Dying For a Cigarette, Part 4

    Notice: This story has been rated "NC17" for adult language, nudity,
strong sexual content, graphic violence, and explicit smoking. If you're not
sure you want to read it, think again. It's a corker.

    Copyright 1996 by G. M. Sullivan. All rights reserved. This story may be
copied and distributed for the unrecompensed amusement of others only.


    "Dying For a Cigarette" Part 4 of 4


    Part Four: Predator and Prey


    18. 24 December, West 47th Street, 5:45 PM

    Natalie had found one residential listing for a "Bradley J. Stephanson" in
the Nynex Manhattan Directory. The address was 1535 West 47th Street. The cab
dropped Natalie a block from the building as night fell.

    The neighborhood was known as "Hell's Kitchen" due to the rough-and-tumble
reputation of its residents. Once largely Italian and Irish, it was now
primarily African-American and Hispanic. It was a strange place for a
successful businessman of any ethnicity to be living.

    Natalie was not afraid. She wore a scarf over her hair, flat shoes, and a
new London Fog trench-coat, with the .25 tucked in a pocket. She also carried
a small purchase made earlier at a stationary store, and her gun license.

    Michael Kelly had insisted that both his girls receive firearms training.
"Live in New York," he always said, "but don't live in fear." Thanks to her
father's connections, Natalie and Marcia had both received NY Handgun Permits
(Concealed), but Natalie had never actually purchased a weapon. Too afraid, of
course. She had been sure she could never shoot anyone, even at the cost of
her own life. That surety was gone along with her fear.

    She walked slowly down the street. The buildings were primarily Federal
Brownstones and Regency Townhouses, once luxury dwellings, now part of a
dilapidated slum. It was a shame, she thought, to let these fine homes fall to
pieces this way. It was so unlike the similar buildings she had seen in
Marcia's neighborhood.

    Natalie saw a familiar car parked on the street. It was Stephanson's
powder-blue Infiniti, a vehicle he loved to speak about to anyone who would
listen, or would not. It was covered in plastic, Club and other anti-theft
devices in place. It's vanity plates read: "NO SMOK."

    Natalie came to number 1535, a townhouse which had been subdivided into
flats. There were three doorbells, each labeled with a different name. One was
"Stephanson." Natalie didn't ring it.

    A shadow-filled alley opened to one side of the townhouse. Perfect.
Natalie entered it after making sure she was not watched. There were quite a
few police about for a holiday evening. She found a concealed spot where she
still had a partial view of the street and the front of the townhouse, and
waited.

    Natalie had given the cab-driver a generous amount of Marcia's money to
circle the block and wait for her signal. She would need to move quickly when
and if the time came. Although she knew it was poor "sentry" procedure, she
was too excited to resist lighting a cigarette.

    Natalie saw her cab pass the alley once. Twice. Three times. Despite her
close attention, she nearly missed what she had been waiting for.

    A tall, black, male wearing a navy jacket, forest green turtle-necked
sweater, and black trousers, exited the townhouse and walked away from the
alley. She only recognized him at last by his walk. He had an arrogant swagger
she had seen in only one other person. It was him, and in disguise, no less!
She was thrilled.

    She leaned out of the alley a little to keep him in sight. To her surprise
and dismay, he passed the Infiniti and entered a battered old Chevy parked in
an adjoining space. She had a moment of doubt, then rejected it. It was him.
Didn't it say in the paper the killer had worn dark greasepaint at least once?
It had to be him!

    As the Chevy pulled away Natalie emerged from he alley, looking for her
cab. Happily, it was just coming up the street. She managed to flag it quietly
and climbed in.

    "Follow that car!" she told the driver. This was just like a movie! "Fifty
bucks if we don't lose him!"

    The cabby was only too pleased to comply.


    19. 24 December, Henry Hudson Parkway, 6:00 PM

    Flinn was driving north, returning to his apartment. He had a feeling
about tonight. The ASK-man would not stay home for the holiday, and this time
he would not melt away into the shadows so easily. Flinn wanted his smaller
gun and ankle holster. He believed in taking every edge he could get.

    His regular gun was still the old-fashioned .38 caliber service revolver
he had been issued as a rookie. It wasn't as sexy as the 9mm autos favored by
the department's young turks, but Flinn knew if he hit a man with the .38,
that man was going down.

    His last partner had carried a small 9mm. She had hit the perp twice
before he killed her.

    Traffic was gradually diminishing on the Henry Hudson. The stores had
closed, the commuters had left early, and people were starting to settle in
for the long weekend. Unless, of course, they worked for the NYPD. Everyone
was on duty tonight, cruising, waiting, watching, hoping for some sign of the
ASK-man.

    In a way the killer had made the job easier, Flinn thought with disgust.
The three dailies were having a field day with this story. One headline had
read: "100,000 Women Quit Smoking for Fear of a Killer." Another: "Kicking the
Habit Could Save Your Life...if You Do it Quickly Enough!" Places where women
could be seen smoking now were few and far between in Manhattan. Seedy bars.
Prostitutes' street corners. Dope addicts' alleys. Places where women just
didn't give a fuck. The police were concentrating on these areas, but there
was hardly a block in the city uncovered tonight.

    In the Times, a noted anti-smoking activist had been quoted. "We all hope
these senseless killings end soon," he had said, "but I also hope that anyone
who has quit smoking during these last few days will have the good sense to
stay quit when the shooting stops."

    Innocent women were being gunned down, Flinn thought, and still some
assholes just couldn't resist using the victims' pain to advance a pet cause.
He could imagine the conversations going on today in some secluded,
non-smoke-filled rooms. "Why the hell didn't WE think of this?" That is, if
they hadn't. But that way lay madness.

    On the seat beside him lay a sheet of thermal fax paper. It was the check
he had requested on Stephanson. He certainly didn't fit any usual serial
killer mold. He was successful and well-connected, both politically and
socially. He had even had a psych profile done for a previous state job. No
red flags. No priors. Serial killers never had this much in the way of a day
job, or such a full social calendar.

    Thinking of Stephanson made him think of Natalie. He lit a Marlboro. She
hadn't called and he hadn't had a chance to call her. Flinn was sure she'd be
long gone from his flat, but he was exited even at the remote possibility of
seeing her again. He could use the cel-phone to check, but he was enjoying the
sweet suspense. This was one ball he'd try to keep in the air.


    20. 24 December, Eighth Avenue, 6:10 PM

    The killer was driving uptown as well. Even before this, his last planned
outing, he had succeeded beyond hope. No one he could see smoked on the
street. Few, he was sure, dared even to smoke at home now. He had proved that
no one was safe. People being quoted in the press were, if not openly in
support of him, at least supporting his ultimate goal.

    His very success had made planning this last outing a challenge. He could
see the police were out in force everywhere. No one was smoking in an
accessible place. However, he had planned well and long. His last visit, for a
brief while at least, would be to what he had dubbed the "After-Dinner
Cigarette Club." He doubted his activities would have deterred their nightly
meetings, which had been proceeding for months regardless of any factor save
weather. They would certainly hold a meeting on this mild, cloudless, winter's
night, and in a place where no police would be watching. He intended to
deliver the keynote address, personally.


    21. 24 December, Central Park West, 6:26 PM

    From her taxi, Natalie saw the battered Chevy pull into a parking space on
the park side of the street. She told the cabby to pass it as slowly as would
be discrete so she could watch.

    She saw the "black" man emerge and quickly use a pedestrian entrance into
the park. Natalie paid the cabby and followed.

    Many out-of towners have heard that Central Park is the number one "no-no"
place for wandering after dark. It just isn't so. The park is a popular spot
day and night for New Yorkers. As long as one stays in lighted areas or where
other people are gathered, there is no serious risk.

    Natalie's quarry took no such precautions. She almost missed it when he
ducked off the asphalt path and entered a wooded area. Puffing slightly,
Natalie managed to squeeze after him.

    Stephanson, if that's who it actually was, was no woodsman. He made a fair
amount of noise sneaking through the brush, and Natalie followed easily even
in darkness. She struggled to move only when he did, making less noise if
possible.

    Her quarry did not seem to be expecting a tail, and never paused for long.
Soon she caught sight of him once more, crouching beside a bush, peering into
a small clearing just ahead. Moving with great care and patience, Natalie
maneuvered to a position where she could see into the clearing also but not,
she hoped, be seen by him. Only five feet separated them.


    22. 24 December, East 147th Street, 6:43 PM

    Flinn got a surprise when he reached his apartment, but not the one he was
hoping for. His .25 Baretta was missing.

    At first, he assumed he had simply mislaid it. Then, he checked the flat
carefully for signs of a break-in. Finally, he had to accept the obvious
explanation. Natalie had taken the gun. He cursed himself for his
carelessness.

    Why, he asked himself, would she want his gun? That answer was obvious,
too. To use on her boss, Stephanson. She hated the man. She might be at his
home right now, putting a cap in him because of a personal grudge which she
had escalated into a wild fantasy. Using a police officer's weapon.
Departmental charges, at least, to follow.

    Or she just might be in danger herself. Either way, his next stop was West
47th, a hundred blocks away. Stephanson's address was on the fax. With a
little luck, running on the siren, he could be there in ten minutes.


    23. 24 December, Central Park, 6:45 PM

    The killer peered into the clearing from behind the concealing bush. Only
three of them were here tonight, but it was, after all, Christmas Eve. The
leader of this little smoking cadre was there, though, as he knew she would
be.

    Dorothy Risling was only 13 years old, yet her dedication to the smoking
habit would be the envy of any two-pack-per-day, twenty-year veteran. Or of
any Philip Morris executive for that matter. The killer knew of eight other
children, some much younger than she, whom Dorothy had personally condemned to
a lingering death. There were probably others, as well.

    Dorothy and her two companions, one older, one younger, were clearly
enjoying their nightly ritual. Exhales streamed in the dim light, and there
was much giggling and carrying-on. As usual, the carrot-topped Dorothy was
instructing the others on the proper techniques of suicide. The killer was
feeling his arousal once more, but that was his cross to bear. It was almost
finished.

    He would temper mercy with restraint. Only Dorothy would be taken. The
others, he was sure, would be instructed by her example. As so many others had
been and would be. So many..

    The killer lined up the shot. Even in the relative darkness, this one
would be easy. Dorothy was stationary, and less than 15 feet away.

    Natalie, still concealed in shadow, was feeling fear once more. She felt
it when the killer produced his pistol. She felt it more intensely as she
realized that he was actually going to shoot these children. Certain as she
had been that this was the ASK-man, seeing that gun come out was like jumping
into an icy bath.

    She had to do something, now! She fumbled for the trench-coat pocket but
couldn't reach into it while in her squatting position. Instead, she found a
broken tree-limb at her feet. In one motion she stood and whacked the killer
across the back with it.

    The Ruger coughed. The killer sprang up at the impact, flailing blindly.
The back-swing of his pistol clipped Natalie's head and she fell back into
shadows, dropping her club. There was screaming. The sound of running feet,
and whistles.

    The shot had been spoiled, the killer knew. He looked about frantically to
see who or what had struck him. A falling branch? Others would be here in
seconds. He couldn't afford any time to look around. He fled.

    Natalie stayed still for a moment, holding her breath. She had not been
hurt. She saw the killer look right at her, but the shadows had been deep
enough to confuse his frantic glance. Then he had crashed off into the woods,
caution forgotten.

    Natalie looked into the clearing. The redheaded child was crying and
clutching at a bloody left calf. It looked like she would live, though.
Amazingly, she still held her cigarette, taking a long puff to calm herself
down. Like my daughter might someday, thought Natalie.

    As she watched, several uniformed officers arrived, calling for more help,
beginning to give the girl first aid. The other two children were long gone.
The police had been quick, but not quick enough, Natalie thought. Except for
her, that child would be dead now. She was exultant.

    Even better, she realized, her 15 minutes of fame could begin right here,
right now. She could walk into that clearing and give those officers the
ASK-man's name, address, place of employment, and description. She would be a
heroine, an instant celebrity, in demand everywhere. Marcia would be envious.
She could sell her story for millions, and no one would think the less of her
for doing it.

    Natalie stayed in hiding. If she was going to tell any cop about
Stephanson it would be Flinn, not these anonymous men. Flinn would hate being
shown up.

    Anyway, she had already made a better plan. Quickly, before the inevitable
search could begin, she quietly slipped away through the woods.


    24. 24 December, West Side Highway, 6:50 PM

    Flinn, screaming south, was closing in on the 50th Street exit when the
call came through on the radio: "AC, AC, 433, 714, CP sugar 66 trans, wilco,
delta one acknowledge!" At the same time, his beeper went off.

    Shots fired, Flinn translated, civilian injuries, in Central Park. And his
call sign. It had to be related to the ASK-man. He curse fluently.

    If he ignored the call, it would likely mean his badge. If he took it,
Natalie might ruin her life or lose it. He had to decide quickly.

    He hoped Natalie was somewhere safe, with her family, sipping eggnog. It
couldn't be helped.

    "Delta one, on my way, out."


    25. 24 December, Central Park West 7:03 PM

    When Natalie made it back to the street, the Chevy was gone. Cabs were
getting scarce, and the street was crowded with police cars, lights flashing,
sirens blaring as they raced to the 66th Street Transverse a short way north.
It took a little walking and waiting before she was able to hail a taxi.

    When the cab dropper her off on Stephanson's block, Natalie noticed that
the police had deserted the neighborhood. Naturally, they all would be
converging on the park, talking to everyone in sight and conducting a
tree-by-tree search. They wouldn't find anything except a few trampled bushes.

    The Chevy was not visible anywhere on the street. Natalie climbed the
steps to the townhouse's porch and tried the door. Locked, of course. Holding
her breath, hand in pocket, she rang Stephanson's bell. She waited a timed
minute. Nothing. Another ring, another minute of waiting. No answer.

    She would assume that Stephanson had not yet returned. The porch was wide
and dark, its only bulb dead. She would not be conspicuous here, in the
shadows. She removed her scarf and fixed her hair. Natalie wanted to look her
best for him. She lighted a cigarette, enjoyed a soul-satisfying inhale, and
waited.


    26. 24 December, Ninth Avenue, 7:10 PM

    The killer had cruised up and down the west side, making sure none of the
racing police cars was focused on him.

    It had been an accident, he decided. A tree limb had fallen, spoiling his
aim. Perhaps a higher power wanted young Dorothy to live. No matter. The
attack would still have its effect, and he was still free. Other opportunities
would occur as the need arose. There was nothing to fear.

    The killer turned toward home.


    27. 24 December, Central Park, 7:15 PM

    Mendoza had arrived on the scene minutes before Flinn, and was waiting to
greet him.

    "We won't see the slug until they dig it out of the girl, and there are no
stickers around," He told Flinn. "But I'm sure it's our friend."

    "Is the kid okay, Pete?" asked Flinn. The victim was already off to the
hospital.

    "She'll be fine. The slug lodged in the fleshy part of her calf. No major
damage." Mendoza laughed. "You'd have liked her, Jake. She smoked half the
uniforms' cigarette supply before the medics arrived."

    "So why isn't she dead?"

    "Something went wrong, this time." Mendoza led Flinn to the bushes. "Look
at the flattened area here. That limb is right across the shooter's position."

    "It fell on him?"

    "I'm no forest ranger, but I doubt it. If you look up, you won't see any
other branches overhanging this spot. And I don't believe in divine
intervention. I'd say this branch had help getting where it is."

    "But who..."

    "You're asking me?" Mendoza interrupted. "You're the homicide dick. Let's
just say it was Santa Claus. It makes a nice holiday story." Mendoza cleared
his throat. "Anyway, we're about ready to wrap up here. Uniforms are sweeping
the park, but there are several exits to CP West just a few minutes away on
foot. I doubt they'll find him. It's just about paperwork time, and on
Christmas Eve. What a bitch!"

    "Pietro, I need a big favor." Flinn was sweating.

    "Sure Jake, name it."

    "Can you cover for me, just for an hour or two? I've...got an urgent
personal errand."

    "No problem. Lieutenants aren't expected to do park-sweeping duty. I'll
see you downtown."

    Flinn was gone before Mendoza had finished speaking.


    28. 24 December, West 47th Street, 7:25 PM

    From the porch of the townhouse, Natalie saw the Chevy appear beneath the
bright, sodium-vapor lights. It pulled into a vacant space near the Infiniti,
and the killer climbed out.

    Natalie's heart raced. The moment was here. She must be calm, unconcerned,
and enticing.

    The killer started up the steps to the porch, then stopped. Someone was
standing in the shadows. It looked like a woman, and one he didn't recognize
from the neighborhood. His hand went to the Ruger's butt in his jacket, and he
ascended the rest of the way slowly.

    Natalie stepped forward and was fully revealed in the light from the
street. An unlit cigarette dangled from her lips.

    "Good evening, big fella. Got a match?" Not waiting for an answer, she
slowly removed a lighter from the left coat pocket.

    The killer froze. His eyes locked on the woman's face, on the cigarette.
His treacherous member rose, betraying his excitement. He knew this woman. But
she had changed. She...

    Moving with deliberate slowness, Natalie clicked the lighter to life and
touched the flame to the cigarette's tip. Holding the killer's eyes with her
own, she began a long drag.

    The killer still had his hand on the Ruger, but her eyes and the slow
sensuous puff she was taking held him prisoner. He could not move. His penis
throbbed. My god, he thought, it was Nattie! Nattie from the office!

    Natalie could see now that the man was Stephanson, for sure. She was
relieved, but kept her gaze steady, calm, inviting. She removed the cigarette,
still holding his eyes with hers, not wanting to rush the moment. She opened
her mouth to show him the milky cloud within, then breathed it down into her
lungs.

    The killer's mind raged. This was a target, nothing more. His right hand
began to move, but reluctantly, as if hung with lead weights. He could not
take his eyes off her, but he didn't need to. He could...

    Finishing her inhale, Natalie leaned slightly forward and blew the smoke
into Stephanson's face. He ejaculated.

    The next three shots he heard were much louder and far more damaging. He
staggered back, a strange warmth spreading outward from his chest. His knees
gave way.

    The killer fell face-first at Natalie's feet, head bouncing off the
concrete floor. His right leg twitched briefly, then was still. His back was a
bloody mess.

    Natalie took another leisurely puff and removed the gun from her right
pocket. She regretted the damage to her new coat. It had cost Marcia $700 at
Bloomingdale's. She blew smoke across the gun-barrel's mouth, scattering
cordite fumes. Her transformation was complete.

    She removed her stationary-store purchase from the left pocket and touched
the killer's back gently, almost tenderly. A message for the masses. Would
this be the only time? Her anger, she found, was not gone but only reduced for
now. It still anchored her new self. She wondered. Probably. Possibly. Maybe.
Time would tell.

    A siren rose, tires screeched. Natalie saw Flinn's Camaro stop in front of
the townhouse. Flinn was out and by her side in seconds.

    "Natalie, are you..." Flinn saw the body. "Is it...?"

    Natalie spoke through her exhale in highest style. "Well, I don't think
it's jolly old Saint Nick."

    Flinn noticed something on the killer's back. A square, white sticker.
Printed with a green circle. Inside the circle, the image of a burning
cigarette.

    Flinn snatched it off. Other sirens were approaching now. Flinn took the
collar of Natalie's coat. She didn't resist or speak as he helped her remove
it. Flinn folded the bullet-pierced coat over his arm. She was holding the
cigarette in her mouth. And his gun in her hand.

    "Look, Natalie," he spoke anxiously. The sirens were closer now. "Let's
make this our little secret, okay? The killer threatened you, and I shot him.
Okay?" He was worried she would refuse. Seeing her too-calm eyes, he thought
she would want full credit for the kill. She had that look, now.

    Natalie smiled, blowing smoke. She handed Flinn his gun. "Merry
Christmas," she said.

    The End

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