Darkfall

no images. The pedestrians, heads bent, shoulders hunched, struggled against the wind and stinging snow; and gradually they receded and faded, as well. Only Jack was real. And the narrow pathway to the phone. And the telephone itself.
    Ringing…
    He was drawn.
    Ringing…
    Drawn toward the phone.
    He tried to resist.
    Ringing…
    He suddenly realized he’d taken a step. Toward the phone.
    And another.
    A third.
    He felt as if he were floating.
    Ringing…
    He was moving as if in a dream or a fever.
    He took another step.
    He tried to stop. Couldn’t.
    He tried to turn toward the patrol car. Couldn’t.
    His heart was hammering.
    He was dizzy, disoriented.
    In spite of the frigid air, he was sweating along the back of his neck.
    The ringing of the telephone was analogous to the rhythmic, glittering, pendulum movement of a hypnotist’s pocketwatch. The sound drew him relentlessly forward as surely as, in ancient times, the sirens’ songs had pulled unwary sailors to their death upon the reefs.
    He knew the call was for him. Knew it without understanding how he knew it.
    He picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
    “Detective Dawson! I’m delighted to have this opportunity to speak with you. My good man, we are most definitely overdue for a chat.”
    The voice was deep, although not a bass voice, and smooth and elegant, characterized by an educated British accent filtered through the lilting patterns of speech common to tropical zones, so that words like “man” came out as “mon.” Clearly a Caribbean accent.
    Jack said, “Lavelle?”
    “Why, of course! Who else?”
    “But how did you know-”
    “That you were there? My dear fellow, in an offhanded sort of way, I am keeping tabs on you.”
    “You’re here, aren’t you? Somewhere along the street, in one of the apartment buildings here.”
    “Far from it. Harlem is not to my taste.”
    “I’d like to talk to you,” Jack said.
    “We are talking.”
    “I mean, face-to-face.”
    “Oh, I hardly think that’s necessary.”
    “I wouldn’t arrest you.”
    “You couldn’t. No evidence.”
    “Well, then-”
    “But you’d detain me for a day or two on one excuse or another.”
    “No.”
    “And I don’t wish to be detained. I’ve work to do.”
    “I give you my word we’d only hold you a couple of hours, just for questioning.”
    “Is that so?”
    “You can trust my word when I give it. I don’t give it lightly.”
    “Oddly enough, I’m quite sure that’s true.”
    “Then why not come in, answer some questions, and clear the air, remove the suspicion from yourself?”
    “Well, of course, I can’t remove the suspicion because, in fact, I’m guilty,” Lavelle said. He laughed.
    “You’re telling me you’re behind the murders?”
    “Certainly. Isn’t that what everyone’s been telling you?”
    “You’ve called me to confess?”
    Lavelle laughed again. Then: “I’ve called to give you some advice.”
    “Yeah?”
    “Handle this as the police in my native Haiti would handle it.”
    “How’s that?”
    “They wouldn’t interfere with a Boco r who possessed powers like mine.”
    “Is that right?”
    “They wouldn’t dare.”
    “This is New York, not Haiti. Superstitious fear isn’t something they teach at the police academy.”
    Jack kept his voice calm, unruffled. But his heart continued to bang against his rib cage.
    Lavelle said, “Besides, in Haiti, the police would not want to interfere if the Bocor ‘s targets were such worthless filth as the Carramazza family. Don’t think of me as a murderer, Lieutenant. Think of me as an exterminator, performing a valuable service for society. That’s how they’d look at this in Haiti.”
    “Our philosophy is different here.”
    “I’m sorry to hear that.”
    “We think murder is wrong regardless of who the victim is.”
    “How unsophisticated.”
    “We believe in the sanctity of human life.”
    “How foolish. If the Carramazzas die, what will the world lose? Only thieves, murderers, pimps. Other thieves, murderers, and pimps will move in to take their place. Not me, you understand. You may think of me as their equal, as only a murderer, but I am not of their kind. I am a priest. I don’t want to rule the drug trade in New York. I only want to take it away from Gennaro Carramazza as part of his punishment. I want to ruin him financially, leave him with no respect among his kind, and take his family and friends away from him, slaughter them, teach him how to grieve. When