“I have to go,” I say.
Andy looks confused, maybe hurt.
“But I thought—”
“I have to go shopping for a slicker,” I tell him.
“A what now?”
“A raincoat.”
I hand over a thick wad of cash, snatch up the bag, and run out the door. I hear the musicians laughing behind me.
Chapter 25
It will be hard to pull this one off without leaving a trace. He needs access to a southern-facing window on a low floor of the Astrophil Hotel. The Astrophil Hotel, where Dr. Amy Winston and her baby district attorney will marry. The Astrophil, with its gaudy baroque flair reminding the world that America is just watered-down Europe.
His desire to liberate Cheryl has caused him to be hasty. Ideally, he would spend weeks, even months, planning this kind of kill. He sits now at a computer in yet another branch of the New York Public Library, searching for floor plans of the hotel, hoping to find a well-situated conference room that might be vacant in the early morning.
But then, even if he were to find such a room, he would need to know how often the security guards make their rounds. He would need to know where the security cameras are situated, and who is sitting at the bank of monitors, watching. Without time to prepare, he will have to risk collateral damage. A shootout at the Astrophil would make an unsightly sidebar to the Night Sniper’s story.
Still, he does not feel anxious, but rather exhilarated, up to the challenge. He is smart and willing. His skill never wavers. He can allow himself to court danger. Not every time, but this time.
He finds his way in almost by accident, though he does not believe in accidents. In his search for blueprints and floor plans, he comes across a New York Times article about the recent conversion of a high percentage of Astrophil Hotel rooms to condominiums. The conversions are finished, the apartments sold, but the buyers do not move in for another month. The photo accompanying the article shows the exterior of the Astrophil at night, the majority of rooms pitch-dark.
It is simply a question of finding his way into one of these vacant apartments.
As luck would have it, this is his night off. At 7:00 p.m., he walks the southern block of the Astrophil, wearing accessories bought from a street vendor: large square glasses and a wide-brimmed cap that reads YES, I’M BALD.
He takes the same walk again at eight, this time in a BRING BACK LETTERMAN J jacket and a faux fur trapper’s hat. At 10:00, in fedora and windbreaker, he joins the long line of film buffs waiting to see a revival of Amélie at the Marseillaise, though he does not buy a ticket.
He makes two more passes, at eleven and midnight, before settling on an empty fourth-floor condo.
Chapter 26
Andy’s Vicodin chocolates have me feeling warm and tingly and like I can float above whatever’s out to do me harm. On the subway to Brooklyn, I sit straddling the twine-handled paper bag and my new purchase: a dark-gray raincoat with wrap-around belt, a close replica of the one in Jarry’s picture.
It’s 7:30—rush hour for the industrious, the ones who stay late adjusting the columns of their spreadsheet or giving that drywall a final coat of paint. I look around, think: These are the citizens I swore to protect. And then that warmth I’m feeling spreads to all my fellow travelers, like Vicodin is some sort of Zen shortcut.
Before I checked into Lifeline, I stashed my stuff at Square Footage, a sprawling storage facility on Fourth Avenue, in the section of Park Slope we used to call Park Slump, though good luck affording an apartment here now. During peak hours, staff will ride you out to your unit on a golf cart, but now I have to walk.
My unit is at the far end of the far row. I punch in the code, open the bright orange roller door, pull it shut again behind me. I switch on the overhead light, stand staring at columns of cardboard boxes on one side, hastily stacked household items on the other.
I think: Can all this crap really be mine?
I’ve had the same furniture since college: dinged-up futon frame, mattress with duct-taped tears, the kind of floor lamps you assemble piece by piece, a flea market drafting table I use as a desk. No kitchen or dining room set, no armchair or loveseat. A bachelorette all the way.
I have a narrow aisle to maneuver in. I shuffle to the rear, start digging, pulling down boxes and stacking them beside me. The labels seem to refer to periods in my life instead of the junk inside.
LAW TEXTBOOKS: a time when I saw myself trying cases, targeting not just criminals but crime rings, dismantling whole organizations one rung at a time. Cheryl Mabern, the crusader district attorney. But long afternoons in the library made me restless. No way I could be cooped up in an office or courtroom. TROPHIES AND MEDALS: I bowled my first perfect game when I was thirteen. As a kid, I was into anything that got me dirty or sweaty or gave me calluses. In high school I tried to start a female wrestling team, but no one was interested except a heavily freckled redhead with bone disease who wanted to be the mascot.
CLIPPINGS, ETC.: A box crammed with dark-blue binders and a single photo album populated with relatives I mostly don’t recognize. I remove the lid, pull out a binder marked LOWER EAST SIDE: 1998, my rookie year. I open it, start flipping through. Street maps, subway tunnel blueprints, tenement floor plans, wedding announcements, obituaries, takeout menus—anything and everything having to do with the precinct I patrolled.
The last few laminated pages are dedicated to news articles chronicling the strangest cases I caught that year. The identical twins who blamed each other for murdering their super. The bank thief who tunneled up into a safe only to have the tunnel collapse behind him.
I think: You meant well, Cheryl. And you worked damn hard, right from the beginning.
But what does it add up to if I’m no longer a cop?
I shuffle boxes around for a good half hour before I uncover the one I want. It’s crammed with stuffed animals my parents gave me when they still thought they’d be raising a princess. The light-brown bear in the tutu and the pelican with ballerina slippers sewn to her feet have seen better days. At the bottom of the box I find what I came for: a tattered and oversized baby blanket. Wrapped inside are a revolver and a bulletproof vest.
Not that I know what I’ll do with them. I have no plan—just rotating images stuck in my head. There’s me laid out on the pavement, me standing over the Sniper’s body. I can’t say how I got there in either case.
Before I go, I take another dip into Andy’s chocolates.
Chapter 27
The hotel’s interior is a study in contrasts. With angels painted on the ceiling and overwrought chandeliers, the place looks like the missing wing at Versailles, but its inner workings are worthy of Travel + Leisure magazine: hydraulic doors, surround-sound playing soft Chopin, a bank of flat-screens in the lobby silently broadcasting news from around the globe. Even the elevator, with its flashing control panel and wrought-iron door, is something new made to look old.
Miles exits on the fourth floor. He’s replaced the guitar case with a Gucci valise on wheels, wears a Montecristi hat and Armani overcoat, an outfit designed to help him blend with the rich. Not that there’s anyone to blend with: the floor is more than deserted—it’s still under renovation. The hallway floor is covered in plastic tarp. Electric sanders and paintbrushes lie out in plain view. Miles is thankful no one works the red-eye shift.
By his calculation, the second apartment from the east end of the building should offer an ideal vantage point. He intends to force the lock but discovers that the door, freshly painted, is ajar.
He takes out a flashlight, steps inside. The apartment is little more than a shell, albeit an expansive shell: twelve-foot ceilings, a sprawling living/dining area, extra-wide archways. The walls are painted a tasteful shade of pale blue. The floors are oak.
But it’s the sheer scale that makes the strongest impression. Miles shines his flashlight down a seemingly endless corridor. A small family could go for days without crossing paths. He is tempted
to give himself the tour, see what kind of appliances the one percent favor these days, but it is nearing 4:00 a.m., and that is not why he’s here.
He takes off his shoes, lifts up his suitcase, tiptoes to the living area’s centermost window, and looks out. The theater and sidewalk are laid bare before him. The degree of difficulty will be low, even if the risk is higher than ever.
He kneels down, opens the suitcase, begins assembling his father’s rifle. For the first time since his mission began, the Night Sniper feels his heart beating hard against his chest.
Chapter 28
I stop for a caipirinha and a basket of fried plantains at a Brazilian place near the Marseillaise. The restaurant/bar is open all night, or at least I’ve never seen it closed. I’ve never seen it full, either. There must be something going on in a back room, but this isn’t my beat, and the food and booze are priced right.
At 3:00 a.m. it’s just me and the bartender. He’s engrossed in a soccer match that’s being played live somewhere in the world. I take a stool at the far end, away from the TV. He waits for a time-out to mix my drink.
Let’s keep the edge going, I think, slipping another pill from the stash in my jeans pocket.
I scarf down six inches of fried plantain. Vicodin is good for that.
Call Randy, I tell myself. Do it now.
So why don’t I reach for my phone?
Maybe I’m afraid if the cavalry shows up too early they’ll spoil the show, because the Jarry-like image stuck in my head now—in black and white, for dramatic flair—features my corpse outlined in chalk. I see Randy leaning over me, Pete standing behind him. And there, in the not-too-distant background, are Patsy, Kelly, and Dennis, surrounding a cuffed Sniper.
They’ll write songs about me. “The Ballad of Cheryl Mabern.” Disgraced and misunderstood, she went out a hero.
It’s a question of timing. I need the good guys to arrive after I’ve been shot, but before the Sniper has cleared the building.
But then if I want to die, why am I wearing my vest? It’s like I’m hedging my bets. If he sticks to his routine, I live. But maybe he’ll change it up, put one in my brain. Maybe the vest is faulty.
If I do live, I’ll make the collar myself: a citizen’s arrest.
Either way, I win.
The streets are deserted, the skyscrapers and lampposts lit for me alone. Jarry had it all wrong. What I feel now is the opposite of distress. There’s no place I’d rather be.
Just a block to go. The Vicodin is taking over. The buildings and parked cars seem to be coming at me in slow motion, like 48th Street has been hoisted onto a malfunctioning passenger walk.
I lean against a mailbox, take out my phone. Just two rings before Randy picks up.
“I know where he is,” I say.
As I start toward the theater, I imagine every squad car in New York switching direction at once.
Chapter 29
He spots her walking up the block, moving in and out of shadow as she passes under the streetlights, wearing a raincoat nearly identical to the one in Jarry’s photo. Her steps are quick but unsteady. Cheryl has been drinking. Miles feels a tinge of disappointment.
Now and again she glances up at the facing buildings. He wants to be seen, but not yet—not before the final moment. He will not take aim until she is in position.
There is no one following her, no eyes peering from parked cars, no helicopters lurking overhead. She has come alone—his first willing subject—evidence that the service he provides is a welcome one.
She reaches the theater, feigns interest in a film poster, her back to him, her body swaying. Miles cracks the window, rests the barrel of his father’s rifle on the ledge. Cheryl turns, steps to the curb, stands directly beneath the streetlamp with her hands in her pockets, exactly like Jarry’s subject.
Miles savors the moment a beat too long—Cheryl breaks the pose, bites at her bottom lip, furrows her brow. Miles is close enough to count the worry lines. He kneels down, unscrews the high-tech scope from his father’s rifle. He will sight this shot on his own. The brief exchange between them will be simple, intimate.
He raises the rifle, presses the butt against his shoulder, then stops himself, brought up short by a faint tremor in his right hand. Once again, his pulse quickens. His palms turn damp.
He remembers his first kill: a corporate lawyer who’d quashed a lawsuit against big tobacco. He remembers lying motionless on his belly at the edge of a rock outcropping, watching the lake for hours before the lawyer arrived. He feels his father lying beside him, armed only with a pair of binoculars. He feels his legs trembling as his target wades out into the water, leans back to make his first cast.
“Now,” his father said.
But Miles couldn’t. He couldn’t squeeze his finger, couldn’t feel his arms or legs—not as though they were numb, but as though they were gone entirely. He braced himself for a hard blow, was surprised by his father’s hand resting gently on the small of his back.
“Everybody dies,” his father said. “All you’ll be taking from him is time—time he’d spend poisoning man and earth for his own gain. A person like that has no qualms leaving the world worse off than he found it. So you just keep breathing, let your mind go blank, and pull that trigger.”
Afterward: a ceremonial shot of whisky from his father’s canteen. A rite of passage. The closest his father ever came to praising him.
Miles takes a breath, lets his mind go blank, sets the rifle back in place. Cheryl is whistling to herself now. He can just make out the melody—anxious and broken. He wills her to look up. She obliges. Seeing him, her face goes calm.
She smiles, shuts her eyes.
Chapter 30
I run my fingers over the vest but can’t find the bullet, can’t feel where I’ve been hit.
I think: Taking the painkillers in advance, that was smart, then laugh myself into a blackout. When I come to, I know it’s the drugs and not the bullet holding me to the cement.
Time and again I fail to hold my eyes open, fail to raise my chest off the ground.
I see things: a helicopter with its blades on the bottom, a rainbow dripping blood, bodies falling from rooftops.
I see faces hovering over me, swelling and deflating, blurring around the edges. I see my mother, back from the grave, grimacing, not knowing how to soothe me. There and gone in a flash.
I see the girl I sat next to in homeroom freshman year. She still has the frizzy 1980s hair and the gum stuck in her braces, like she lived all this time without aging a day.
And then I see him. Smiling, leaning close, looking dapper in his old-style white hat with the black band. I try to reach for him, but my arms are molded into the concrete. His face changes shape like it’s made of quicksilver. He raps his knuckles on my vest.
“Tsk, tsk,” he says. “That’s cheating, Cheryl.”
I close my eyes, feel cold metal against my throat. I wait for the blade to break my skin, but when I open my eyes again it’s Randy’s face I see. His features are clear, distinct. He’s holding me by the shoulders, lifting me partway off the ground.
“What did you do?” he says. “Damn it, Cheryl. What did you do?”
Little by little, I become aware of the chaos behind him: sirens blaring, bosses barking orders, uniforms running back and forth, not knowing what to do with themselves.
I hear a voice I think is Pete’s say: “There’s no blood. She isn’t hit.”
“Vest,” I say. It comes out like a croak.
Randy drops his head in what I take for relief. I manage to reach up, grab his hand.
“It’s all right,” he says. “The paramedics will be here any second.”
“No,” I say. “No hospital. Get me out of here.”
He knows right away what I mean: hand Branford my blood report and I’m done. Maybe he didn’t need me to say it.
“I can’t do that, Cheryl,” he whispers. “Not this time.”
But I’m not asking for my sake. r />
“You need me,” I tell him. “I’m the one that got away.”
When I wake up again, I’m lying on a cot in the cell we call the tomb. It’s buried in the basement, across from the boiler room. We use it to hold suspects we want to scare—an hour down here and they understand just how easy it would be to get lost in the system.
Randy’s in the cell with me, standing guard. He sees I’m awake, points to a tray on the floor. There’s a pot of coffee, a dusty mug, a plate stacked with ancient-looking toast.
“Am I under arrest?” I ask.
“You should be,” he says. “You might still be.”
He pushes his back off the bars, steps toward me. It takes me an awkward moment to get myself out of a prone position.
“Coffee?” he asks.
Before I can answer, he pours me a cup, drops in a half-dozen sugar cubes, and stirs. I take a long swallow. Randy picks up a small trash can and sets it at my feet, as if to say: Go ahead and heave, skel.
The miracle is that I don’t have to.
He gives me a beat to get my head right. I glance down, realize I’m wearing clothes I’ve never seen before: a St. John’s hoodie, men’s sweatpants, thermal socks. I look back up at Randy.
“Did you…?”
“I had to make sure you could breathe,” he says. “And I couldn’t let anyone find you down here wearing that vest.”
I want the cot to snap in two and swallow me whole.
“So what was your brilliant plan?” he asks.
I stammer out an answer:
“I was setting a trap,” I say.
“Really?” Randy says. “You might have clued me in earlier. Your stunt cost a man his life.”
Now I’m all the way awake.
“What are you talking about?” I ask.