John Lutz - Fear the Night

If she did find something definitive and incriminating, it might save Amelia Repetto’s young life; then Repetto, with Melbourne’s help, could smooth out any problems she might have with improper entry.

Like hell he could.

But being responsible for nailing the Night Sniper could overwhelm a lot of mistakes and make a lot of things right.

What she was about to do was risky and Weaver knew it. She also knew she was at a point in her career where it was time to take a risk.

And she knew this bastard was the Night Sniper.

Taking a chance, though. Hell of a chance. .

Weaver glanced across the street at the grandly uniformed doorman standing like a sentinel at the building entrance, looking intimidating, or trying to. He’d be good at his job, but Weaver figured she could get around him, win him over, bully him if she had to do it that way. Who’d he think he was, anyway? Big jerk-off standing there like the president of some country with weapons of mass destruction. She had the entire force of the NYPD behind her . Fuck him!

She summoned up her most official attitude, put her shield on display, and climbed out of the car.

Amelia’s relentless pacing was beginning to get on Meg’s nerves. The regular prushh, prushh, prushh of her slipper soles on the carpet was almost constant. Twenty-one-year-olds were restless, Meg reminded herself, even if they weren’t sniper targets.

It meant Meg could never relax. There was always the danger that Amelia would wander into a far part of the apartment alone and do something foolish, or peer out a window before Meg could stop her, or instinctively answer a knock on the door that led out onto the exposed stoop and sidewalk.

Local news was on TV with the sound off, but there was plenty to learn from the crawl at the bottom of the screen or by lipreading the anchorwoman. Meg, seated on the sofa and trying to keep one eye on Amelia and the other on the TV, decided that all the silent information insinuating itself into the living room might be too much. She used the remote to flip through the channels, stopping at a 1970s repeat of The Price is Right. It was all about profoundly excited people who needed haircuts and wore starched-looking loud clothes. They were ecstatic about prizes received if they came closest at guessing prices. Everything in life had its price, Meg reflected. And coming close was about as well as you could do.

Meg’s cell phone chimed and Amelia stopped pacing. She stared as Meg pressed the phone to her ear and listened to Repetto.

“We’re on high alert,” Repetto said.

He told Meg about Bobby Mays, and the homeless man who didn’t quite fit even in Bobby’s remote and lonely world.

“Doesn’t sound like enough,” Meg said, imagining dozens of RMP cars and scores of uniformed and plainclothes cops silently closing in on the blocks surrounding where she was sitting. They’d soon establish a loose cordon around the area; then they would inexorably tighten it. Inside its perimeter, others would position themselves near subway and bus stops, halt vehicles at intersections for traffic checks, or walk the neighborhood searching for the homeless man with a rifle who might be real.

Whoever the Night Sniper was-and Meg had private doubts about this homeless guy another of the homeless had described-if he knew the forces closing in on him, he’d wish he’d chosen another night.

“Amelia holding up all right?” Repetto asked.

“Well as can be expected.” Meg decided not to mention Amelia’s incessant pacing, or the growing apprehension Amelia would describe as simply nerves. Better than simply terror.

“Everything still tight there?”

“Like the city budget. Don’t worry about this end.”

Repetto hung up without asking to talk with Amelia. Things were moving fast and he was busy, his thoughts concentrated. He had to stay that way to remain on top of events that might be about to give him quite a ride. Meg understood. Amelia wouldn’t.

“Who was it?” Amelia asked, watching Meg clip the phone back on her belt.

“Your dad. I think he had more to say, but he got called away.”

“So why’d he call?”

Meg told her.

“He puts a lot of faith in what he calls instinct,” Amelia said. “Or hunches.” She began to pace again. Prushh, prushh. . “It’s really just subconscious reasoning, what your mind knows before it lets you in on the secret.”

Maybe she would understand.

Meg decided it might be a good idea if they talked about this. She switched off the distracting TV, where a woman in an evening gown was grinning and caressing a refrigerator as if she were in love. Woman and appliance shrank and disappeared in a point of light.

When Meg looked away from the blank screen, Amelia was approaching a window and reaching for the heavy closed drapes so she could part them and peer out.

Meg was instantly up out of the sofa, crossing the room swiftly but smoothly, so she didn’t spook Amelia and cause her to yank at the drape.

She saw Amelia’s fingers close on the thick velvet material and moved faster so she could rest a hand on her shoulder.

“Amelia, don’t-”

There was an almost inaudible snick! from the other side of the drape, and the unmistakable crack of a rifle shot echoed along the street.

Meg saw the shock on Amelia’s face, the pattern of blood on her left cheek.

Then Meg was sitting on the floor, dragging Amelia down with her.

It all seemed to be happening slowly, but disjointedly in a way that ate up time.

Shouts from outside. Running footfalls. Leather soles shuffling on concrete. The doorbell chiming over and over. A pounding on the door.

Meg looked again at Amelia, who was sitting hugging her knees and staring wide-eyed back at her, still with the stunned expression. And something else. A kind of horror mixed with pity.

A pain in Meg’s right shoulder made her gasp, and she curled to lie on her side on the deep, roughly napped carpet. She felt for her shoulder and found fiery pain. Blood was thick and scarlet on her fingers, and now she felt the warmth of fresh blood between her breasts, trickling down her ribs beneath her left arm. Her life trickling away.

“Christ! I’ve been shot. . ”

“Stay still,” Amelia said, calmer now, suddenly older than twenty-one and in charge. Her face was bloody, cut by flying glass. A small shard protruded from just below her left eye. “I’ll get help.”

“Careful. . ”

Amelia nodded as she scooted away, staying low, passing out of sight because Meg was too weak to turn her head to follow her movements.

I’ve been shot. . Can’t be. . So many things left to do. .

Motion. Shiny black shoes near her. Big. Men’s shoes. Cop’s shoes.

Jesus! That’s reassuring. .

A cop’s face looming over her. Knickerbocker’s.

Mr. Chicken.

Exhausted, no longer in pain, Meg closed her eyes.

The Night Sniper knew he’d missed. He’d tried to make a head shot and failed. Carelessness of a sort. Or unlucky.

Something made the blond woman in the window, who had to be Amelia Repetto, suddenly move-only a few inches, but enough to save her life. Life was always a matter of inches.

Lucky Amelia.

This time.

There’ll be another time.

Right now the challenge was to get out of the subleased apartment fast. He’d gone over it all in his mind, so his actions were almost automatic. He moved quickly and deliberately, a part of his mind seconds, minutes ahead of where he was and what he was doing.

This rifle had a bolt action, so the Sniper didn’t have to use valuable time retrieving a shell casing; it remained in the breech. There weren’t as many tall buildings in this area as downtown, which meant the echo effect wasn’t as great. It wouldn’t take his opponents long to locate the source of the shot. If he weren’t fast enough they’d be on his heels.