The mayor stood on the platform, the sun reflecting off the bald spot on his head. Camera crews jostled with each other to get the best angle, the closest shot. People in the crowd craned their necks and stood on tiptoe, climbing up onto the bases of street lamps, straining to see better. Chuck Morton stood behind him and to the left, next to the Manhattan DA and the police commissioner. The police presence on the street was heavy. Patrolmen dotted every corner, and there were still a few National Guardsmen roaming around in their military outfits.
There was an oddly festive atmosphere in the air. Ice cream vendors wheeled their carts down Park Row, men selling brightly colored helium balloons plied their way through the crowd, and there were pretzel and hot dog vendors on every corner, all of them doing a brisk trade. After a cold, dark February, the temperature had shot up to nearly sixty degrees. Lee could smell coconut oil, bringing with it the incongruent memory of summer days at the beach. He and Butts stood at the edge of the crowd, near the iron gate leading into the park.
Lee couldn't help thinking of the scene at public hangings, or the crowd that surrounded the guillotine as Madame Defarge calmly knitted her way through the carnage. Knit one, purl two. He suspected most of the people here didn't believe they were in danger from the Slasher, and that they were just attracted by the event itself. Oh, look, Harriet, the mayor's giving a press conference open to the public. Let's grab the kids and head on down. After 9/11, people seemed to gather in groups in public more often, as if there truly was safety in numbers.
"What do you think?" Butts said, sucking on a salted pretzel. "Is this guy full of it or what?"
"Well," Lee said, "I guess we'll see."
The mayor raised his arms, and the buzzing in the crowd subsided. He looked out across the rows of expectant, upturned faces, eager for him to lead them once more, to recite magic words of comfort, once again restoring order out of chaos. The crowd grew silent, and Lee could hear the rushing of the wind through the caverns of lower Manhattan, picking up speed as it crossed over the flat expanse of New York Harbor, to wind its way through the twisted labyrinth of downtown skyscrapers.
A gust of wind lifted a tuft of the mayor's thinning hair, and he put a hand up to stop it, then seemed to forget all about his hair as the shifting wind brought with it the thin, acrid smell of smoke from the still smoldering ruins a few blocks to the south. The mayor hunched over the microphone and tapped it. There was a buzz, a short, high-pitched burst of feedback, and then silence as the sound crew adjusted their dials. The mayor cleared his throat, and the crowd leaned in to hear his words.
"My fellow citizens," he began, adjusting the mike stand, "this has been the most trying time in this great city's history. The events of five months ago proved that New York is indeed the greatest city in the world."
He paused for the wave of applause that rose from the crowd below, cresting upward and echoing off the narrow streets. "Now, once again, we are challenged by another kind of terrorism-this time violent actions of a lone, mentally disturbed individual. But this great city survived the worst attack ever on American soil, and we will not be cowed by the evil deeds of a single, psychotic individual!"
Again the pause for applause. The mayor removed a stringy strand of hair from his forehead and placed it back on this top of his head. He knew where the applause breaks were in his speech, and his audience didn't let him down-they clapped long and hard, with a few cheers and whistles sprinkled in.
"And so," he continued, "I am creating a special task force to oversee the apprehension of the man known as the Slasher."
More applause. Lee looked at Chuck, standing behind the mayor, his normally impassive face grim. He shifted from one foot to the other, coughed, and looked away. He's not enjoying this, Lee thought. It was clear that his friend did not like the mayor. He wondered if the mayor knew this. If he did, he was too professional to show it.
After introducing everyone, he stepped back and clapped a hand on Chuck's shoulder. Lee saw Morton stiffen at the gesture. He managed to force out a stony smile, but Lee wasn't fooled. The mayor didn't seem to notice, though, and Lee concluded that he hadn't gotten where he was by paying attention to every little slight. Like most successful politicians, the mayor had control over his emotions in public. He managed somehow to look both serious and hopeful.
"I am confident that Captain Morton will be successful in leading the elite task force to the successful capture of this heinous criminal."
"Elite task force, huh?" Butts muttered under his breath. "Wait till the wife hears that one."
"What does this mean for us?" Lee asked Chuck later, as the three of them walked uptown, passing the Chinese merchants piling empty wooden crates and bags of garbage on the narrow curb of Mott Street, the fading sun casting a golden glow over the jumble of streets and alleyways.
"Not much. More paperwork, more of City Hall breathing down my neck, but it's really just a political gesture. He doesn't want the FBI barging in, for one thing, and so he's fluffing up his feathers and strutting around the yard a little."
"Politics," Butts said, kicking at an empty carton.
"I think I'll leave that up to the mayor," Chuck said.
"I just hope he does right by us," Lee remarked.
"What I want to know is where the hell is Nelson?" Chuck fumed. "Does he do this often?" he asked Lee. "I mean, just drop out of sight like this?"
"Since the death of his wife his behavior has been pretty unpredictable," Lee replied.
Chuck kicked at a discarded soda can on the sidewalk in front of him.
"Well, he really picked a bad time to go on a bender, if that's what he's doing."
Lee looked over his shoulder at the thin trail of sunlight dipping in and out between the buildings. He was afraid something had happened to Nelson, but he didn't want to say that to Chuck, who had enough to worry about right now. But he knew he needed to fill Morton in on what happened last night.
"The killer contacted me last night-or at least I think it was him," he said.
Chuck stopped walking.
"What? How?"
Lee told Chuck and Butts about the instant messages of the previous night, including the threat to "strike closer to home" next time.
"Wonder what he meant by that?" Butts mused.
"I've been trying to figure it out. Maybe he meant closer to me?"
"But he just did Manhattan," Butts pointed out.
"Or maybe he means his home," Chuck suggested.
"But that wouldn't make sense in terms of the patterns of most serial killers. His first victim would be the one closest to his residence. Besides, the message was meant for me."
"Jeez," said Butts, shaking his head as he stepped over a wayward garbage bag on the sidewalk.
"Can we trace him, do you think?" Lee asked Chuck.
"I'll check with the folks in the Computer Crimes Division, but I think there are ways he can hide his trail, if he's smart."
"Plus, we don't know for sure if this is him," Butts said. "Could be a copycat, a wannabe."
"True," Lee agreed, but in his heart he didn't believe it.
"I'll send the guys in Computer Crimes over later to check out your machine and see if they can trace the source of the messages," Chuck said.
"Did you get the test results from the communion wine yet?" Lee asked.
"Yeah," Chuck said. "The report came in this morning: zip, nada."
"No blood?"
"Not even very much wine. It was a pretty watered-down Zinfandel, according to the lab. That's it."
Lee couldn't decide if the Slasher was trying to throw them off, or if he was just becoming more disorganized, as the dismemberment of poor Sophia might suggest.
"What about your contact who put you in touch with that homeless guy? Anything from him lately?" Butts asked.
"No, he seems to have gone underground." The truth was that Lee was worried about Eddie too. It was unusual for him to be out of touch for this long.
But when Lee returned to his apartment, there was a message on the machine from Eddie.
"Hey there, Boss Man. Good news! I may have a real break in the case. I'll call back later. So long for now." Lee wished Eddie would call his cell phone, but Eddie hated cell phones. He didn't like answering machines either, and only grudgingly left messages on them.
Feeling relieved that Eddie was okay, Lee sat down at the piano and warmed up on a few jazz standards before tackling a new Haydn sonata. The left hand was a series of octave arpeggios, and soon the back of his hand ached from the prolonged stretching. After thirty minutes or so he took a break and poured himself a Rolling Rock. A favorite aunt of his had always kept a few cold ones for him at her house, and he bought them in memory of her.
Standing at the kitchen counter, he looked out the window, across the yard behind his apartment into the lighted windows of the neighboring building. A middle-aged couple was sitting at their kitchen table, having dinner. The man lowered his head and said something to the woman, who threw back her head and laughed, the overhead light shining on her upturned face.
Next time I'll strike closer to home.
What the hell did that mean? Closer to home…whose home?
He took a drink and felt the cold liquid slide down his throat.
Closer to home…
Suddenly it hit him: Closer to home did mean Lee's home, but not Manhattan-it was his family that was in danger! He felt like kicking himself for not realizing it sooner.
He picked up the telephone and dialed his mother's number. She answered after three rings.
"Hello?" She sounded irritated and a little sleepy. She often fell asleep watching the local news, though she would never admit it.
"Hi, Mom-it's me."
"Oh, hello, dear. Isn't it a bit late to be calling?"
Lee looked at the ceramic clock over the stove, a present from Fiona on one of her many trips to Mexico. The design was a sunburst in primary colors, with a Mayan-style face mask in the center. The time was twelve minutes after ten.
"It's not that late, Mom. It's a little after ten."
"All right," she said. "Is this something that can't wait until tomorrow? I've been up since six." That was so like her-since he had caught her asleep, it was important now for her to save face by telling him now how early she had risen.
"No, it can't wait. Is Kylie at her dad's house?"
"Of course. He picked her up when he went off shift at eight."
"Why aren't you there too? I thought I told you-"
"Don't worry," she said. "Stan's with me."
"Did they get back safely?"
"What do you mean?"
George Callahan lived about fifteen minutes away from Fiona, in Lambertville, a nearby town along the Delaware River.
"I mean, did they get back to his house okay?"
"I don't know-I suppose so. Why do you ask? What's going on?"
Lee debated as to how much he should tell her.
"I just want to make sure Kylie is okay."
"Why wouldn't she be?" He could hear suspicion creep into her voice.
"Mom, would you do me a favor?"
"What?"
"Would you make sure your burglar alarm system is turned on?"
After Laura disappeared, Lee had bought his mother an elaborate, state-of-the-art alarm system, but she rarely used it.
"Why?"
"Will you just do that for me?"
"Stan already turned it on. I wish you'd tell me what's going on."
"Look, just do it-okay? Please? I'll explain later."
Her heard air escaping from her nostrils. His mother always sighed through her nose-a tight, disapproving sound.
"All right. You know those policemen are still watching us all the time, don't you?"
"They're watching me, too, Mom."
"Then you know how it feels."
"I'll call back tomorrow, and we'll talk about it, okay?" He was anxious to call George's house to see if everything was okay there.
Another sound of escaping air, a thin hissing noise. "Very well. But I wish you wouldn't be so mysterious all the time."
"Look, I'm sorry. I'll call you tomorrow." To press her any more now would just backfire. "Good night. Talk to you tomorrow."
"Very well. Good night, Lee."
He hung up and speed dialed George Callahan's number. George answered on the first ring.
"Hello?" He sounded cheerful-probably on his third beer. George wasn't a heavy drinker, but he liked to knock back a few after a week of double shifts at the hospital.
"Hi, George, it's Lee."
"Heya, fella. How are you doing?"
"I'm fine. I-uh, I was wondering how you guys are doing?"
"You mean Bunny and me?" George called his daughter Bunny, and had ever since she was a baby. Lee couldn't remember how it had started-something to do with bunny pajamas Laura had given Kylie on her first Christmas, just like the ones Laura had as a child. "We're fine, just great. I'd let you talk to her, only she's in bed now. School day tomorrow, you know."
"Sure, sure. So she's okay?"
"Fine. Hey, listen, don't worry. The cops are still keeping an eye on us."
"Good, good. Is your alarm system on?"
"Yeah, sure. Any breaks in the case?"
"Not yet, but we're working on it."
"You'll get him. I know you will. Hey, let's have a cookout at my place one of these days, huh?" George said. He loved entertaining, and liked to fire up his barbeque and grill steaks.
"Sounds great."
"Good. It's a deal, then."
"Sure, sure." Lee wasn't about to tell George the whole story, any more than he would tell his mother.
"Okay, then, buddy, I'll see you soon." Lee heard the sound of a sports broadcaster in the background, and could tell George wanted to get him off the phone so he could watch the sports news.
"Right. See you soon," Lee said.
"I'll tell Bunny you called."
"Great, thanks. 'Bye."
"So long."
Lee hung up and stood in front of the collection of faded snapshots of his sister on the refrigerator. In one, the sun glinted off her dark hair, showing the copper highlights-more evidence of their family's Celtic ancestry. Her grin was wide and lopsided, and she held a border collie puppy in her arms, a present from George Callahan. After Laura's disappearance George had given the dog away. Though he never said so, Lee thought that he couldn't stand the daily reminder of her absence. He knew that ever since Laura's disappearance, George watched his daughter very carefully-and as an emergency room worker, he knew what people were capable of.
He went back into the living room, where the piano stood, waiting for him. It was close to eleven now, though-too late to play without disturbing the neighbors. He ran his fingers lightly over the keys, looking the pages of a Bach partita open in front of him. Tomorrow he would make time for Bach.
Back in the kitchen, he looked out the window at the couple across the way having dinner. They had finished now and were doing the dishes together. The woman stood at the sink, head down, washing dishes, and the man came up behind her and put his arms around her waist, hugging her body to him. It was a simple gesture, but it conveyed both protectiveness and possession. What happened, Lee thought, when protection faded and only possession was left? He closed the window's bamboo shades and left the room.
Somewhere, out there in the darkness, was a man with evil on his mind. The phrase ran through his mind, over and over, stuck in a never-ending loop of numbing repetition: Closer to home…closer to home…