Darker Than Night (23 page)

New York, 2004.

The Night Prowler read the quote again, feeling his anger build, and perhaps his fear. It was right there for the world to see on the front page of the
Times,
and attributed to the bastard Quinn:

The Night Prowler wadded the front section of the paper and hurled it toward a wastebasket. It missed. It didn't matter. He didn't believe in omens; he believed in destiny.

He stood up, walked to the window, and looked out into the night that belonged to him. The city was darkness and scattered points of light, each a false promise. There was little color in the night, but there was security.

According to all the literature, he was at the point in his “career” where he should be feeling intense pressure to kill more and more often, while he secretly yearned to be caught. He laughed out loud and didn't like the way it sounded, almost like a cawing, and clamped his lips together.

The literature was only half-right. He didn't at all wish to be caught. He'd anticipated the natural reactions within his mind and body, and the tricks of the mind the hunters tried to get you to play on yourself. Oh, he knew how to deal with them!

He was always mindful of the hunters, of Quinn. But he had to be. That was logical. It was caution, not stress.

He observed his reflection in the glass between himself and the night and a world that was mad. He smiled. After a pause his reflection smiled back. Everything was under control.

He turned away from the window and his gaze fell on the wadded newspaper on the floor near the wastebasket.

The media had their story line: Quinn, the hunter, versus the Night Prowler, the prey. And the prey should be feeling the pressure. Quinn had figured out something, so he must be closing in. Since he must be closing in, he must ultimately be successful. It worked out that way in movies, on TV, and in books.

But that was a scripted, different sort of destiny.

The Night Prowler smiled. Real life wasn't that simple.

Neither was real death.

Death from a distance.

He'd figured out where to get a gun.

 

Lisa had put the yellow roses in a better vase and set them on the buffet in the dining room. She rearranged them carefully, until they were just right.

When Leon came home from the shop, where he'd worked later than she had, he glanced at them and smiled. “Beautiful,” he said. He took a more careful look at the
Post
folded beneath his arm, then tossed the paper on the coffee table. “So how was lunch with your old college pals?”

“Fine. Everyone still looks good. Janet is still beautiful, but Abby's put on lots of weight.”

“She's fat?”

“Some people might think so.”

“You always liked Janet better than Abby, didn't you? I mean, from what you told me about them.”

“Janet was my roommate. She's only in town visiting. She and her husband John live someplace called Morristown.”

“Sure. In New Jersey.”

“No. This one's in Tennessee. She's acquired this funny accent.”

Leon smiled. “I bet you sounded funny to her. She here on business?”

“Partly. She's leaving in a few days.”

“Too bad.” Leon absently picked up the paper he'd tossed on the table. “Night Prowler. That's all you read about or see on TV. Nothing but gossip that turns out next day or week not to be true. Where the hell is Walter Cronkite?”

“Somewhere on his sailboat, I imagine. And good for him.”

“The news is all sensationalism.” Back on the table went the paper.

“All about money.”

“Yeah, isn't everything?” Leon didn't sound unhappy about it. “You three girls talk about your love lives?”

“Leon! Of course we did.”

“So what'd you say about me?”

“Everything.” Lisa managed to get it out without laughing.

“Know what that means?”

“We have dinner out at the restaurant of my choice?”

“You got it,” Leon said. But he sat back on the sofa and worked his loafers off, using only his feet. Lisa wished he wouldn't do that. It was hard on his shoes. One of them, anyway. “Before we leave, let's have a drink.”

“I don't want one,” Lisa said, “but I'll get you one. There are martinis mixed in the refrigerator.”

“Thanks,” Leon said. “Straight up.”

So that was it for the roses. He didn't ask about them, so he probably did buy them for me and secretly had the super let himself in and place them on the table. Well, if he doesn't want to discuss them, neither do I. We can play this game forever. There are worse kinds of husbands than the sort who leave gifts lying around. Janet and Abby can eat their hearts out. Though Janet's husband in that photograph is a nice-looking guy, some kind of war hero and engineer. He looks like a winner. The guy Abby's living with is a geek who looks like he lost most of his hair to the mange.

Lisa decided to join Leon in a before-dinner cocktail, so she got two stemmed martini glasses down from the cabinet near the stove.

As soon as she opened the refrigerator door to get out the half-full mixer, she saw the decorative box of Godiva light chocolates, her favorite candy. There was a small red bow on the box, but no card.

She smiled and shook her head.

Oh, Leon…

 

Anna had been reading in bed, Bradlee's unauthorized biography of Yehudi Menuhin, but she'd become restless and put down the book. Then she'd gotten up, paced awhile, and gone to the closet to get down her father's gun that she'd sneaked from the house in Queens.

Back in bed, she lay again propped on her pillow, but instead of a book, it was the gun that rested heavily in her lap.

Anna had read the day's papers, all of them.
Quinn, Quinn, Quinn.
His photo, his words, his lies, were everywhere. They were starting to make him a hero again. And his victim, whom they barely mentioned if at all…. Well, that was a long time ago.

To everyone else, anyway. Not to Anna.

She absently began stroking the gun, then realized what she was doing and stopped. According to the pop psychologists, a gun was supposed to be a penis substitute. Maybe it could be, but it was the deadly mechanical aspect of the pistol that intrigued Anna. She began squeezing the trigger over and over, letting the firing pin fall on empty chambers as the cylinder rotated. The mechanism sounded precisely the same each time—a muted, substantial metallic click.

This is one of the few things in life that works as it should, each time, every time, until time itself wears it out.

The gun was such an impersonal instrument—heavy for its size, precise in design and construction, oiled, smooth, efficient and deadly in its purpose. It didn't know shooter from victim, right from wrong, justice from injustice. It simply fulfilled its purpose. Mechanical, irrevocable, it promised a trip to eternity, one-way, nonrefundable.

Eternity was where Quinn belonged, if for no other reason than that it was somewhere else. Somewhere Anna was not.

She climbed out of bed again, got the box of bullets down from the closet shelf, and carefully loaded the gun.

It felt better loaded, even heavier and more potent.

It felt serious.

Holding its cool bulk in both hands was definitely reassuring. She decided to start carrying it in her purse, or tucked in her belt beneath her blouse or raincoat. She knew it was illegal to carry a gun without a permit, but it made her feel safer. And it wasn't just a feeling. Anna was sure that with it she
was
safer.

She reluctantly put the gun and the box of cartridges in the drawer of her nightstand. In doing so, she looked at the clock radio and saw that it was almost midnight. She wouldn't get much sleep before subwaying into the city tomorrow morning. She wouldn't be at her best for her lessons.

But that didn't have to matter. Anna decided to get up at the usual time, dress, and go into the city, but she'd skip Juilliard tomorrow. She'd take a walk and enjoy the park or the city streets. When she went out now, she usually wore sunglasses so people wouldn't recognize her. Not that most of them would, anyway. But if they did, she knew what they must be thinking, how they must be seeing her.

Her mind was made up; there would be no music tomorrow. She'd take a walk.

She'd find something to do.

She switched off her reading lamp, fluffed her pillow, and rolled onto her stomach.

If only I could switch off my mind!

She closed her eyes in the dark and found more darkness.

After a while she dozed off, hearing the music she wasn't going to play, terrified of sleep.

Hiram, Missouri, 1989.

Oh, Christ! I killed them! I killed them both!

Cara!

Christ! Christ! Christ!

Luther pressed his back hard against the kitchen wall, scooting and digging in his heels, as if he might make himself a part of the wall, or be somewhere or something else.

Still with his shoulders against the wall, he slowly worked his way to a standing position. He was unable to look at Cara or Milford. The bloody knife he'd been gripping lay at his feet and kept drawing his gaze, as if by some kind of unnatural force. The kitchen was so hot it was dizzying. And there was the blood with its coppery sweet scent, the vomit on the floor, on Milford's white T-shirt. And already the stench of the dead, Luther was sure.

The dead!

Hearing himself whimper, Luther carefully found his way across the kitchen without stepping in any blood. Trembling, he worked his body around Cara and through the doorway to the hall. He went to the bathroom and stripped off his bloody Jockey shorts and T-shirt and let them lie in a heap in a corner. Then he stepped into the claw-footed iron tub and turned the shower on cold, then warmer. He began to scrub with the soap, cleansing the blood from his face and neck, his arms and chest and stomach, his hands, his hands, his hands. He scrubbed his hands with a stiff-bristled brush until they were chafed and sore, long after the blood of Cara and Milford had disappeared from his reddened flesh.

Then he toweled dry, naked and shivering, and went up to the attic.

If only I could lie down here, be safe here forever.

But he knew better. He was thinking
that
clearly.

Quickly he dressed in his jeans, sneakers, and a blue pullover shirt with a collar, a recent gift from Cara. His mind and body seemed oddly detached from each other. He only knew he had to get out of the house, to get far away.

After leaving the attic, he went into the master bedroom on the second floor and found Milford's wallet on the dresser. And there were Milford's keys alongside some loose change.
His car key!
Luther slipped the bills—a little over $50—into his own wallet, then slid the change and keys into his jeans' tight side pocket.

It was almost four
A.M
., in the still moonlight, when he opened the garage door and backed Milford's midnight blue Ford Fairlane, with its headlights off, down the long gravel driveway and out into the street.

At first he had a little trouble getting used to the car, but it was an automatic shift and he was soon comfortable enough driving. A block away from the house, he turned on the car's lights.

Luther understood he was in trouble—major trouble—and that even beginning to cope with it was beyond him. He was making one mistake after another; he was aware of it but knew nothing else to do. He was running on fear and instinct, and not reason. Soon Milford and Cara's bodies would be discovered, and everyone would be searching for Luther.
Everyone!

He knew only that he had to gain distance as fast as possible. Distance might somehow make him safe. At least give him time to think. Distance, in time and miles, had always been his ally. It might save him again.

Careful not to drive too fast and draw the attention of any sheriff's car or highway patrol cruiser that might be prowling the deserted streets, he rolled down Main toward the highway out of town. The highway he wanted to drive forever.

Luther wasn't much worried about the sheriff; he was probably at that all-night truck stop, if he wasn't home in bed asleep. But Nester, that creepy deputy, might be driving around town, working the graveyard shift.

When Luther was passing Wilde's Painting Company, he saw that the lights were on in the office and storeroom.

Wilde! Tom might know what to do! Tom Wilde might help him! The one person he trusted!

Help close to home!

Luther slowed the big Ford, turned the corner, and pulled into the rear drive, where the van was backed close to the overhead door. He parked tight alongside the van, then got out of the car. The small passage door near the overhead was unlocked. Luther looked up and down the dark street before he ducked inside.

Tom Wilde was standing at his workbench, going through his familiar routine of assembling materials: paint cans, buckets, and scrapers. Getting ready for today's job, which would start later this morning. Luther knew the job would be a long drive's distance; Tom meant to get an early start and use the morning light.

He stood watching Wilde from behind, feeling an unexpected flood of affection for him. The familiar, slightly round-shouldered figure in comfort-cut baggy jeans and a speckled white paint shirt, with a bush of unkempt hair and ears that stuck out a bit too far, somehow inspired confidence and trust.

Wilde sensed someone was there and turned, startled.

“Luther! God, boy, you scared the crap outta me.” Wild looked more closely at him. “What are you doing here at this hour? Something wrong?”

“Something's plenty wrong, Tom!”

Luther tried to explain everything to Wilde, but he soon began to cry. Ashamed, embarrassed, afraid, he sat down on a five-gallon paint pail and sobbed.

Wilde let him cry. He placed a hand gently on Luther's shoulder, a reminder that he was there, that he cared, and waited patiently, giving Luther all the time and tears in the world.

When Luther's raking sobs became less violent and frequent, Wilde walked over to a cabinet above the workbench and got down a bottle of Four Roses bourbon and an eight-ounce water glass. He poured about two fingers into the glass, then brought it to Luther. “Drink this. Gulp it down without breathing in.”

Luther did as he was told, and the liquor hit him with a warm force that jolted his thoughts. He did breathe in now and immediately regretted it, inhaling the alcohol fumes and almost choking.

“Keep breathing deep, Luther.” Wilde's hand was back on his shoulder. “You gotta show ‘old man booze' who's in charge.”

Luther sat with his elbows on his knees, his head bowed, breathing as Wilde had instructed. Gradually the choking sensation went away as he sucked in the cooling scent of the bourbon. It was clearing his head like a breeze on a warm night.

He was better now, had his self-control back. Control. Control was so important. “I'm okay now, Tom.”

“Good. Let's talk. Things usually aren't as bad as they first appear. And whatever's wrong, maybe I can help.”

“Nobody can help me now,” Luther said in a flat voice.

“Lots of times people think that and they're wrong. I'm your friend. Try me. See if I can help. You've got nothing to lose. Where've you been staying since you had your falling-out with Milford?”

“I been with Cara.”

“Cara? You mean Cara Sand?”

Luther nodded.

“I don't quite understand,” Wilde said.

Luther watched him walk over to the workbench, pour some bourbon into a glass for himself, and down it in one gulp. It didn't seem to affect his breathing. He gave Luther his worn, wise smile.

“Cara Sand, huh? Okay, I'm ready. You can tell me, Luther.”

And Luther did, in his new, flat, so very calm voice.

 

When Luther was finished talking, Wilde went over to the workbench and had a second drink.

“I don't wanna doubt you, Luther, but you sure you didn't dream all this?”

“I'm sure.”

“How about we drive back to the Sand place and you can show me?”

Luther stood up. “I don't wanna go back there! I can't!”

Wilde looked at him and nodded. “Okay. Mind if I give them a call?”

“Go ahead. They won't answer.”

Wilde used the phone on his cluttered desk and stood listening to the ringing on the other end of the connection, looking at Luther.

“They oughta be home, this time of morning when it's not even light out.”

“They're home,” Luther said.

After a good three or four minutes, Wilde hung up the phone.

He stood chewing on the inside of his cheek for a while, the way he did when he was thinking hard. Then he rolled the desk chair over near Luther and sat down in it so they were close and facing each other.

“You need to go to the police and turn yourself in,” Wilde said. “I'll go with you, and I'll see you get a good lawyer.”

“I can't. I told you what I did. They'll execute me or I'll spend the rest of my life in prison. You know that's true, Tom. You promised you'd be honest with me.”

“Yeah, you're right, that's what'd happen if all you told me's true.”

“It's all true. I'm not giving myself up!”

“Then what you've gotta do,” Wilde said, “is get outta Hiram, go far away. You won't do that in Milford's car. The highway patrol'll be looking for it and nail you within hours of the bodies being found.” He shook his head as if trying to clear it of unwelcome thoughts. “You need to go to a big city in another state, where you can change your name and make a new life. I know that won't be easy, but unless you want to turn yourself in to the law, that's your one and only chance. You've gotta become somebody else. A different you. It might not be much of a life, after what's happened, but at least it's something.”

“That's all I'm looking for, a chance. Something. Because right now I've got nothing. I don't care what the odds are, Tom. Worse comes to worse, they'll catch me and I'll be right where I'd be if I gave up now.”

Wilde smiled sadly. “Very logical, Luther.”

“Ain't it?”

“It'll be dark for a while yet. You drive Milford's car a few miles outside of town and park it well off the road. I'll follow in the pickup and drive us both the rest of the way.”

“Rest of the way where?”

“To where my fishing boat's tied up. They'll be looking for Milford's car, but not a boat.”

Luther didn't like the idea of being all alone in a small boat out on the wide, dark river. Still, he'd be safe there from everything
but
the river.

“You take the boat downstream. I'll give you some tackle and a casting rod so it'll look like you're fishing, if anybody takes note of you.”

A boat…. The idea was growing on Luther. For the first time he felt a twinge of hope. Maybe he could escape this, after all, get away clean from what he'd done, somehow start over, make it right. Make his whole life right.

“You'll be with the current, so you can get pretty far downriver before daylight. Then, when it's light, when you see a likely spot, you dock the boat and…”

“What?”

“Then you're on your own, Luther. I'll have helped you all I can.”

“What about you, Tom? I don't wanna get you in any trouble. Won't you be suspected as an accomplice?”

“I don't think so. Nobody'll notice my old boat's missing. And I sure won't bring it to their attention. If it is found downstream, it'll look like it came untied and drifted away. Wouldn't be the first time.”

Luther swallowed. He looked ready to begin sobbing again. “Tom—”

“Don't thank me, Luther. Do it by going somewhere and creating a good life for yourself. That'll be my thanks.”

Wilde stood up from the desk chair.

“It's not the end of the world, if we won't let it be, Luther. Let's get moving while it's still dark out.”

Wilde kept his small wooden rowboat pulled up on the bank, near a deserted A-frame cabin built by a weekend fisherman years ago. The cabin had been abandoned after flood damage. The receding water left what remained of a small wooden dock, and a narrow, rutted dirt road that ran from the county highway almost to river's edge. The road was overgrown and disappeared in spots, and even after a light rain, it was muddy and almost impassable.

As Wilde parked the pickup near the A-frame, Luther could see why nobody would notice the boat was missing. Hardly anyone other than Tom must come back here. The only place that there was a break in the trees was a low, marshy stretch of ground that was a breeding pool for the mosquitoes that closed in on the two men as soon as they got down out of the truck.

Wilde slapped at one of the voracious insects on his arm and reached into the pickup's rusty bed for his heavy metal tackle box.

Luther went to the back of the truck and got the casting rod, another tackle box, and a net. With both hands full, he felt a mosquito sting the back of his neck but couldn't slap at it. “Damned bloodsuckers!”

“Aren't they, though?” Wilde said, and led the way down the steep mud path toward the boat and the sloping riverbank.

The boat was pulled up about twenty feet from the water. It was a wooden fourteen-footer with a couple of oars lying in the bottom beneath three plank seats. Its hull was mud-streaked and rotted in places and had once been a light green with a red stripe around the waterline. Now it was mostly a weathered gray color, and the waterline stripe was hard to make out except near the bow. Though it was far from the water, this was flood country and sometimes inaccessible, so a thick, slack rope ran from a cleat on the bow and was knotted around what looked like an old automobile axle driven into the bank.

“You sure this thing floats?” Luther asked seriously.

Wilde laughed softly. “It's like you, Luther, more seaworthy than it looks.”

“I don't plan on going all the way downriver to the sea,” Luther said.

Wilde untied the boat and tossed the rope into the bow. Luther pushed while Tom Wilde pulled, and together they slid the boat along grass and mud and into the water. Standing knee deep, Wilde wrapped the bowline around a slimy branch that extended out low from the bank.

Luther and Wilde went back to where they'd left the fishing tackle and carried everything down and loaded it into the boat. Moonlight glanced dully off the water. They were in a small cove, and though a stretch of the black, tree-lined opposite bank was visible, Luther was sure no one was observing them. He slapped at a mosquito, this one trying to lance blood from the back of his wrist, and felt the insect mash beneath his hand.