The Night Caller (31 page)

The Night Caller had to circle the block several times before finding a parking space several buildings down from his own. After maneuvering into the tight space, he sat with the engine idling and waited until it was unlikely he and Cara would walk past anyone between the car and the building entrance.

Two teenage boys in quilted jackets, bulky gloves, and Yankees watch caps loped past, talking animatedly and loudly and not seeming to notice they were sometimes traversing ice and snow. “…Said I was gonna twist off her fuckin’ ears!” one of them proclaimed loudly enough to be heard plainly inside the Mercedes. When they were past, the Night Caller switched off the engine, got out of the car, and walked around to open Cara’s door.

He was about to reach inside the car to unfasten Cara’s wrists and seat belt beneath the blanket, when a woman with a wire grocery cart emerged from the closest building. The Night Caller leaned into the car, hiding his face and listening to a squeaky wheel, until the woman had pushed the cart well down the street.

Then he quickly unwound the tape from Cara’s wrist, hit the button on her seat belt, and dragged her out of the car. “…Too much to drink,” he said in a conversational tone, in case anyone might by chance overhear.

Cara helped him, standing unsteadily and staring about in bewilderment.

“I’ll take care of you,” the Night Caller said gently. He wrapped his arm around her back and held her upright, then moved ahead so she had to walk. The Night Caller’s eyes moved from side to side as they made slow progress toward the entrance to his building.

“Where…” Cara murmured in confusion.

“Daiquiris,” the Night Caller said, forcing a smile.

She slipped on ice near the door and almost took him down with her. He grunted, and with difficulty hauled her back to an upright position.

With one hand he held her up against him. With the other he punched the tenants’ code number out on a keypad, then scooped a handful of gray slush from the concrete ledge beneath an iron railing. He deposited the icy nugget in a side pocket of his sport jacket, feeling it immediately begin to melt coldly against his hip. A buzzer sounded and he pushed through into a small vestibule, dragging Cara along with him. Then he fished his keys out of his pocket and used one to open the doors to the main lobby. Before entering all the way, he got the partially melted glob of slush from his jacket pocket and held it as he might a snowball. Staying well back so his features wouldn’t be recorded, he reached up where he knew the security camcorder was mounted just above the doorway and stuck the icy gray mass over its lens.

“Warm in here,” Cara remarked, as they entered the carpeted lobby and staggered to the elevator.

“Feels good,” the Night Caller said, thinking that his luck was holding, no one had seen them. And even if the slush over the camcorder lens melted fast and slipped off, the video would be hopelessly blurred from rivulets of water. No one could be positively identified, especially viewed from behind.

He pressed the
UP
button and held his breath as the elevator descended, hoping there would be no one on it. The digital indicator above the paneled door flickered from number to number, suggesting the car wasn’t stopping on the way down, no one else was boarding.

The elevator arrived, the oak-paneled door slid open, and no one was inside. Wonderful! The Night Caller quickly maneuvered Cara inside and pressed
7,
the top button. Except for the unlikely possibility that someone would board on the way up to go to a higher floor, they should be able to reach the top floor without being seen. The Night Caller had the entire floor for his loft apartment, so no one would see them in the hall.

They made it all the way to seven without anyone else boarding the elevator. Perfect! Fate and luck and destiny and death, all were watching over him like ancient Greek household gods. Those who dared, won.

His door key was in his right hand, Cara clasped tightly to him with his left arm, even before the elevator door glided open.

No one would see them now. There were only a few short steps across the private entry hall, a few seconds while he worked the key and got the door open, a few more seconds for him to drag Cara inside and close and lock the door behind them.

She was his!

He led her deeper into his apartment and settled her on the sofa. During the afternoon the sun had melted most of the snow from the skylight, and soft illumination from the surrounding city found its way into the spacious loft.

The Night Caller checked Cara’s pulse, then bent lower and examined her pupils in the dimness. Then he removed his sport coat and laid it neatly folded over a chair back.

With a glance at Cara, he made sure all the blinds were closed. He walked into the kitchen and switched on only the appliance light over the stove. He wanted additional illumination in the loft, but not more than there was outside. It was unlikely that anyone in a distant, taller building might be peering with binoculars or a telescope into the loft through the skylight, but why tempt luck that had so far been kind? He knew that as long as it was slightly brighter outside the somewhat translucent skylight than inside the apartment, no one with a long lens could see in.

He gathered a pair of scissors and a roll of duct tape from one of the drawers beneath the counter, a sharp knife from another. Leaving the appliance light glowing, he carried these items to one of the closets at the far end of the loft. From the closet he pulled out a folded gurney of the sort paramedics used, quickly and adroitly unfolded it, then rolled it to a smaller closet that held linens. It took him less than a minute to cover the gurney with a clean white sheet.

He placed the items from the kitchen on the sheet and rolled the gurney across the loft and situated it several feet off to one side, where the light filtering from above was brightest.

Then he went to a console near the locked door and got out a cobbled black leather bag of the sort sometimes carried by doctors. From a cardboard box on a shelf, he drew out a plastic figurine.

After placing the bag and figurine at the foot of the gurney, he went to get Cara.

Coop kept walking, knowing it was hopeless. Finally he had to sit down to catch his breath.

He let himself slump on the concrete steps of a brownstone apartment building, not caring that no one had shoveled them and he was seated in snow. For a few minutes he listened to himself breathe, watching the heat of his life fog and drift away before his eyes. What would it be like to die? For Cara? For him? Would the soul depart the body like the light gray spirit of his breath dancing away on the breeze? Would the demon that possessed Nighklauer reluctantly leave his body when he died?

Coop had run, then walked around the neighborhood desperately, looking up and down blocks as he crossed intersections, hoping he could spot the dark Mercedes still in traffic or parked at the curb.

Now he was exhausted.

He was finished in strength and almost in spirit.

He felt drained of hope and health.

He clutched the iron rail to pull himself to his feet, and saw the black Mercedes.

It was only after he’d reached it that he knew there was still no hope. It was certainly the same car; like any ex-cop he’d memorized the license plate number. But every parking space was taken on the block. It was unlikely the car was parked directly in front of the building Nighklauer had entered.

Nighklauer and Cara might be in any building on the block. Or even one of the adjoining blocks.

Every building would have to be checked, and Coop knew there wouldn’t be time, even if he somehow got in touch with Billard or Willingham and convinced them to come here and help. Convinced them to believe him. Coop knew what was happening, where the long struggle would lead. He could feel it. He was an expert on diminishing time.

He stood by the funereal black Mercedes and gazed about hopelessly, looking at too many brightly lighted windows, too many darkened windows.

Behind any one of them might be Cara and Nighklauer. And Nighklauer’s demon.

Gently, very gently, the Night Caller laid Cara on her back on the sheeted gurney, then shifted the gurney’s position slightly so the light fell brighter on her.

For a moment he merely stood and admired her. She was so beautiful, her head resting on the white linen, her breasts straining against the material of her blouse. Her shoes had come off, and her manicured toes were enameled the same bright red as her fingernails. The nail on the ring finger of her left hand was broken jaggedly. He felt bad about that and wondered how it had happened. He’d taken such care with her.

He began carefully exploring her beneath her clothes, sliding his palms sensually, probing and manipulating with his fingers the points of her breasts beneath her bra, so like her sister’s, the mound of pubic hair, so surprisingly soft. She drew a deep breath, stirred. Her eyes opened and she looked up at him listlessly, wondering what was happening, aware and unaware, like everyone else, only more so.

He couldn’t wait. His heart was racing, singing in his chest. He withdrew his hands, noticing that they were trembling. He rested them firmly on her breasts and they were still. “Julia?” She tried to focus her eyes on him and failed.

He decided to delay the final injection of secobarbital. She had smiled slightly in her confusion, he was sure. It would be better, for him and for her, if he left her in twilight for now so she would be remotely aware of what was happening. He did tape her wrists to the gurney’s steel frame, in case she somehow regained sufficient strength to change position.

After bending down and kissing her cool forehead, he began using the surgical scissors to cut away her clothing. She didn’t struggle or object, only stared uncomprehendingly at him. The softened light illuminated her face like an angel’s.
Julia.

It was time now for the hair; then she would receive the injection that would deepen her sleep to eternity. Lovingly, he moved her head to the side and began adroitly undoing her long red braid. It only amused him to find the braid wasn’t her own but was woven skillfully into her real hair. The effect would be the same.

She moaned and tried to move, the dawn of fear and knowing in her eyes. But she hadn’t the strength or will to resist. He knew that even if her wrists weren’t bound to the gurney, she would barely have been able to move her arms.

The long red braid was almost undone now, and he would soon fan the long hair carefully, like a halo around her head, as Julia’s hair had been when she slept. And Cara would sleep.

Soon nothing, no other man, would ever have or harm her. He would let her regain almost full awareness before the final injection, so that she understood when their gazes locked that nothing before mattered and there was nothing more, she would be his forever. The arc of perfect possession would make them one. The final, massive dose of secobarbital would envelope her soul as it shut down her body. She would sleep with Julia.

As he began to arrange her fanned-out hair, she stared numbly up at him, beyond him, and the translucent light that so transformed her beautiful still features darkened. Something changed in her eyes—there was a comprehension in them that shouldn’t have been there.

The Night Caller paused and felt his own icy comprehension. Still bent over Cara, he swiveled his head to look up at the skylight.

He sucked in his breath in disbelief.

The Distraught Dad! Cooper! On the roof and standing with his legs spread wide, like a dark colossus, staring down at him through the skylight. Something—a gun! In his right hand! Aiming a gun!

The Night Caller flung himself to the side at the roar of thunder. The hand of the colossus slapped him to the floor and fire erupted low in his back, on the right side.

The powerful hand tried to keep him pinned to the floor, but he struggled to a kneeling position, then to his feet, swallowing his pain.

With terror but no plan, with only instinct for direction, he ran.

Coop had mentally flipped a coin to decide which direction away from the parked Mercedes he’d try first.

He’d trudged slowly along the sidewalk, hoping to be able to enter buildings or peer into lobbies at tenant directories, scanning for the name Nighklauer. Dr. Nighklauer.

But New York buildings weren’t set up that way. And all but one of the lobbies were locked and had card slots or coded keypads for tenants to enter, intercoms to identify visitors.

He was about to give up when he noticed the footprints in the snow near the entrance to the second building down from the parked Mercedes. Coop got down with one knee on wet pavement to make sure.

The crisscross pattern of the soles that had left the footprints was unmistakable. Beside one of them was what might have been a blurred print made by a bare foot. Or a nylon-clad foot that had lost a shoe.

He tried the lobby door and wasn’t surprised to find it locked. There was a keypad, but he knew how long it would take to press buttons until he chanced upon the right code. What he did see was the bank of mailboxes and intercom buttons in the foyer between the street and lobby doors. There were names above the mail slots but he couldn’t make them out. He
could
make out the
Dr.
above the mail slot of the top box, and the apartment number engraved in the dull brass.

Backing away on the sidewalk, he saw a narrow walkway between the building and the one next to it. There was no fire escape in front, so there should be one on the side or rear.

It had taken him only minutes to find the steel gravity ladder, leap, and pull it down, then ascend to the roof.

At the elevator the Night Caller paused. Cooper would expect him to race to the lobby, try to get out of the building. And maybe he wasn’t—

The sound of a distant siren penetrated his thoughts. Then another. Coming for him? Of course he had to assume that! If Cooper was alone now, he soon would be joined by others, wolves joining the pack.

And wouldn’t Cooper also hear the sirens? Wouldn’t he be concerned with Cara, wonder if she were dead or dying? Wouldn’t he enter the loft apartment as quickly as possible? No dropping through a shattered skylight like a movie superhero. The middle-aged Distraught Dad must have climbed the fire escape to reach the roof—now he would go back down it to one of the windows and find the blinds drawn so he couldn’t see in. But he’d know Cara was alone. He would shatter the window, raise it, and enter.

The Night Caller pressed the elevator button. It was still at his level and the door immediately slid open. He threw himself inside and hit the button for the floor below.

He’d anticipated not this but something like it. Taken the precautions of wisdom. On the roof was a heavy two-by-ten construction board, twelve feet long, that he’d placed there over a year ago. It could be laid across the narrow walkway between the buildings, allowing access to the adjacent roof. By the time the elevator reached the ground floor, the building might be surrounded, but his enemies would wait in vain.

As the elevator sank, he probed the gunshot wound in his side with trembling fingers. The bullet seemed to be lodged in his right external oblique muscle. Though there was bleeding, it probably had missed any vital organs.

The elevator stopped, and he withdrew his hand and wiped bloody fingers on his pants leg.

Here was the delicate time. Alternate worlds. If Cooper had climbed the fire escape to reach the roof, he was indeed probably using it to descend to a window and gain entrance into the loft apartment.

If he’d somehow gotten into the building at ground level and used the service stairs to reach the roof, he’d have to use the stairs to descend to the floor below the loft, to where he could use the elevator to get back up to loft level. When the elevator door opened, he might be standing waiting to board. But the service stairs door only opened from the inside; probably Cooper hadn’t used them. Or if he had, he might not have blocked the door to the roof so it wouldn’t close and latch, trapping him up there unless he resorted to the fire escape.

The Night Caller held to the most likely, fire escape scenario. But he tensed his body, prepared to knock the surprised Cooper aside and rush past him if he was waiting for the elevator. The pain in his side flared, trying to bend him, trying to break him.

The elevator door hissed and slid open.

The hall was empty.

It took the Night Caller less than a minute to open the service stairs door and scamper up onto the roof. He was sure he wouldn’t encounter Cooper now. By this time the Distraught Dad would be in the loft apartment with Cara, or waiting for the elevator so he could pursue his quarry down to the lobby and street.

But like the tiger, wounded but wily, his quarry had doubled back and was now where least expected.

The Night Caller was sure now that his luck, his survivor’s intuition, would pull him through.

He became even more confident when he stood surveying the roof and was sure he was alone. On top of things again.

He realized he was smiling. He was actually smiling! He, not Cooper, was the movie action hero. It was simple the rest of the way. He would escape again! It was within his reach, his grasp, his destiny! Was he actually enjoying this?

Yes!
he thought, yes, he was!

Until he saw that the board was missing from where it had lain for more than a year, wedged against the low brick wall of the parapet.

The Night Caller leaned forward cautiously and looked down.

And there was the board lying on the pavement below.

Thick as it was, it had broken.

Anything that fell from such a height would break.

Cooper had tossed out into space the long board he’d found. It would be the only way off the roof other than the fire escape, since the door to the service stairs locked from the inside. He wanted to block means of escape behind him the way a seaman might secure the watertight bulkheads of a ship that could sink.

After descending the fire escape to one of the loft apartment windows, he used his elbow to shatter the glass, then began picking shards of it from the frame.

He worked the latch and raised the heavy wooden frame. With gun drawn, he pulled the closed drapes aside. He was sure Nighklauer had fled. He might even be wounded. But Coop also knew he wasn’t dealing with anyone predictable.

He climbed through the window and found himself in a spacious, dimly lighted apartment.

And there was Cara, still as white marble sculpture, lying on the small bed or gurney he’d seen through the skylight. The sight of her made him pause, grabbed his breath. The pale, smooth expanses of her flesh frightened him. Was she breathing? He still wasn’t sure there was no one else in the apartment, but he rushed to her anyway.

She was alive, dazed. A gleaming knife and scissors lay on the sheet next to her. On the floor was a doctor’s black leather bag, a hypodermic kit lying on top of it near the handle. Next to the bag lay the plastic figure of St. Augustine. Cara gazed up at Coop, seemed to know him, tried to say something but couldn’t. He scanned her flawless pale body with his eyes. She seemed to be uninjured. On the outside. How could he know what kind of drug or how much of it was in her?

He hurriedly went to a phone and called 911, then barked his message to the operator loudly and clearly. Only once because that was all the time he had.

With a backward glance at Cara, leaving the phone off the hook, he dashed to what he thought must have been the door to the hall.