John Lutz - Night kills

Right now, nothingness seemed like a welcome state of being.

Palmer Stone was alone again in his office. Alone with his thoughts and not liking them.

The police, Quinn and his minions, were relentlessly tightening the noose. Despite the daily security sweep Stone conducted in his office, he couldn't be sure it wasn't bugged. Technology these days quickly overwhelmed technology, like a beast that kept devouring itself.

Technology, the science that made E-Bliss.org possible, had turned against Stone.

Victor was on his assignment to delete Jill Clark. But despite Stone's reassurances to Victor, Stone knew the Clark woman's cloying best friend, Jewel, might pose a problem.

The new Madeline Scott, Maria Sanchez, was like a hand grenade waiting to explode. Should she also be deleted? She was a special case, a grave danger. But E-Bliss.org had never, ever, deleted a special client. It was a violation of Stone's business ethics.

Then there was Victor. Another worry. Victor, who seemed to be sinking into some kind of degeneracy and sadism. His collection of literature on Vlad the Impaler, his apparent state of nervousness that always lay just beneath the surface. It was all very disturbing. And Gloria was no longer around to control Victor. For all Stone knew, Gloria might never come out of her coma.

And if she did regain consciousness, would she have all her mental faculties? Would she know what not to say if authorities questioned her?

The business, Stone's precious business, was unraveling like the people who were at its heart.

It was all so hopeless, so out of control. Stone did feel like a cornered prey animal docilely waiting for the predator's jaws to close.

He buried his face in his hands, his fingers slowly becoming claws leaving red indentations on his forehead and around his eyes.

He began to sob.

When finally he stopped and was calm again, his expression was blank. He had obviously made up his mind about something.

He opened a bottom desk drawer and reached inside.

Quinn was having dinner with Linda at a Vietnamese restaurant in her neighborhood when his cell phone vibrated in his pocket.

Linda, about to take a sip of her tea, paused and watched him pull out the phone, flip it open, and press it to his ear. He'd only glanced at the caller ID.

"Go," he said, then listened.

They were near the door to the kitchen, and pungent spices were thick in the warm air. The buzz of conversation around them was no concern; they'd automatically asked for an isolated table, knowing Quinn might receive a call.

After about thirty seconds, he said, "Make sure that's where he's going; then wait outside her building. Be sure and let me know if anything else develops."

Quinn broke the connection and immediately used his forefinger to peck another number into the phone. He glanced meaningfully at Linda. She nodded her understanding of his polite apology for the interruption of their evening. No words needed between them. Getting familiar.

"Was that Pearl?" she asked while Quinn waited for his call to be answered.

"Weaver," he said.

"Who are you calling now?"

"Fedderman."

Fedderman apparently answered. Linda could see Quinn's attention turn away from her a moment before he spoke.

"Feds, Weaver just called. I've had her watching E-Bliss's offices. She said she tailed Victor Lamping from there to his apartment, and he left about an hour later to go shopping. He bought a broom."

Linda stiffened as she looked at Quinn.

Quinn met her eyes and quickly looked away. "Right," he said. "Then he returned home. A while later he went out again in his car. Weaver thinks he might be headed for Jill Clark's apartment. Yeah. I'm across town. 'Kay. See you there."

He snapped the phone closed and slid it back into his pocket, then gazed beseechingly at Linda. She thought he looked like a small boy eager to go out and play rather than finish dinner. Kick the can. Hide-and-seek.

Is that all we are, people playing a grown-up game? A serious game, lives at stake, but a game nonetheless?

Of course it's a game. And someone has to play it. If that person thrives on it, all the better for the rest of us.

Quinn thrived on it. He was a hunter, a predator. If she doubted it before, she didn't now, looking into his intense green stare. Now it seemed not so much like the eager stare of a beseeching child. It was the eye of a tiger. She'd always laughed at the expression. She understood now what it meant, and she almost felt sorry for Victor Lamping.

Then she remembered Quinn's words: He bought a broom.

She knew that no matter what she said, Quinn was leaving her to play the game.

"I'll stay here and finish my dinner," she said, "and you can call me when you get a chance."

"Linda-"

"Go," she said. "It's your job."

It's your life.

He stood up, leaned across the table, and kissed her cheek. Then he laid some bills next to her plate and hurried toward the door.

He'd left his car parked in a garage, and they'd walked to the restaurant from her apartment. She watched him through the length of the restaurant and out the glass door, watched as he hailed a cab. Watched the cab drive away.

Watching through glass.

This is what it's like to be a cop's wife.

She finally took that sip of tea.

After ten minutes in the cab, Quinn's cell phone vibrated again. He picked up.

Weaver's voice. "Damn it, I lost him, Quinn."

Quinn was surprised. It wasn't like Weaver to lose someone she was tailing. "Where and how?"

"In heavy traffic near Times Square. He's driving that big black Chrysler sedan. We were in the theater district, and it was almost curtain time. Big black cars were all over the damned place. I just a minute ago realized I got mixed up and started following the wrong one."

"You sure of that?"

"Oh, yeah. The car I was following pulled up to valet parking in front of a restaurant. Two women and a guy who looked to be about a hundred got out and went inside."

"Where are you now?"

"Way uptown on Broadway. Long way from Jill Clark's apartment. If that's where Lamping was going."

"It's where he was going. He's on his way there. I feel it."

"So do I," Weaver said honestly. "And with that goddamned broomstick."

"And a twenty-two pistol."

"What about Pearl? Is she guarding Jill?"

"She's there."

"So should Victor be, about now," Weaver said in a sad and frustrated voice. She would beat herself up over this for months. If it turned out the way it might, maybe all her remaining years.

The cab slowed, then stopped in heavy traffic. Horns began to blare. Their varied, urgent tones echoed in discord among the tall buildings. Everyone in the city of dreams and doom was frustrated. Quinn leaned to the side and squinted out the window up at a street sign near the corner. He still had blocks to go. "I'll never get there in time."

"What about Fedderman?"

"He was home when I called. He won't make it, either."

"Better call Pearl," Weaver said. "Or get a radio car over to Jill's apartment."

But Quinn had already closed the phone lid, ending the conversation.

Traffic moved and the cab broke loose and picked up speed. Slowed, stopped, crept forward.

Quinn sat staring at the phone. If he called and had a radio car sent to Jill's apartment, the siren or the sight of uniformed police might well scare Victor away.

If he called Pearl rather than the police dispatcher, Victor would walk into a trap. Wasn't that why they were using Jill? For bait?

And there was always the slight chance that Quinn might reach Jill's apartment in time to apprehend Victor before he had the opportunity to use his weapons of choice. If he had a sharpened broomstick with him, and the gun that had fired bullets into the hearts of the Torso Murder victims, Victor would be nailed solid and as good as convicted.