John Lutz - Chill of Night

“Same man?”

Martin put down his drink on the glass-topped table and cradled his head in his hands. “I don’t know. It isn’t as if I’ve ever directly looked into the eyes of whoever might be tailing me. Maybe they’re that skilled, or maybe I’m that paranoid. If you’re telling me this might be my imagination, you could be right. But it’s got me going. Yesterday, when I got this creepy, watched feeling, I even walked up to a cop that was handy and talked to him.”

“Told him someone was following you?”

“No. I didn’t want to open that can of worms.”

“You should go to the police and request their protection.”

“You’re not saying they actually could protect me-or anyone else?”

“Theoretically they could,” Tina said. “But in reality, no. Not with certainty. Yet, when you thought you might be in danger, you went to a cop.”

“I just knew if somebody meant me harm they wouldn’t try it with a uniformed cop next to me. Besides, this could all be my imagination. Maybe I’m paranoid. The calm and reasoning part of my mind thinks I’m spooked by shadows, but it gave me a sense of security, talking to that cop about the weather. One I’ve never needed before.”

“I don’t think you’re paranoid,” Tina said. “And I didn’t marry you for your imagination.”

Martin opened his eyes and peered at her through spread fingers. “Lawyers aren’t supposed to be enigmatic. What does that mean?”

“That I think you might have real reason to fear. I’ve thought so ever since this Justice Killer psychopath started murdering former jury forepersons. In case you’ve forgotten, we acquitted Maddox. You were jury foreperson. He killed again, later.”

Martin lowered his hands from his face, lifted his martini, and took a long sip. “Unfortunately, there are too many such cases, in New York and other cities, where the obviously guilty have to be set free because of trial irregularities or just plain dumb-ass prosecutors, judges, or juries. That’s how the system works; there are Constitutional rights, and lots of guilty people take advantage of them and are walking around free even though they should be imprisoned or executed. Lots of them. What that means is, logically, I’m not much more likely to be this sicko’s next victim than I am to win the lottery.”

Tina stared at him over the rim of her glass. “Logically, somebody wins the lottery.”

Martin gazed out over the darkening city, understanding why his wife was such a good trial lawyer. “I guess that’s why I’m afraid.”

“Then we’re both afraid for you.” She set the glass down and leaned toward him. “But Martin, we don’t have to be afraid.”

“Are we back to me leaving the city until this nut is caught?”

“It makes sense. At least you can get away for a while. You’ve got vacation time coming.”

Martin smiled. “The kind of job I have, you retire with vacation time coming.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way. You could explain the situation to Mr. Kravers. He’d understand.”

“He’d think more of me if I stayed in town.”

Tina glared at him. “This isn’t a pissing contest, Martin. The object is to see that you don’t get killed. Kravers has the good sense to understand you’re more valuable alive. Just as I do. You know who doesn’t seem to have the good sense to realize that?”

“Don’t tell me.”

“You could visit your brother Irv in Chicago. Listen to him bitch about his divorce, go with him and take his kids to some Cubs games. A hit man’s not likely to follow you there.”

“Very few hits at a Cubs game,” Martin said.

Tina grinned. “See! You’re not so scared you’ve lost your sense of humor.”

“I’m not really scared,” Martin said. “I’m…uneasy. Like a part of me knows something bad’s gonna happen.”

“You won’t be so uneasy in Chicago. And Irv and the kids’ll love seeing you.”

“Maybe, since I’m going someplace, I should go to Miami or Sarasota in Florida, eat lobsters, and walk the beach.”

“I don’t give a damn where you go, Martin, just that you go. If you’re out of New York, I won’t be so uneasy. You say somebody might be watching you, I believe it. Maybe more than you do. I love you, Martin. I don’t want to lose you.”

He couldn’t hold back a smile. “Is that your second drink?”

“Damn it, Martin! I’m being serious.”

“So am I,” he said. “I love you too, Tina. I can clear it at work; I’ll phone Irv and make sure it’s okay if I stay with him a while.”

“I’ll call and make your flight reservation,” Tina said. There was so much relief in her voice, he thought she might be about to stand up right then and head for a phone.

“I’ll do it through work,” Martin said. “That’ll make it deductible.”

When they finished their drinks and went inside, the sun had set.

The city was completely dark.

Beam awoke in the hot bedroom; he was cold but coated with sweat. He’d resisted taking a pill to help him sleep, and the dreams had been waiting.

His dreams.

It was like taking the lid off a jar and dumping out everything in his subconscious. Letting it all tumble this way and that. Tumble and jumble. None of it meant anything-though Cassie might disagree-but it was damned unpleasant if not horrifying.

Harry Lima and Nola, together, writhing, Harry grinning down at her, choking her while she stared up at him, not struggling, seeming almost bored by the notion of dying. Then was it Harry and Nola, or was it Beam?

Was it Nola?

Beam reached over and switched on the light. Shadows fled.

He lay back and ran his hand through his hair. It was soaked, like his pillow. A car or truck drove past slowly outside with deep, throbbing beats blasting from oversized speakers. Oddly, it had a calming effect. The normal, recognizable world was out there.

After a while, he got out of bed, stumbled into the bathroom, and took a pill.

Beam’s reply to the Justice Killer’s letter appeared in every New York newspaper. It was on the front page of the Post:

JK:

I’ve been busy and only just now have time to answer your letter. You are not my opponent, you are merely part of my job, as a roach would be part of an exterminator’s job. Deranged killers are parasites and are dealt with routinely in the city. When you are gone, another psychotic killer will occupy the police. That will be soon.

Capt. A. Beam

The Justice Killer set aside the Post on top of today’s Times and Daily News on the seat of the cab he was in. He was smiling. The cab jounced over a pothole and the driver’s eyes fixed momentarily on his passenger.

The Justice Killer’s smile disappeared. “They oughta fix those things,” he said of the pothole. “It’s a wonder this city’s cabs have got any suspension left at all.”

“They’ll fix ’em when we’re both dead and gone,” the driver said, eyes straight ahead now as he braked to turn the corner onto Park.

“I can hardly wait,” the Justice Killer said, barely concentrating on the small talk he was dishing out, still thinking about Beam’s letter.

Certainly the related news articles surrounding the letter were more frantic and hinted at more fear than the letter itself. Which, the Justice Killer knew, was how Beam had planned it. Beam was persuasively feigning nonchalance, pretending the Justice murders were nothing special and didn’t occupy his every waking thought as well as his dreams.

So the veteran cop said publicly that the killer is deranged. Psychotic. The Justice Killer knew that nothing could be further from the truth. It was precisely what he wanted the police to believe, to announce; it was their unintentional way of saying they had no inkling of what was in his mind.