John Lutz - Night Victims

“Got a map?” Horn asked.

“Sure. Sheriff ‘s department gave us a dandy.”

“Sounds like the sheriff’s department is running the whole goddamn show,” Larkin said.

“You relay my order for the sentries to maintain position?” Horn asked Wunderly.

“Yes, sir. Made it plain so everybody understood.”

“Get the map and show me where Sass is,” Horn said.

In the blackness of the night, Vine and Kray silently moved from limb to limb, overhead in the forest canopy, then dropped straight down on lines and garroted or slit the throats of the police guarding the cabin where Anne was staying.

Vine spotted one sentry, a local, sitting halfway up a tree in a deer seat, a contraption hunters used to stake out spots during deer season so they could fire down on the unsuspecting animals when they approached. The seats were held fast to the trees by the tension of weight and leverage against metal frames or straps.

Vine dropped silently along the other side of the tree’s trunk, made a slight sound on the sentry’s left so he’d turn his head in that direction, then deftly reached around the trunk from the right and slit the man’s throat. He knew that Kray, watching, must approve.

This was the third man they’d killed. They wanted to be sure that when they finally did enter the cabin, they’d be alone with Anne.

Then Kray would be alone with Vine.

Then Kray would be alone.

Kray knew the aftermath would be awkward. He could say he knew how dangerous Vine was because he’d trained him, that he’d taken it upon himself to make sure Anne Horn was protected and Vine was captured or killed. Unfortunately, he’d been only partly successful.

Still, he’d be a hero. And he knew PR and how to cover his ass. He’d be first to get out his version of what happened, take advantage of all the media morons and cable news channels that would want to interview him.

Who could prove his story false other than Anne Horne and Vine?

The dead didn’t testify in court.

Paula knew the way better, and she could see better at night, so she gave Bickerstaff directions as he drove.

The dusty unmarked car, running without lights, pulled to a stop behind Wunderly’s patrol car just off the county road.

Bickerstaff leaned forward over the steering wheel and looked around. “Where the hell is everyone?”

Paula didn’t answer. She got out of the unmarked and right away noticed two other cars. They were parked in the shadows of a copse of trees. Moving closer to them and squinting in the dim light, she saw that they were unoccupied. But she knew the cars.

She took a few steps back to where Bickerstaff was climbing out of the unmarked.

“Horn and Larkin are here,” she said. “Somewhere.”

Bickerstaff looked in the direction of the cars, then all around him. Nothing but night. Not even the sounds of crickets or nocturnal animals. Maybe something moving, far away. A bear or cougar? He wondered, uneasily, if they were still to be found in upper New York State. He looked over at Paula in the faint moonlight.

“We seem to be alone,” Bickerstaff said. “Yeah.”

“So whadda we do?”

Wunderly had gotten Horn and Larkin Kevlar vests from the trunk of the patrol car. The three of them had gone about two hundred yards into the woods, walking as quietly as they could. Still, they made what Horn considered to be a lot of noise as they strode through the dry underbrush and occasionally blundered into unseen branches that snapped back, sometimes scratching their arms and faces.

Two middle-aged Caucasians and a big-city white boy, Horn thought, trying to act as if they knew what they were doing in the wild.

Finally they came to the creek bed on the sheriff ‘s map. Horn saw no more than a shallow depression full of dry twigs, vines, and uneven stones. The detritus of winter that hadn’t washed away.

“Easier going that way,” Wunderly said in a soft, knowledgeable voice that would have made an Indian guide proud. He spat off to the side. “Creek bed’s like nature’s path.”

“Where you from, Wunderly?” Horn asked.

“Brooklyn, sir.”

“Nature’s path, huh? We go crashing along through all those rotted leaves and dead wood, we’ll make a hell of a lot of noise.”

“You got a point, sir. “

“How far till we get to this Sass character?” Larkin asked.

“ ‘Bout a hundred yards that way, sir.” Wunderly pointed in the direction of the cabin.

“Let’s approach at an angle,” Horn said.

He led the way, moving more confidently. The woods still obscured what faint moonlight there was, but his eyes were accustomed to the dimness.

The three city animals were making less noise now, but still too much.

“This Sass guy won’t lose his cool and shoot us, will he?” Larkin asked.

“Not the type, sir.” Wunderly’s feet suddenly slipped out from under him and he was on his back on the ground. “Jesus!” He was staring at his hand.

It was black. No, red.

“It’s blood!” Wunderly was staring to his left, scooting backward away from what he saw.

Wunderly’d had his direction right but his distance wrong. A man Horn assumed was Sass was sitting with his back against a tree, his head dangling to the side. So saturated were his clothes with blood it was hard to recognize them as a uniform. The expression on his pale face suggested he was leering at a dirty joke. He wasn’t, though. His throat was slit so deeply he was nearly decapitated.

“How far ahead is the next sentry?” Horn asked.

“Not far. Over that way.” Wunderly pointed, then abruptly leaned to the side and began to vomit.

Horn and Larkin waited. Larkin stood staring at Sass, his face almost as pale as the corpse’s. “Think you ever get used to this kind of shit?” He was talking to Horn.

“I hope not,” Horn replied.

Wunderly was struggling to stand up straight. He wiped his bloody hands on his pants, then spat off to the side as he had when he was the seasoned trail guide.

“You okay?” Horn asked.

“Yeah. Not the first body I saw. I don’t know why I let go like that.”

“Lead on.”

They walked with guns drawn, afraid of what they were going to find, afraid they might be making enough noise to draw attention.

The second sentry was lying on his back. More blood. But this time Horn saw that he’d been garroted with a length of wire so thin it had sliced flesh and arteries. Both men must have been killed soundlessly, and somehow were taken by complete surprise. Horn remembered Kray’s words: He can kill in more ways than you can imagine.

The third sentry was seated halfway up a tree in what reminded Horn of the sort of harness phone company linemen used when they wanted to sit and work high on telephone poles. Both his arms were hanging limply. He wasn’t moving.

Something was making a soft pat. . pat. . pat sound that was unmistakable.

“He’s still dripping blood,” Horn said. “Killed not long ago.”

“Jesus!” Wunderly said. “Maybe they’re all dead.”

“Goddamnit!” Larkin said. “This wasn’t supposed to fucking happen! What in God’s name are we dealing with here?”

“Cabin straight ahead?” Horn asked Wunderly.

“Not exactly, sir. We just stay parallel with the creek bed and we’ll come to it, though.”

“Only one more sentry between us and it, right?”

Wunderly swallowed. “Yes, sir.” He was looking again at the blood he couldn’t wipe off his hands. “We gotta call in some help.”

“You and Larkin go back to the cruiser, call the state patrol.”

“Maybe get a chopper with a spotlight in here!” Wunderly said.

“Wunderly can notify them,” Larkin said. “I’m going with you.”