Night Victims (The Night Spider) (15 page)

“As much as said so,” Paula agreed. “That’s as much as you get from them, because a spook never says anything right out. Sounds like your phone call to the number Sayles gave you stirred up something.”

“The question is,” Horn said, “did what it stir have anything to do with the Night Spider murders?”

“You’ll never get the answer from Altman,” Paula said. “You’ll probably never see him again. CIA spooks are like that. We had one in New Orleans turned out to be watching a potential terrorist. He set up the guy for us, then totally disappeared. We had his man on narcotics possession. Third time. He’ll be in jail another twenty years. End of terrorist threat. The CIA let us and the local courts do their work for them.”

“Tom Sawyer,” Bickerstaff said.

Paula stared at him. Was something going around that kept people from saying things directly?

“You painted the CIA’s fence.”

“I get it. Twain.”

“It happened more than once?”

Horn interrupted before Paula and Bickerstaff got into what he’d come to recognize as another of their frequent dustups that were mostly, but not all, good-natured ribbing. “The CIA and FBI catch a lotta crap from people who don’t know what they’re talking about. They have their screwups, but they’re a helluva lot more effective than some people seem to think. Point being, if Altman is CIA, the possibility the Night Spider’s in the military could be bad news for Night Spider.”

“Point being,” Paula said, “we might just be duplicating their efforts if we don’t veer from the military angle and concentrate on the civilian population.”

“Just what Altman said,” Horn pointed out. “More or less. Also pretty much what Assistant Chief Larkin said, when I met with him last night.” He looked at Paula and Bickerstaff, anticipating their questions. “Larkin says we’ve made a splendid beginning, which means he wishes we were further along.”

Paula took a last sip of coffee and made a face. “Everybody’s so fucking cryptic.”

“It’s the times,” Bickerstaff said. He craned his neck so he could peer toward the front of the diner, then summoned Marla over from where she was reading her paper.

Ordered a toasted corn muffin.

Monkey see,
Paula thought.

After Paula and Bickerstaff had left Horn to another cup of coffee and, they were sure, another muffin as soon as they drove away, Marla sauntered over and topped off Horn’s cup.

“Making progress?” she asked.

“We won’t know for sure until we know for sure.”

“Is that another old cop saying?”

“Yeah. It means we can’t know what’s valuable until it turns out to be gold.”

“Like in life.”

Horn grinned. “Very much so.”

“Seriously, are you getting anywhere?”

He filled her in, telling her only what he thought she should know. He didn’t mention his conversation with Altman.

As he talked, she looked at him in the sunlight that revealed every moment of his age. Still a handsome man, but he was older than she was and married. Yet Marla couldn’t deny the attraction that was growing in her. And she knew, in the way the heart sensed these things before the mind, that he was attracted to her. She also knew the attraction shouldn’t lead anywhere, should remain—as such feelings usually did—between people who were already attached—sort of low-grade infections of heart and groin, held in check by common sense.

“I asked you about yourself the other day,” Horn said, sitting back and relaxing in the booth. “You seemed hesitant to answer.”

He can read my mind, the way lovers do.
“Still am, I guess.”

“Then I’ll drop it.”

She knew she should turn away and walk back behind the counter, but for some reason she couldn’t move. The soles of her shoes might as well have been glued to the floor.

“I was a psychoanalyst in my previous life,” she said.

He looked up at her, surprised. “Can I ask why you changed careers?”

“You mean, was it booze or was it drugs?”

“Or sex,” he said, playing with her now, letting her know that whatever had brought her down, he wasn’t going to judge her.

Giving her a way out.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” she said with a grin. They were customer and waitress again, trading friendly barbs to pass the time, to show they were buddies.

“Should I call you Dr. Marla?” He was still joking; it was in his eyes.

“It’s Dr. Winger,” she said. “But just Marla will be fine.”

Horn sat staring up at her.
Jesus! She means it!

Marla gave him a parting grin and made her way back behind the counter, feeling safer there, less vulnerable. She needed the counter as a barrier.
Why did I reveal myself? Who will he tell? There’s no going back now . . .  no going back. . .

She looked over; he was still watching her, sipping his coffee. Her face was calm, professionally blank, but her heart was banging and banging away. Her blood was rushing and she felt flushed, felt as if she’d just accepted a dangerous dare.
Why did I open up that way? Why did I confide in him?

But Marla knew why. It was because she trusted him. It made no sense. It was trust based on emotion and not logic.

Worse still, she realized with a pang that seemed to cleave her heart, he was the only person in this fucked-up world she did trust.

What she feared most, because of where it might take her, where it might leave her, was trust.

17

Bosnia Herzegovina, 1997

Lieutenant Amin Arrnovich lay on top of his sleeping bag in the warm night, his hands cupped over his ears. His sergeant, Kalisovek, would bark an order now and then whenever the firing stopped. And, except for brief moments, it seemed that it never stopped. The chatter and clatter of automatic weapons fire seemed almost constant. Short bursts, but so many of them.

There were no screams.

That’s what surprised and disturbed Arrnovich, that there was not a human voice, only the language of guns.

It wasn’t that the villagers didn’t deserve what they were getting. After all, six members of Arrnovich’s unit had been murdered during their sleep the night before only half a mile from here, their throats slit as they slept. There had been no screams then, Arrnovich told himself.

Command had warned of an American strike unit in the countryside, but there was no doubt in his mind it was men from the village who had killed his sleeping and defenseless soldiers. It would take men who knew the terrain to move with such stealth in the dark, then disappear completely. It had to have been the villagers. That was why men of combat age were nowhere to be found. Only women, children, and old men remained in the small village. Forty-three people. Arrnovich personally had carefully counted them. Mustn’t leave anyone out.

There must be no witnesses to what he’d been ordered to do.

This afternoon, when Arrnovich had reported to the major what had happened, the reply had been swift. The order had come down through the ranks almost immediately.

The order to do what was happening now beneath the tilted half-moon on this unseasonably warm night.

The villagers had been herded to where a tank with a bulldozer blade had gouged in the earth a five-foot-deep trench. They’d known what was going to happen. They’d also known the inevitability of it. There was no way to escape.

For a moment, one old man with a gray beard seemed to consider bolting for the nearby woods. He caught Arrnovich’s eye, then looked down at his worn-out boots and continued walking, his arm strapped tightly around the quaking shoulders of the young girl next to him. His daughter or granddaughter? Arrnovich hadn’t looked closely at the girl’s face. He didn’t want to remember her.

The shooting stopped.

The abrupt silence seemed to make the night suddenly cooler.

Arrnovich didn’t want to be seen like this, lying on his bag rather than facing what he himself had ordered. It was bad enough he’d chosen not to be present. Picking up his rifle and using it as a prop, he dragged himself to his feet.

The bulky form of his sergeant appeared in the night. “It’s finished, sir.”

Arrnovich knew the only way he could be sure his men would carry out the order was to have the villagers led into the trench. His troops would fire down at the huddled, frightened figures in the dark pit, killing not people, but mere deep shadows that stirred.

“Should we fill in the trench?” the sergeant asked. He was a large man with a burn-scarred face. His voice was so calm, after what he’d just done, what he’d seen.

“Wait until dawn,” Arrnovich told him, “when we can see what we’re doing.”
But early, so aerial reconnaissance won’t be aloft yet and see and photograph what we’ve done here.
“I’ll give the order when the time comes. Post guards near the trench till then, in case . . .”

“Yes, sir. In case some of them are alive and try to crawl out.”

“Exactly, Sergeant.”
You will someday make a better officer than I.

The sergeant told him good night, then withdrew.

Arrnovich didn’t worry about waking early enough to order the trench filled, then have brush spread over it so it couldn’t be spotted from the air. He knew he wouldn’t sleep. Tomorrow he’d have to count dead the people he’d counted alive today. He had to make sure every soul was accounted for.

Secrecy demanded it.

In the morning, when a thin layer of light was appearing in the dark sky above a distant line of trees, Arrnovich went to the trench. His eyelids seemed to be lined with sand, and there was a bitter taste in his dry mouth.

Nearby in the dimness loomed the huge form of the tank with the bulldozer blade mounted on it. It seemed to be looking on like some primal and innocent monster from the time of dinosaurs, the time before good and evil and guilt. The guards stood by silently while Arrnovich smoked a cigarette to cover the odor already wafting up from the tangle of corpses. He would wait until it was bright enough to see into the trench before conducting his final count.

In truth, it wasn’t as bad as he’d imagined. These were simply lifeless rag dolls, not the enemy, not real people. Not anymore. Dolls carelessly flung.

He moved to the very edge of the trench until the earth might have crumbled beneath his boots, risking falling in with the dolls. He made himself do that.

Then he began to count. It wasn’t easy because many of the dolls were intertwined. There was a female holding a younger figure that looked much like her. There was a doll with a gray beard that looked like the old man Arrnovich had cowed into submission with a glare last evening.

There was a wild-haired young woman who was shrouded in dark cloth, as if she’d tightly wound herself in a blanket to ward off the bullets.

Arrnovich counted. . . .
Forty-three, forty-four.

Hadn’t there been forty-three yesterday?

He was sure there had been. He counted again, from another vantage point, even more carefully.

Forty-four.

All right, forty-four. So be it. In such carnage, what did it matter if there was one
more
corpse than anticipated? Certainly everyone left in the village was now in the trench. That was the important thing.

Arrnovich squinted up at the brightening sky. It was going to be a cloudy day, but still the NATO planes would soon appear.

He gave the order to fill in the trench, then lit another cigarette.

The roar and clatter of the tank’s engine filled the morning, and the behemoth lurched forward. Its steel blade sliced deep into the sloping pile of dirt. An acrid scent of burning diesel fuel hung in the air. The powerful engine roared louder as Arrnovich tucked his cigarette into the corner of his mouth; he breathed in smoke, breathed it out.

He watched the loose earth tumble into the trench, covering what he had done. It was all deep and dark now, dust into silent dust to become insignificant in the immensity of time.

After today, he would try never to think of it again.

18

New York, 2003

Nina Count was here because it was Newsy’s day off, insofar as somebody like Newsy ever had a day off.

She goosed the accelerator of her Ford Expedition so the big SUV shot forward and nosed into a parking space about to be backed into by a blue minivan with commercial lettering on its door. The station would have provided her with a car and driver, but Nina preferred to jockey her big, heavy-duty SUV, with its roof rack, winch, and fog lights. It helped her to foster the image of a real, working journalist, not just another TV talking head. Trouble in the boondocks? Nina was ready.

The minivan jerked to a stop, blocking traffic. Horns began blaring, ripping whatever calm silence Manhattan traffic had left of the quiet morning. A bulky, T-shirted man with a dark, seriously receding hairline got out of the mini-van and began shouting at Nina, adding to the din. The morning belonged to the city now.

Nina placed her station logo and call letter plaque in the windshield and the man stopped shouting. She extended a nyloned leg, letting it linger, then climbed down from the SUV’s seat.

Mr. Receding Hairline saw who she was. It amused her to see his flush of recognition. His anger, his testosterone fit, passed from him before her eyes.

“Nina,” he said, almost actually grinning, “you oughta drive more careful. I’d hate to turn on the TV news and not see you.”

“Why, how kind of you to say!”

“We watch you—like, the whole family—just about every night.”

She smiled, walked over to the flustered man, and apologized for taking his parking space. “Press business,” she explained.

He assured her he understood, all the time rooting through his pockets for something she could write on. Finally, he extended a plastic ballpoint pen and a folded bill of lading so she could sign the blank back of the form.
Next time, you get my parking space,
she wrote, then scrawled her name. The guy absolutely loved it. He looked like he was going to have an orgasm.