John Lutz - Darker Than Night

He concentrated on sitting still and looking at the ghostly reflection of his pale face in the opposite dark window. The man in the window, with the darkness sliding past behind him, appeared calm, but tension was running through his body like a spasmodic electrical current. The gun was an unyielding lump beneath his belt at the small of his back, concealed by his untucked shirt. The gun.

He’d missed! He was sure of it!

He’d assumed the detective in the car’s front passenger seat would be Quinn, but the second he squeezed the trigger and caught a glimpse of the man’s profile, he knew it was the other one-Fedderman.

The trailing shots had gone into the stalled car; he was sure of that but couldn’t know if any of the bullets found their mark.

He could hope they had, but that was all. Soon as he got back to his apartment, he’d check TV news. Surely, Channel One would have something on the Central Park shooting. And the other local channels might break into regular programming.

This fucking city will jump to attention when I make it jump!

The Night Prowler shook his head, causing a woman seated on the other side of the subway car to glance up at him curiously, then quickly look away.

He struck a casual pose, a bored expression, while his mind worked furiously. What am I thinking? That’s not what this is about, making the city jump. That’s not what I’m about.

He needed, first of all, to find out about Quinn. Maybe Quinn was dead. It was difficult to imagine, but maybe one of the wild shots into the car had struck him in a vital spot. Maybe he was at least wounded.

Stress.

He could feel the word even as he thought it. Could feel it insinuating itself throughout mind and body. He knew he had to hold stress at bay so he could function at the high level he demanded. That his mission demanded.

Benzene.

But lately the fumes that had carried him to a placid and advanced mental state hadn’t worked their magic as quickly or as well. The body adapted to everything eventually; the Night Prowler knew that.

But he had to do something to relieve his stress. And soon.

Knowing Quinn was dead would help immensely. Would change the world.

But right now he looked down and saw that his hands were trembling in his lap.

The train lurched and slowed and light crept in at the edges outside the dark windows.

His stop.

Almost home.

Alice Fedderman took the news like a cop’s good and faithful wife, stricken with worry but with a calmness about her.

She’d been expecting this for years. Any phone call, long ago and long forgotten, might have brought her the same news. And now here it was.

But not as bad as it might have been. That was the kind of thing you told yourself, that you grabbed hold of and clung to at a time like this.

Her husband was alive.

She was on her way to the hospital and not the morgue.

Because of the incompatibility of cell phones and hospitals, Quinn had used a pay phone near the waiting area to call Alice. He’d noticed while talking that his heart rate had picked up again.

He hadn’t thought about his heart during the action at the park until Pearl cautioned him. It had slowed its rhythm and seemed normal since he’d arrived at the hospital. But maybe talking to Alice Fedderman was more of a strain than he’d imagined.

May had waited for phone calls like the one to Alice. So would Pearl, but in a different way, because she was a cop herself.

And I’ll be waiting.

There was a thought that sobered him.

When he returned to the waiting area, a spacious, carpeted alcove off the main hall, a tall, redheaded doctor, wearing wrinkled green scrubs, was talking to Pearl.

When Quinn joined them, the man identified himself as Doctor Murphy. He had about him a sharp scent that might have been medicinal or simply an agent in soap.

Pearl, sitting slumped in one of the carefully arranged gray chairs, said, “Fedderman’s going to be okay.”

Quinn had thought that would be the word, but still he was relieved. “His arm…”

“The bone was nicked,” Dr. Murphy said. A green surgical mask dangled high on his chest like some kind of neck-wear he’d loosened. “Most of the damage was done to soft tissue. The bullet appeared to have struck something and was flattened before it hit him, or it might have penetrated the bicep and gone into his side. As it is, his arm will be in a cast for about six weeks. Then, with therapy, he’ll be able to recover ninety percent of previous mobility.”

“What in the movies they call a flesh wound?” Pearl asked.

The doctor looked at her and raised an eyebrow.

“A car window,” Quinn said. “That’s what the bullet went through before it hit him.”

“He’s lucky the window wasn’t down. Detective Fedderman is still under anesthetic and will be a while in the recovery room.”

“His wife’s on the way here.”

Doctor Murphy smiled. “She won’t mind the news, considering how bad it could have been. I’ll instruct the nurses to inform me when she arrives.” He nodded to both of them and stalked back to the hall and through wide swinging doors, which hissed open at his approach.

“Egan’s on his way here, too,” Quinn said.

Pearl snorted. “Tell me it’s because he’s injured.”

“Pissed off is what he sounded like.”

“Well, he’ll cheer up when he sees me.”

“He doesn’t have to know you’re here.”

“Yes, he does.”

Quinn sighed. “Listen, Pearl-”

“I’m thirsty.” She stood up and strode toward a drinking fountain in the hall near the phone Quinn had used, a woman beyond reason.

Quinn sat down, leaned back, and stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles. All things considered, he didn’t feel so bad about this evening. The essential news was good: no one had been killed, and Fedderman would be his old self once his arm healed.

Yawning, Quinn reached over to a lamp table and picked up the only magazine, a dog-eared People. Jennifer Lopez worked hard to keep in shape. There was scandalous news about a distant Kennedy relative. Sean Penn was acting up again. A new movie was going to star the winner of a cable TV talent hunt show. This he learned just from the cover.

“Getting educated?”

Quinn looked up to see the blocky, muscular form of Captain Vincent Egan. He was surprised to see that Egan was wearing a tuxedo, his face flushed above the tight collar and white tie.

“On your way to the prom?” Quinn asked.

“On my way to a banquet at the Hyatt, as a matter of fact. Where I’m going to see the commissioner, where maybe a lowlife like you might find part-time work next year serving the haut monde.”

“There’s fish on the menu?”

“Be as much of a smart-ass as you want, Quinn. I won’t have to put up with you much longer. I’m gonna recommend at the banquet that you be taken off the Night Prowler case. It’s beginning to look bad for the department, setting a serial child molester to catch a serial killer.”

Quinn felt himself getting angry and tried to control it. What Egan wanted more than anything was for him to stand up and lose his temper, take a swing at him as Pearl had done. Pearl. He caught sight of her down the hall, talking on the pay phone, and hoped she’d have sense enough to stay away until Egan was gone.

“What I came here for,” Egan said, “was to see if you had anything to say that would lead me to believe you were any closer to the Night Prowler.”

Covering your ass. “I’d say we were pretty close to each other a few hours ago.”

“That’s true. When he unfortunately missed who he must’ve been aiming at. But that’s not quite the kind of close I had in mind. Out of fairness, I stopped by to give you one last chance to come up with something positive that suggested progress.”