Free Blood Music by Jessie Prichard Hunter Page B

calling about the Slasher attack . . .”?
    Greenwich, Bank, and Horatio were all in the right neighborhood. The Horatio Street address was pretty far east, he thought; he wasn’t sure how the addresses ran in the West Village. For the rest of Manhattan it was up from zero in either direction from Fifth Avenue. Two hundred West Thirty-ninth Street would be about Seventh Avenue. Four hundred East Fifty-sixth Street would be about First Avenue. But John wasn’t sure about the Village, where all the streets ran cockeyed, many had names instead of numbers, West Fourth Street crossed West Twelfth, and Waverly crossed itself.
    He would try the Horatio number after the Greenwich and the Bank numbers. Thompson was in the middle of the Village, where tourists and people from the boroughs went. Where Cheryl had gone the night she disappeared.
    John pushed the ham-and-cheese angrily overboard into the wastebasket. He hadn’t bought a knife yet but he knew it had to be a knife. A gun would be safer but he had absolutely no idea of how to obtain one that couldn’t be traced. And he didn’t even know how to use a knife, didn’t know how to kill; a knife was entirely outside the realm of reasonableness and practicality—but it had begun with a knife, and so it had to end with a knife.
    John dialed the first M. Levy quickly, before he could think about it. One ring, two. He knew what he would say. If it was the right one she would not hang up.
    Four rings, five. Suddenly John realized that it was the middle of a workday. Even if she hadn’t gone back to work yet she might not be there. He would probably have to talk to a machine.
    â€œHello, we can’t come to the phone right now. Please leave your name, number, and the time that you called after the beep.” John hung up without saying anything and was immediately sorry for leaving silence on a woman’s phone. “Whenever I hear a click and a silence,” Cheryl had told him once, “I know it’s probably a wrong number, but it could also be somebody calling to find out who lives here and whether I’m home.”
    John suddenly felt impossibly foolish. He would have to call back, to talk to dead air and never receive a reply. Why should they call him? Every M. Levy would be made afraid.
    He dialed the next M. Levy. Action was better than no action. Bank Street. A man’s voice, belligerent; a bulldog of a voice: “Hello?”
    â€œHello,” John said pleasantly, as though he were some sort of salesman. “My name is John Nassent. I’d like to speak to Ms. Madeleine Levy, if she’s at home.”
    â€œIf you’re the press you can go to hell.” John’s breath escaped in silent, jubilant thanks.
    â€œI’m not the press, I promise you. Please tell Ms. Levy that John Nassent wants to speak with her.” There was a pulsing silence on the line. Madeleine Levy would recognize the name of one of the women who had died. “Please,” John said again.
    â€œThe number was supposed to be changed yesterday,” the man said. “Fucking telephone com—excuse me. What do you want to speak to my daughter about?”
    â€œWhen she hears my name I think she’ll speak to me.” The man considered, was gone. John listened to the reassuring static of the open line. He waited a long time. By the time he heard the woman’s voice he was a long, sad way away.
    â€œMy father said your name was John Nassent.” No hello.
    â€œYes,” said John; he was chagrined by her anger.
    â€œOne of the girls who was killed was named Cheryl Nassent.”
    â€œShe was my sister.” A beat of quiet for that, a tribute.
    â€œHow do I know you’re not from some scummy rag, trying to trick me?”
    â€œYou tell me if that happens and I’ll kill the son of a bitch.”
    â€œHow do I know you’re not the Slasher, then? Calling up with a pretty good