Prey: Night Prey Part 26

G.o.dd.a.m.n it.

The blond guy was there. He had a chin on him, a b.u.t.t-chin, with a dimple in it. He was wearing jeans and a canvas shirt, looking as tousled as she did. She stepped back from him, pulled a piece of her sweat suit out from her leg, almost as if she were about to curtsy.

b.u.t.t-chin laughed and stepped inside and leaned forward as if he were about to peck her on the cheek, and then the peck ignited and they stood there in each other's arms, the hallway door still open behind them. Koop rose to a half-stoop, looking across the fifty feet of air at his true love in another man's arms. He groaned aloud and hurled his cigarette toward them, at the window. They never saw it. They were too busy.

"Motherf.u.c.kers. . . ."

They didn't go out. Koop watched in pain as they moved to the couch. He realized, suddenly, why she had rejected the jeans and vacillated between the dress and the sweat suit: access.

A guy can't get his hands in a tight pair of jeans, boyo. Not without a lot of preliminaries. With a sweat suit, there were no barriers. No problems getting your hands in. And that's where Blondy's were-in Sara's loose sweatpants, under her loose sweatshirt, Sara writhing beneath his touch-before they went to the bedroom.

BLONDY STAYED THE night.

So did Koop, huddled behind the vent on the air-conditioner housing, fading from consciousness to unconsciousness-not exactly sleep, but something else, something like a coma. Toward dawn, with just the light jacket, he got very cold. When he moved, he hurt. About four-thirty, the stars began to fade. The sun rose into a flawless blue sky and shone down on Koop, whose heart had turned to stone.

He felt it: a rock in his chest. And no mercy at all.

HE HAD TO wait more than an hour in the light before there was any movement in Sara Jensen's apartment. She woke first, rolled over, said something to the lump on the other side. Then he said something-Koop thought he did, anyway-and she moved up behind him, both of them on their sides, talking.

Two or three minutes later, Blondy got up, yawning, stretching. He sat naked on the bed, his back to Koop, then suddenly s.n.a.t.c.hed the blankets down. Sara was there, as naked as he was, and he flopped on top of her, his head between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Koop turned away, squeezed his eyes shut. He just couldn't watch.

And he just couldn't not watch. He turned back. Blondy was nibbling on one of Sara Jensen's nipples, and Sara, back arched, her hands in his hair, was enjoying every second of it. The stone in Koop's heart began to fragment, to be replaced by a cold, unquenchable anger. The f.u.c.king wh.o.r.e was taking on another man. The f.u.c.king wh.o.r.e . . .

But he loved her anyway.

He couldn't help himself.

And couldn't help watching when she pushed him flat on the bed, and trailed her tongue from his chest down across his navel. . . .

THE BLOND GUY finally left at seven o'clock.

Koop had stopped thinking long before that. For an hour, he'd simply been waiting, his knife in his hand. He occasionally ran it down his face, over his beard, as if he were shaving. He was actually getting in tune with it, the steel in the blade. . . .

When the door closed behind Blondy, Koop barely gave Sara Jensen a thought. There'd be time for her later. She turned away, hurrying back to the bedroom to get ready for work.

Koop, wearing his gla.s.ses and snap-brimmed hat, flew off the air-conditioner housing. He had just enough control to check the apartment hallway before bursting into it from the roof access; a man stood in it, facing the elevator. Koop cursed, but the man suddenly stepped forward and was gone. Koop ran the length of the hall and took the stairs.

Took the stairs as though he were falling, a long circular dash, with no awareness of steps or landings, just a continuous drop, his legs flashing, shoes slapping like a machine gun on the concrete.

At the bottom, he checked the lobby through the window in the stairway door. Three or four people, and the elevator bell dinged: more coming. Frustrated, he looked around, then went down another flight, into the bas.e.m.e.nt. And found a fire exit, leading out through the back. Just before he hit the back door, he saw a sign and read the first words, DO NOT, and then he was through. Somewhere behind him, an alarm went off, a shrill ringing like King Kong's telephone.

Were there pictures? The possibility flashed through his brain and then disappeared. He'd worry about that later. That he hadn't been seen in the building-that was important. That he catch Blondy in the street-that was even more important.

Koop ran down the alley at the back of the building, around the building. There were a dozen people up and down the street, in business clothes, some coming toward him, some walking away, briefcases, purses. A cane.

He groped in his pocket, wrapping his fist around the knife again. Checked faces, checked again. Blondy was not among them. Where in the h.e.l.l . . . ?> Koop pulled the hat farther down on his head, looked both ways, then started walking toward the entrance of Sara Jensen's apartment. Had he already gotten down? Or was he slow getting down? Or maybe she'd given him a parking card and he'd left his car in her ramp. He swerved toward the ramp exit, although if the guy was in a Mercedes or a Lexus what was he gonna do, stab it? He thought he might.

A car came out of the ramp, with a woman driver. Koop looked back at the door-and saw him.

Blondy had just come out. His hair was wet, his face soft, sated. His necktie, a conservative swath of silk, was looped untied around his shirt collar. He carried a raincoat.

Koop charged him. Started way back at the entrance to the parking ramp and hurtled down the sidewalk. He wasn't thinking, wasn't hearing, wasn't anything: wasn't aware of anyone other than Blondy.

Wasn't aware of the noise that came out of his mouth, not quite a scream, more of a screech, the sound of bad brakes . . .

Wasn't aware of other people turning . . .

Blondy saw him coming.

The soft look fell off his face, to be replaced by a puzzled frown, then alarm as Koop closed.

Koop screamed, "Motherf.u.c.ker," and went in, the blade flicking out of his fist, his long arm arcing in a powerful, upward rip. But quicker than Koop could believe, Blondy stepped right, swung his arm and raincoat, caught Koop in the wrist, and Koop's hand went past Blondy's left side. They collided and they both staggered: the guy was heavier than he looked, and in better shape. Koop's mind began working again, touched by a sudden spark of fear. Here he was, on the street, circling a guy he didn't know. . . .

Koop screamed again, and went in. He could hear the guy screaming, "Wait. Wait.", but it sounded distant, as though it came from the opposite sh.o.r.e of a lake. The knife seemed to work on its own, and this time he caught the blond, caught his hand, and blood spattered across Koop's face. He went in again, and then staggered: he'd been hit. He was astonished. The man had hit him.

He went in again, and Blondy kept backing, swinging. Koop was ready this time, blocked him.

And got him.

Really got him.

Felt the knife point go in, felt it coming up . . .

Then he was. .h.i.t again, this time on the back of the head. He spun, and another man was there, and a third one coming, swinging a briefcase like a club. Koop felt Blondy go down behind him, with a long ripping groan; almost tripped over his body, avoiding the briefcase, swung the blade at the new attacker, missed, slashed at the second one, the one who'd hit him in the head, missed again.

His attackers both had dark hair. One had gla.s.ses, both had bared teeth, and that was all he saw: hair, gla.s.ses, teeth. And the briefcase.

Blondy was down and Koop stumbled and looked down at him, saw the scarlet blood on his shirt and a fourth man yelled at him, and Koop ran.

He could hear them screaming, "Stop him, stop him . . ." He ran sideways across the street, between parked cars. A woman on the sidewalk jumped out of the way. Her face was white, frightened; she had a red necktie and matching hat and large horsy teeth, and then he was past her.

One of the men chased him for two hundred feet, alone. Koop suddenly stopped and started back at him, and the man turned and started to run away. Koop ran back toward the park, into it, down the gra.s.sy tree-shaded walks.

Ran, blood gushing from his nose, the knife folding in his hand, as if by magic, disappearing into his pocket. He wiped his face, pulled off the hat and gla.s.ses, slowed to a walk.

And was gone.

21.

THE CURB OUTSIDE City Hall was lined with TV vans. Something had happened.

Lucas dumped the Porsche in a ramp and hurried back. A Star-Tribune reporter, a young guy with a buzz cut, carrying a notebook, was coming up from the opposite direction. He nodded at Lucas and held the door. "Anything happening with your case?" he asked.

"Nothing serious," Lucas said. "What's going on?"

"You haven't heard?" Buzz Cut did a mock double take.

"I'm just coming in," Lucas said.

"You remember that couple that was jumped up by the lakes, the woman was killed?"

"Yeah?"

"Somebody else got hit, right across the street. Four hours ago. Thirty feet away from the first scene," Buzz Cut said. "I ain't bulls.h.i.tting you, Lucas: I been out there. Thirty feet. This guy came out of nowhere like a maniac, broad daylight. Big f.u.c.king switchblade. He sounded like somebody from a horror movie, had a hat over his face, he was screaming. But it wasn't any gang. It was white-on-white. The guy who got stabbed is a lawyer."

"Dead?" Lucas asked. He'd relaxed a notch: not his case.

"Not yet. He's cut to s.h.i.t. Got a knife in the guts. He's still in the operating room. He spent the night with his girlfriend, and the next morning, he walks out the door and this a.s.shole jumps him."

"Has she got a husband or ex-husband?"

"I don't know," the reporter said.

"If I were you, I'd ask," Lucas said.

The reporter held up his notebook, which was turned over to a page with a list of indecipherable scrawls. "First question on the list," he said. Then he said, "Whoa."

Jan Reed was lounging in the hall, apparently waiting for the press conference to start. She saw Lucas and lifted her chin and smiled and started toward them, and the reporter, without moving his lips, said, "You dog."

"Not me," Lucas muttered.

"Lucas," she said, walking up. Big eyes. Pools. She touched him on the back of his hand and said, "Are you in on this?"

Lucas despised himself for it, but he could feel the pleasure of her company unwinding in his chest. "Hi. No, but it sounds like a good one." He bounced on his toes, like a basketball player about to be sent into a game.

She looked back toward the briefing room. "Pretty spectacular right now. It could wind up as a domestic."

"It's right across the street from that other one."

She nodded. "That's the angle. That's what makes it good. Besides which, the people are white."

"Is that a requirement now?" Buzz Cut asked.

"Of course not," she said, laughing. Then her voice dropped to the confidential level, including him in the conspiracy. "But you know how it goes."

The reporter's scalp flushed pink and he said, "I better get inside."

"What's wrong with him?" she asked, watching him go. Lucas shrugged, and she said, "So, do you have time for a cup of coffee? After the press conference?"

"Uhhmm," Lucas said, peering down at her. She definitely wound his clock. "Why don't you stop by my office," he said.

"Okay . . . but, your tie, your collar's messed up. Here . . ."

She fixed his collar and tie, and though he was fairly certain that there'd been nothing wrong with them, he liked it, and carried her touch down the hall.

CONNELL WAS THE perfect contrast to Jan Reed: a big solid blonde who carried a gun the size of a toaster and considered lipstick a manifestation of Original Sin. She was waiting for him, dark circles under her eyes.

"How're you feeling?"

"Better. Still a little morning sickness," she said dismissively, brushing the illness away. "Did you read the histories?"

"Yeah. Not much."

She looked angry: not at Lucas or Greave, but maybe at herself, or the world. "We're not gonna get him this time, are we? He's gonna have to kill somebody else before we get him."

"Unless we get a big f.u.c.kin' break," Lucas said. "And I don't see a break coming."

JAN REED CAME by Lucas's office after the press conference, and they ambled through the Skyways to a restaurant in the Pillsbury Building. Since she was new to Minnesota, they chatted about the weather, about the lakes, about the Guthrie Theater, and about the other places she'd worked: Detroit, Miami, Cleveland. They found a table not too close to anyone else, Reed with her back to the door-"I get pestered sometimes"-and ordered coffee and croissants.

"How was the press conference?" Lucas asked, peeling open one of the croissants.

Reed opened her notebook and looked at it. "Maybe not domestic," she said. "The guy's name is Evan Hart. His girlfriend's been divorced for seven years. Her ex lives out on the West Coast and he was there this morning. Besides, she says he's a nice guy. That they broke up because he was too mellow. No alimony or anything. No kids. Sort of a hippie mistake. And she hasn't gone out with anybody else, seriously, for a couple of years."

"How about this Hart?" Lucas asked. "Has he got an ex? Is he bis.e.xual? What does he do?"

"He's a widower," Reed said. She put the yellow pencil in her mouth and turned pages. A little clump of hair fell over her eyes and she brushed it back; Weather did that. "His wife was killed in a traffic accident. He's a lawyer for a stockbrokerage company, he has something to do with munic.i.p.al bonds. He doesn't sell anything, so it's not that. He didn't ruin anybody."

"Doesn't sound like a fruitcake, though," Lucas said. "It sounds like the guy was mad about something."

"That's what it sounds like," she said. "But Jensen's really freaked out. That other attack happened right down below her apartment window."

"That's what I heard. Jensen's his girlfriend? She was actually there at the press conference?"

"Yeah. She was. Sara Jensen. Sharp. Good-looking, runs her own mutual fund, probably makes two hundred thousand a year," Reed said. "Dresses like it. She has just gorgeous clothes-she must go to New York. She was really angry. She wants the guy caught. Actually, it sounded like she wants the guy killed, like she was there to ask the cops to find him and kill him."

"Very strange," Lucas said. "The guys in homicide are having a hard time right now. . . ."

The conversation rambled along, through new subjects, Lucas enjoying it, laughing. Reed was nice-looking, amusing, and had spent a little time on the streets. They had that in common. Then she said something about gangs. Gangs was a code word for blacks, and as she talked, the code word pecked away at the back of Lucas's mind. Reed, he thought after a bit, might have a fine a.s.s and great eyes, but she was also a bit of a racist. Racism was becoming fashionable in the smart set, if done in a suitably subtle way. Was it immoral to jump a racist? How about if she didn't have a good time, but you did?

He was smiling and nodding and Reed was rambling on about something s.e.xual but safe, the rumored affair between an anchorman and a cameraman, carried out in what she said was a TV van with bad springs.

". . . So there they were on Summit Avenue outside the governor's mansion, and everybody's going in for the ball and this giant van with TV3 on the side is practically jumping up and down, and her husband is out on the sidewalk, pacing back and forth, looking for her." Reed was playing with her b.u.t.ter knife as she talked, and she twirled it in her fingers, a cheerleader's baton twirl.

Like Junky Doog, Lucas thought. What had Junky said when Greave had asked him why a man might start cutting on women? 'Cause a woman turns you on, that's why. Maybe you see a woman and she turns you on. Gets you by the p.e.c.k.e.r . . .

The Society of Jesus, SJ.

Or . . .

Lucas said, suddenly, sitting up, "What was the guy's wound like?"

"What?" She'd been in midsentence.