John Lutz - Night Victims

“True,” Larkin said.

“Unless he did go to his commanding officer, and it went no further.”

“Makes sense.”

“And it went no further because Mandle must have had something on Kray.”

“So why didn’t Vine go over Kray’s head?”

“My guess is by that time he was in too deep,” Horn said. “All that’s important is we know he didn’t go higher than Kray in the chain of command. Then, when Mandle escaped from the prison van, Vine picked up where the Night Spider had left off, after killing Mandle. All so he could avenge what happened to his son and kill Anne; her death would’ve been blamed on Mandle.”

“So why is Kray trying to help us nab Vine?”

“He doesn’t want us to nab him; he wants to make sure we kill him, so he can’t talk and implicate Kray. He wants to stay close to the investigation so he can control it, make sure Vine dies before talking, even if he has to kill him himself. Kray probably helped his old military buddy Vine kill Mandle after he escaped from the van, then thought the situation was contained. He had no way of knowing Vine would go on a killing spree of his own. Something else: I mentioned to Kray that Anne was going to be hidden away in her brother’s cabin.”

“You mention where the cabin was?”

“Do you really think Kray couldn’t find out?”

“I get your point. You say Kray’s at the Rion Hotel?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll send around a detail to bring him in.”

“No,” Horn said. “Just put a tight tail on him. No need yet to let him know we’re on to him.”

“Chess game, huh?”

“I hope we’re still at that point.”

“Where’s Bobby Fischer when you need him?”

“I’m driving up to the cabin.”

“I’ll go with you, soon as I arrange for the watch on Kray. That’s where this is all likely to come together. I want to make sure everything up there is being done right.”

“No need for that. Can you call Army Records in St. Louis this time of night?” Horn asked.

“I know a way to get through.”

“Get any information they might have on Colonel Kray. It might help us string him along while he thinks he’s stringing us along.” Horn glanced at his watch. 11:35 P.M. “I’m leaving in five minutes. I’ve gotta make another phone call.”

“I’ll be on the road in ten minutes.”

Larkin was determined. Horn decided to give up trying to talk him out of it. “Okay. Meet me off the highway on the county road that leads to the cabin.”

“Take your cell phone,” Larkin said.

“Always.”

As Horn hurriedly got dressed, he wondered if Larkin really knew how much the NYPD leaked.

After leaving the brownstone, Horn’s first act was to call Bickerstaff and Paula on a public phone three blocks away.

At about the halfway point of the drive to the cabin, Larkin called Horn on his cell phone.

“Just got the word,” he said. “The detail sent to the hotel to observe Kray says he checked out only hours ago. Desk clerk said he was in a hurry.”

Horn felt his stomach go cold with apprehension. Things were moving ahead of them; they weren’t in control and might not possess the necessary knowledge. Losing at chess, and the stakes were unbelievably high.

“Something else,” Larkin said. “Army Records tells me

Colonel Victor Kray resigned his commission and left the service over two years ago.”

Horn was silent, trying to drive and comprehend all of this at the same time.

“Whaddya think, Horn?” asked Larkin’s voice from the cell phone. Horn could hear the constant snarl of Larkin’s car engine in the background. Larkin wasn’t worried about speeding tickets.

Horn said, “Drive faster.”

Harlington Sheriff’s Deputy Albert “Sass” Collier settled deeper where he sat in darkness among last year’s leaves. He was alongside the dry creek bed. Like the others guarding Anne Horn, Sass had strict instructions to hold his position and not go near the cabin unless ordered to do so. The NYPD guys were farther in toward the cabin, one of them inside with the blond Anne Horn. Sass had seen her photo in the New York papers. Nice looking lady from the big city. He wondered what she’d be like to talk to. He smiled. Talk to, hell!

Collier was on loan from the sheriff ‘s department because he was a local and a hunter. He knew the woods. If the wind was right, he could hear a deer move a hundred yards away. He could hear a squirrel chatter and know its direction almost well enough to fire at it blind and hit it with a shotgun blast. Rumor had it Sass was half Cherokee Indian. He wasn’t, but he should have been.

Nothing, nobody, was going to pass him in or on either side of the creek bed without him knowing.

He was called “Sass” because of some wildness in his younger days, and a stubbornness that had matured into genuine toughness. Sass was six-feet-two and two hundred pounds of solid cop. He knew the skills of his trade and beyond that held a black belt in Tae Kwon Do. If he did hear somebody moving through the woods toward the cabin, he’d know what to do. He’d be able to do it.

But he heard nothing other than the soft breeze playing through the leaves, even as dark forms above him moved through the forest canopy. If he’d glanced up, they would have been still, merely shadows among shadows.

One of the dark forms dropped straight down on a slender line to a point about three feet behind and above the seated Sass. The dark figure made a sudden, silent movement that tipped his body forward and down. In the same abrupt but smooth motion Sass’s hair was gripped, his head yanked back to expose his throat, and tempered sharp steel sliced through his neck deep enough to sever both carotid arteries.

It had all happened in a few seconds, and the only sound had been the gush and soft splatter of blood on the dry leaves-like a gentle summer rain that passed quickly.

Sass’s face barely had time to register surprise.

When Horn turned off the highway onto the narrow country road and killed his headlights, he saw by the faint moonlight that Rollie Larkin had already arrived.

Larkin was standing by a uniformed NYPD cop Horn didn’t know, a stocky young man who looked like a serious weight lifter. Horn wondered if some of these young guys were taking steroids. He wondered if he would have when he was young, to be a better cop. Only animals took steroids when Horn was the young cop’s age.

“This is Officer Wunderly,” Larkin said, when Horn had gotten out of the car and walked off the road and into the tall grass where Larkin’s car was parked.

Horn looked at Wunderly and gave him a nod.

“No sign of anything since we’ve been here, sir.” Wunderly had a narrow head, made pinched-looking by the sidelight-ing of the moon. It was a head that didn’t go with his muscular frame.

“Been in touch with the sentries?” Horn asked.

“Every hour,” Wunderly said.

“How long since the last time?”

Wunderly glanced at his watch. “Twenty minutes.”

“You doing it on the hour?”

“Yes, sir. Easier to remember.”

And predict, Horn thought. “Contact the nearest.”

Wunderly went to the patrol car and got out a black, leather-cased walkie-talkie. “These are from the sheriff’s department. Regular two-ways don’t work worth a damn out here,” he explained. “Local yokels don’t have ‘em anyway.”

Horn and Larkin looked at each other while Wunderly tried to contact the sentry, keeping his voice low.

“Wunderly to Deputy Collier. . Deputy Collier. . Sass, you there?. .”

Wunderly’s brow furrowed. He looked at Horn and Larkin. “Can’t raise him.”