Shadow Dancers (41 page)

She’d left lights on in the front parlor, as she always did on these late evenings. Glowing there in the chill of early morning, they imparted to the little brick three-story brownstone a kind of dollhouse miniature grandeur.

Fumbling for the key in her purse, she found it and inserted it into the lock. Simultaneous with that action, even as her wrist turned, she felt a pair of palms flat on her back and then a fierce shove. The door swung open, and before she could cry out, a pair of powerful hands, smelling faintly of rubber, gripped her around the throat and pushed her in. It was as though she’d been sucked down a black hole by the sudden creation of a vacuum. The door slammed behind her, and, in the next instant, something dark and faceless was swarming all over her.

A stream of words, mostly vile and abusive, hissed hotly into her ear. From that point on, a fierce struggle ensued as she grappled with the dark, shapeless thing that clawed at her, tearing at her clothing.

Before she knew what was happening, she was flat on her back, the figure sitting astride her chest, the rubbered fingers closing inexorably around her throat, slowly cutting off her air.

“Shut up and you won’t get hurt.”

Until the words had come, she hadn’t connected her assailant with anything human. Now for the first time she opened her eyes and found herself staring into a pair of large dark eyes that smiled down upon her. She was struck by how kind the eyes were, making what the hands were doing at the same time seem a cruel paradox.

She felt the grip on her throat loosen and air rush back into her lungs. Then the hands were gone, but only for an instant. When they reappeared, one of them, the right, held a shaft of long, glinting steel she immediately recognized as a steak knife, feeling its razor-sharp point piercing the skin of her throat.

In the initial melee (it had seemed to her it had gone on forever, but its actual duration was little more than a minute), she managed to hold on to her trophy (not out of fear that it was going to be taken, but that it might get broken). All the while she was being assaulted, she continued to hold the trophy, swathed in silver wrappings above her head, out of harm’s way.

In the cozy orange glow of the parlor lights, the features of her assailant came gradually into focus. The face was a soft oval. It was an attractive face, she thought, except for the row of broken teeth that imparted to the lower portion of the face a wild, rather feral appearance. They looked as though they could rip one open.

“You just do what I tell you,” he said, leaning forward and putting his warm face up close to her cheek, while one hand held the knife at her throat and the other proceeded to grope beneath her skirt.

That evening she’d chanced to wear a rather spectacular black sequined gown for which she’d paid $700. Purchased from a highly regarded designer collection, it was her pride and joy. All she could feel now was the rude thrusting hand clawing at the lining beneath the skirt, his intention clearly to pull it over her head like a sack, thus pinning her arms inside. The skirt was well above her thighs by then and the bodice had ripped, sending a blizzard of sequins spilling into her armpits and onto the floor. As the man with his wild plunging motion continued to hoist the material up around her, the sequins cut and scratched her legs.

In matters of sex Arlette was not prudish. She could bear the rough hands and the steady stream of vile filth that poured from her assailant’s mouth. But this sheer, wanton destruction of her beautiful dress was a bit much for her.

In the next moment the arm carrying the tango trophy rose and swung sharply downward, clipping her assailant solidly on the jaw. The weight on her chest instantly shifted to one side, then just as quickly righted itself. Suddenly, she found herself looking into a pair of stunned, rather hurt eyes, as if she had done her attacker a tremendous injustice.

Dazed, he sat there unsteadily atop her, rubbing his jaw. She took advantage of the unguarded moment to squirm out from beneath him and scramble to her feet. Still holding the tango trophy, she brandished it above her head. He stood there in a half-crouch, watching her warily, waving the long kitchen knife in wide, slow loops before him.

At first, when she’d been shoved unceremoniously through the front door and had no idea what manner of thing was swarming all over her, she was frightened. But seeing finally the instrument of her fear to be no more than a mere mortal man, not all that big at that, the paralyzing terror of her imagination fell from her like something weightless and inconsequential. Suddenly, she was calm.

“Okay, you got yourself in here, slime; now you better turn your ass around and slither right back out.”

The smile, once so benign, had turned to an impudent grin. He continued to wave the knife in the air and started to move slowly toward her.

Her voice was calm and quiet as she spoke: “I’m gonna count to three. If you ain’t outta here by then, you gonna hear some real shoutin’. Shoutin’ to wake the dead. I read all about you, motherfucker. I know what you are. You don’t scare me none.”

He came on smiling, almost hypnotically, cutting long, graceful loops through the air with his glittering blade.

“Come on, you fucker.” She beckoned him with her free hand, while the other hefted the trophy more securely above her head. “You may get me, but you gonna pay dear for it.”

Even before she’d gotten the last words out, he hit her broadside across her middle. A flying tackle, lightning swift. They went down together in a loud crash, a tumbling, windmilling, thrashing scuffle that ranged over the parlor floor. The trophy toppled from her hand. He tried to pin her to the floor with his knee, but she wriggled out again, swatted at him with her hands. She caught hold of a clump of hair and yanked hard. He shrieked and slammed his fist hard up against her temple. She felt her eyes rattle.

A floor lamp went down behind them with a loud crash, projecting huge shadows, humped and whirling large against the spinning ceiling.

The whole front of her bodice had been torn and hung down in shreds against the bare skin beneath. Once again the hand was pawing her, trying to caress her, while the other held the knife point against her throat, just below the chin.

Straining beneath that heaving weight, as though she were caught in the gears and sprockets of some demonic machine, she looked around the room, searching for an object, a weapon with which to fend off her attacker.

In that moment, the full horror of the situation became crystal clear. This man, this flailing thing on her chest, intended to kill her. Why? For what earthly reason? What harm had she done him? Well, let him try. She had no intention of making things easy for him.

Suddenly, she was screaming. But not merely screaming. It rose from someplace far down inside her, some dark place she scarcely knew existed. No mere human sound, it was more like the wailing cry of banshees rising from the netherworld.

Her shouts were now answered by the sound of voices hollering from windows in the adjoining houses and, shortly, footsteps pounding on the pavement outside in the street.

The stream of vileness continued from her assailant’s mouth, borne on a breath that smelled meaty and putrid, as if he’d recently fed on something not quite, but nearly, spoiled.

She felt the cold tip of the knife pierce the skin of her throat, then sink beneath it. There was a spurt, then the flow of something wet and warm.

Someone had started to bang on the front door. She could hear the whooping of a police siren not far off. Barely conscious, she felt the weight lift from her chest and, out of the corner of her eye, saw a figure flee toward the rear of the house.

In the next moment, she was half up, holding her hand pressed over her throat where blood seeped between her fingers. The wound didn’t keep her down for long. Instead, scrambling to her feet, she pursued the fleeing figure through the dining room out into the kitchen where the back door now stood open, and through which her assailant had fled.

“Motherfucker! Motherfucker!” she bellowed into the huddled dark. The icy air had revived her and she kept shouting. “Get outta here! Get outta here! You pig! You scumbag!”

Neighboring voices shouted back at her across the courtyard, assuring her that help was coming.

There was a rending sound from out front. The front door burst open. Dozens of people in pajamas and robes poured in: old, toothless black women with nylon stocking nightcaps on their heads, middle-aged men in outlandish pajamas with frightened eyes, carrying baseball bats in their hands; the police followed, pushing through the crowd, streaming into the kitchen, where Arlette Coles stood in a pool of sequins, shivering in her shredded dress, the bodice down around her front, a hand held to her bleeding throat. The other hand pointed out the door like a road sign in the direction of the fleeing figure. She was still shouting obscenities after him at the top of her lungs.

SHADOW DANCER ON NEW RAMPAGE

CITY IN PANIC

MAYOR DECLARES STATE OF EMERGENCY

VOWS INTENSIFIED HUNT

SECOND ATTACK IN THREE DAYS INDICATES

QUICKENING OF SLAYER’S ACTIVITY

$25,000 REWARD OFFERED FOR INFORMATION

LEADING TO KILLER’S APPREHENSION

CITIZENS GROUPS AND NEIGHBORHOOD

VIGILANTES PROWL CITY STREETS. SOME

NEIGHBORHOODS DESCRIBED AS

ARMED CAMPS

RUN ON ALARM SYSTEMS AND ILLICIT STREET

GUN TRADE UP 100%. POLICE OFFICIALS

CONCERNED AT TURN OF EVENTS

SHADOW DANCER FLEES ATTACK SITE

CHASED BY ANGRY MOB WIELDING

BATS, TIRE IRONS, AND FRYPANS

The phone rang. Mooney looked up from the stack of clippings on his desk and gazed morosely at it. He knew who it was before he’d even lifted the receiver.

“It’s all here on my desk,” he said, without bothering to say hello or good morning.

“Well, read it and weep,” Mulvaney’s voice rasped into the phone. “His Honor’s been on the phone two hours this morning with McClenahan. From what I hear, they’re still at it.”

“What d’ya s’pose they’re talking about?” Mooney’s voice croaked wearily.

“Not about the weather, I can assure you. More probably, something about your job performance.”

“A bit about yours, too, no doubt.”

Mulvaney’s long, tired sigh drifted across the wire. “Heard anything on McConkey?”

“Not a word. Her name’s out all over the AP wire and the networks. Her face is plastered on every rag in the country. If she’s out there, anywheres, and still alive, she’s gotta have seen something by now.”

Mooney waited for some response. When none came, he spoke again. “Now that’s the bad news. Would you like to hear some good news?”

“I’m all ears,” Mulvaney said with a conspicuous lack of enthusiasm.

“The Coles dame.”

“Who?”

“The lady who was hit last night. Arlette Coles.”

“What about her?”

“I spoke to her on the phone this morning,” Mooney went on, trying to suppress the excitement in his own voice. “She’s over at Kings County now. Got a nasty puncture wound in her throat, but the doctors say she’s gonna be fine.”

“She willing to talk?”

“Talk? Sing. Shout at the top of her lungs is more like it. I could barely stop her. This is the first solid description we’ve had.”

“And it’s our boy?”

“No chance it could be anyone else. Dark, straight hair. Broken front teeth. Caucasian, or possibly light Hispanic, or mix. And get a load of this: they picked up a broken pink crayon on the floor where they were scuffling. Fell out of his pocket.”

“Any prints?”

“She says he was wearing rubber surgical gloves, which fits with everything else we’ve heard about him. That accounts for the fact we never come up with any prints. But this time the forensic guys think they may lift something off the Crayola.”

“When you seeing her?” Mulvaney asked grimly. “I’m going over this morning with Rollo. Soon as I finish up here.”

Now that it was all out, Mooney felt breathless and a little lightheaded. If he was waiting to hear some expression of approval, he didn’t get it.

“Frank.” Mulvaney’s voice dropped several decibels lower and, suddenly, sounded portentous. “This case has now been transferred to Sylvestri.”

There was a pause. A long, embarrassed silence. “Sylvestri?”

“That’s right. It’s what we’ve been talking about the last few months. Eddie Sylvestri is in charge now.”

“Sylvestri.” He whispered the name again, as though he’d never heard it before.

“Don’t say you weren’t warned, Frank. It wasn’t my decision. McClenahan tossed this at me six o’clock this morning. I guess that’s part of what came out of the talks with the mayor.”

Mooney had recovered sufficiently to sputter, “What about my extension? I’ve still got about six days to go on our deal.”

“The mayor doesn’t care about our deal. He just wants this thing resolved, and for nearly two years you haven’t been able to do that.”

“First of all …”

“Let me finish, Frank. Then you can talk. If you want it straight, here it is. Eddie Sylvestri’s marked for a captaincy and, possibly, a divisional job. He’s considered by management to be the coming thing.”

Mooney’s face was hot and a pulse throbbed at his temples. “All I need is a few days more on this thing and I can —”

“Sorry.”

Though he’d been expecting it for some time, it still felt as if he’d been kicked in the stomach. “Gimme five days. Just five days more.” Mooney could hear himself pleading. “Four … give me four.”

“Sorry, Frank.”

“Three.”

While the voice was sympathetic, it was uncommonly firm. Mooney recognized the tone. “So this means you’re throwing me off the goddamn case now?”

“Worse,” Mulvaney said. “It means you’re still on it. Working for your old pal, Eddie Sylvestri.”

IN A BATHROBE AND SLIPPERS, SPRAWLED ON
a day couch that converted to a sleeper at night, Janine McConkey watched the gray phantom figures drift across the television screen. She lay in a darkened parlor, in a small suburb of Philadelphia, while her oldest and dearest friend, Bobbie Murdoch, slept heavily in an adjoining room.