe was right about this guy.” He handed her the card.

Meg stared at it and felt a chill ripple up her back. Beneath his first writing of Ott Eperrepinsi’s name, Repetto had written it again, only backward, adding comas:

I, Sniper, Repetto.

“My professional opinion,” Meg said to Amelia, “is that you should get out of the city until we catch this guy.”

They were in the Amelia’s West Side apartment. Meg had caught a few hours of sleep earlier and come in to spell a haggard-looking Birdy. Though it was still light out, the blinds were closed and lamps and fixtures supplied most of the illumination. The cheaply furnished living room, with its mismatched furniture, museum posters, and shelves and stacks of books, mostly paperback, seemed smaller to Meg than when she’d first entered, more a trap than a refuge. Along one wall was a narrow table with an Apple computer on it. There was a stereo on one of the sagging bookshelves, with speakers so large they were unsettling. At least Amelia didn’t have the damned things on.

“I’ve been informed of the dangers,” Amelia said, “and my dad and I agreed to the precautions.” She was sitting in a gray wing chair, her face sidelighted by a reading lamp so she was even more beautiful than usual. Her hair looked like the spun gold of fairy tales. What a shame, Meg thought, for somebody so young, vital, and attractive to die when it wasn’t necessary.

It kind of irritated Meg, the way people who decided to place themselves in this kind of danger always seemed to agree only grudgingly to protection, as if they were being put out, as if a few cops or more weren’t laying their lives on the line to keep the intended target alive. Still, this was a kid, too young to have developed good survival skills.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Amelia said, “that I’m a lot of unnecessary trouble. But I’ve got a right to live where I choose.” Something in her voice was like her father’s.

“So you’re sticking,” Meg said. “You know what that makes you?”

Amelia smiled sadly. “Stubborn?”

“Well, that too. It also makes you an easy target.”

“So I’ve been told,” Amelia said. She knew the neighborhood was flooded with cops, in uniform and plainclothes, and of course there was protection right here, inside the apartment. “I feel safe, Meg, with what’s outside, and with you inside.”

“I know how your dad feels about this,” Meg said. “What about your mom?”

“She hates it, but she knows it’s my decision.”

“She try talking you out of it?”

“Only until she went hoarse.”

Meg gave her a level look. “You really understand what’s at stake here?”

“Yes, but I’m also skeptical of the notion that with all this obvious protection, the Night Sniper would dare come anywhere near here.”

“You don’t understand him,” Meg said. “It’s the difficulty that would attract him. The challenge. He’s a risk taker.”

“You sound as if you admire him. I’ve picked up the same thing sometimes in my dad’s voice. And in Birdy’s.”

“If we admire him,” Meg said, “it’s only as an adversary, not as a human being.”

“Whatever he is, I feel safe enough from him.” Amelia curled her legs beneath her in the chair and yawned. Her long braided hair was arranged now on the back of the chair and on one shoulder. What Meg wouldn’t do for hair like that.

“Not been sleeping well?” Meg asked.

“All right. I think your friend Birdy is nervous enough for both of us.”

Both women jumped when the doorbell rang.

“Almost nervous enough,” Amelia added.

“Bedroom,” Meg said.

Amelia immediately rose from the wing chair and disappeared down the hall.

Meg went to the door, stood to the side, and knocked three times on the inside.

There was an answering knock. “It’s Knickerbocker,” came the voice from the other side of the door. “Mr. Chicken.”

Meg squinted through the peephole and recognized the uniform outside. Ben Knickerbocker, with the fried chicken dinners from the corner deli.

Knickerbocker knew she was looking through the peephole. He made a loud clucking sound.

She unlocked the dead bolt and chain and opened the door. Cooler air wafted into the apartment, emphasizing how stuffy it had become. Knickerbocker clucked hello.

Meg accepted the two white takeout boxes from him. He was a young guy, handsome, with too much mouth on him. “Do I get a tip?” he asked through a wide grin. Guy must have fifty, sixty teeth.

“You would have,” Meg said, “but you put me in a fowl humor. They have everything the targ-Amelia requested?”

“Roger that. I made sure you’d both be happy.”

“How is it out there?”

“Normal enough,” Knickerbocker said. “Not dark yet, so the streets are still fairly crowded. Sniper’ll stand out more if he stays with his after-eight-thirty MO.”

“I wouldn’t count on anything with this guy.”

“We aren’t,” Knickerbocker said. “You on the inside can count on us on the outside. The kid holding up okay?”

“Amelia? Sure. I don’t think she fully recognizes the danger. Thinks she does, but she doesn’t.”

“Just so she follows the rules,” Knickerbocker said. He touched the bill of his cap in an oddly old-fashioned mannerism. “Enjoy dinner.”

Meg called Amelia back in from the rear of the apartment.

“Who was it?” Amelia asked.

“Mr. Chicken.”

They went into the kitchen to eat at the table. Amelia unscewed the cap on a bottle of cheap red wine while Meg spread out the chicken, slaw, potatoes, and rolls, placing them on china plates from one of the cabinets.

Amelia poured the wine and they sat down to eat.

“Not so bad,” Amelia said, raising her glass. “To safety and freedom from fear.”

And to an admirable show of bravado, Meg thought, deciding to go easy on the wine.

She clinked her glass against Amelia’s in a toast, thinking the mayor might have raised a glass after similar words at dinner the evening he was shot.

The next day, Bobby sat on a bench in a pocket park on East Fifty-third Street, where office workers from nearby buildings went to eat lunch or simply rest in the shade provided by small trees or the buildings bordering the park. There was a flat-surface waterfall at the far end of the park that supplied relaxing burbling and lapping sounds. A very restful atmosphere in the beating concrete heart of the city, and one where people tended to lower their guard.

Lunchtime seemed to be when these people in suits, blazers, and ties wanted to make personal calls on their cell or satellite phones. Bobby slumped on a bench as if half asleep, watching two women in particular through half-closed eyes.