Prey: Night Prey Part 25

She'd said something to him; a pulse of elation streaked through his soul. She must've. She was getting ready to throw him out, by G.o.d. Why else would he have stopped; Christ, he had her on the couch. He had her in hand, for Christ's sake. Then the guy picked up a gla.s.s and looked at her, said something, and she threw back her head and laughed.

No. That didn't look good.

Then she was on her feet, walking toward him. Slipped two fingers between the b.u.t.tons of his s.h.i.+rt, said something-Koop would have mortgaged his life for the ability to lip-read-then stood on tiptoe and kissed him again, quickly this time, and walked away, picked up a newspaper, and waved it at him, said something else.

They talked for another five minutes, both standing now, circling each other. Sara Jensen kept touching him. Her touch was like fire to Koop. When she touched the guy, Koop could feel it on his arm, in his chest.

Then the guy moved toward the door. He was leaving. Both still smiling.

At the door she stepped into him, her face up, and Koop rolled over again, refusing to watch, counting: one, two, three, four, five. Only got to fifteen, counting fast, before he turned back.

She was still in his arms, and he'd pressed her to the door. Jesus.

Gotta take him. Gotta take him now.

The impulse was like a hammer. He'd gut the c.o.c.ksucker right in the driveway. He was messing with Koop's woman. . . .

But Koop lingered, unwilling to leave until the guy was out the door. They finally broke apart, and Koop, in a half-crouch, waited for him to go. Jensen was holding his hand. Didn't want him to go. Tugged at him.

"c.o.c.ksucker . . ." he thought, and realized he'd spoken aloud. Said it again: "c.o.c.ksucker, cut your f.u.c.kin' heart out, man, cut your f.u.c.kin' . . ."

AND THE ROOF access door opened. A shaft of light, shocking, blinding, snapped across the roof and climbed the air-conditioner housing. Koop went flat, tense, ready to fight, ready to run.

Voices crossed each other, ten feet away. There was a sharp rattle and a bang as the door was pushed open, then closed of its own weight.

Cops.

"Gotta be quick." Not cops. A woman's voice.

Man's voice. "It's gonna be quick, I can promise that, you got me so hot I can't hold it."

Woman's voice: "What if Kari looks for the pad?"

"She won't, she's got no interest in camping . . . c'mon, let's go behind the air-conditioner thing. C'mon."

The woman giggled and Koop heard them rattling across the graveled roof, and the sound of a plastic mat being unrolled on the gravel. Koop looked sideways, past the duct toward Jensen's building. She was kissing the guy good-bye again, standing on her tiptoes in the open door, his hand below her waist, almost on her a.s.s.

Below him, eight feet away, the man was saying, "Let me get these, let me get these . . . Oh, Jesus, these look great. . . ."

And the woman: "Boy, what if Kari and Bob could see us now . . . Oh, G.o.d . . ."

Across the street, Jensen was pus.h.i.+ng the door shut. She leaned back against it, her head c.o.c.ked back, an odd, loose look on her face, not quite a smile.

The woman: "Don't rip it, don't rip it. . . ."

The man: "G.o.d, you're wet, you're a hot little b.i.t.c.h. . . ."

Koop, blind with fury, his heart pounding like a trip-hammer, lay quiet as a mouse, but getting angrier and angrier. He thought about jumping down, of taking the two of them.

He rejected the idea as quickly as it had come. A woman had already died at this building, and a man was in a coma. If another two died, the cops would know something was happening here. He'd never get back up.

Besides, all he had was his knife. He might not get them both-and he couldn't see the guy. If the guy was big, tough, it might take a while, make a lot of noise.

Koop bit his lip, listening to the lovemaking. The woman tended to screech, but the screeching sounded fake. The guy said, "Don't scratch," and she said, "I can't help myself," and Koop thought, Jesus. . . .

And Sara Jensen's lover was getting away. Better to let him go . . . G.o.dd.a.m.nit.

He turned his head back to Jensen's apartment. Jensen went into the bathroom and shut the door. He knew from watching her that when she did that, she'd be inside for a while. Koop eased himself over onto his back and looked up at the stars, listened to the couple on the roof below him. G.o.dd.a.m.nit.

Man's voice: "Let me do it this way, c'mon. . . ."

The woman: "G.o.d, if Bob knew what I was doing . . ."

19.

GREAVE HAD HIS feet up on his desk, talking on the phone, when Lucas arrived in the morning. Anderson drifted over and said, "A homicide guy in Madison interviewed somebody named Abby Weed. He says she confirmed that she met Joe Hillerod in a bookstore. She doesn't remember the date, but she remembered the discussion, and it was the right one. She said she spent the night with him, and she was unhappy about being questioned."

"d.a.m.nit," Lucas said. He said it without heat. Hillerod hadn't felt right, and he hadn't expected much. "Have you seen Meagan Connell?"

Anderson shook his head, but Greave, still on the phone, held up a finger, said a few more words, then covered the mouthpiece with his palm. "She called in, said she was sick. She'll be in later," he said. He went back to the phone.

Sick. Connell had been plummeting into depression when Lucas left her the night before. He hadn't wanted to leave-he'd suggested that she come home with him, spend the night in a guest room, but she'd said she was fine.

"I shouldn't have mentioned Beneteau asking about you," Lucas said.

She caught his arm. "Lucas, you did right. It's one of the nicer things that's happened to me in the last year." But her eyes had been ineffably sad, and he'd had to turn away.

GREAVE DROPPED THE receiver on the hook and sighed. "How far did you get on the s.e.x histories?" Lucas asked.

"Not very far." Greave looked away. "To tell you the truth, I hardly got started. I thought I might have something on my apartment."

"G.o.dd.a.m.nit, Bob, forget the f.u.c.kin' apartment," Lucas said, his voice harsh. "We need these histories-and we need as many people thinking about the case as we can get."

Greave stood up, shook himself like a dog. He was a little shorter than Lucas, his features a little finer. "Lucas, I can't. I try, but I just can't. It's like a nightmare. I swear to G.o.d, I was eating an ice cream cone last night and I started wondering if they poisoned her ice cream." Lucas just looked at him, and Greave shook his head after a minute and said, "They didn't, of course."

And they both said, simultaneously, "No toxicology."

JAN REED FOUND Lucas in his office. She had great eyes, he thought. Italian eyes. You could fall into them, no problem. He had a quick male mini-vision: Reed on the bed, pillow under her shoulders, head back, a half inch from o.r.g.a.s.m. She looks up at the final instant, eyes opening, her awareness of him the s.e.xiest thing in the universe . . .

"Nothing," he said, fl.u.s.tered. "Not a thing."

"But what about the people you grabbed in that raid over in Wisconsin?" There was a pinp.r.i.c.k of amus.e.m.e.nt in her eyes. She knew the effect she had on him.

And she knew about the raid. "An unrelated case, but a good story," Lucas lied. He babbled: "It's a group of people called the Seeds-there used to be a motorcycle gang called the Bad Seeds, from up in northwest Wisconsin, and they evolved into a criminal organization. Cops call it the Hayseed Mafia. Anyway, these are the guys who were hitting the suburban gun stores. We got a lot of the guns back."

"That is interesting," she said. She made a note in her notebook, then put the eraser end of her pencil against her teeth, pensively, erotically. He was starting to fixate on the idea of television anchorwomen and oral s.e.x, Lucas thought. "The gun issue's so hot . . . right now." She would pause every so often, leaving a gap in the conversation, almost as though she were inviting him to fill it in.

She paused now, and Lucas said, "Reed's an English name, right?"

"Yes. I'd be English on my father's side," she said. "Why?"

"I was thinking," Lucas said. "You've got great Italian eyes, you know?"

She smiled and caught her bottom lip with an upper tooth, and said, "Well, thank you. . . ."

When she left, Lucas went to the door with her. She moved along a little more slowly than he did, and he found himself almost on top of her, ushering her out. She smelled fine, he thought. He watched her down the hall. She wouldn't be an athlete. She was soft, smooth. She turned at the corner to see if he was watching, and just at that moment, when she turned, and though they resembled each other not at all, she reminded him of Weather.

TH EREST OF the day was a wasteland of paper, old reports, and conjectures. Connell wandered in after two, even paler than usual, said she'd been working on the computers. Lucas told her about the interview with Abby Weed. Connell nodded: "I'd already written them off. Hitting the Hillerods was just our good deed for the day."

"How're you feeling?"

"Sick," she said. Then quickly: "Not from last night. From . . . the big thing. It's coming back."

"Jesus, Meagan. . . ."

"I knew it would," she said. "Listen, I'm going to talk to Anderson, and start helping Greave on those histories. I can't think of anything else."

She left, but came back ten seconds later. "We've got to get him, Lucas. This week or next."

"I don't know. . . ."

"That's all the time I've got this round . . . and the next round will be even shorter."

LUCAS GOT HOME early, found Weather on the couch reading The Robber Bride, her legs curled beneath her.

"A dead end?"

"Looks like it," Lucas said. "The woman in Madison confirmed Joe Hillerod's story. We're back to looking at paper."

"Too bad. He sounds like a major jerk."

"We've got him on the guns, anyway," Lucas said. "He handled most of the rifles, and their ID guys got good prints. And they found bolt cutters and a crowbar in his truck, and the tool-marks guy matched them to the marks on a gunshop door out in Wayzata."

"So what's left? On the murder case?"

"G.o.d, I don't know. But I feel like things are moving."

Lucas spent the late evening in the study, going through Anderson's book on the case-all the paper that anybody had brought in, with the histories that Greave had completed. Weather came to the door in her cotton nightgown and said, "Be extra quiet when you come to bed. I've got a heavy one tomorrow."

"Yeah." He looked up from the paper, his hair in disarray, discouraged. "Christ, you know, there's so much stuff in here, and so much of it's bulls.h.i.+t. The stuff in this file, you could spend four years investigating and never learn a f.u.c.kin' thing."

She smiled and came over and patted his hair back into place, and he wrapped an arm around her back and pulled her close, so he could lean his head between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. There was something animal about this: it felt so good, and so natural. Like momma. "You'll get him," she said.

AN HOUR LATER, he was puzzling over Anderson's note on the deaf people. Everything sounded right: a guy with a beard, going to the bookstore, in a truck. How in the h.e.l.l did they screw up the license so bad? He glanced at his watch: one o'clock, too late to call anybody at St. Paul. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Maybe something would bubble to the surface of his mind. . . .

20.

KOOP BROUGHT A sack of Taco Bell soft tacos to the rooftop, tossed the sack on top of the air-conditioner housing, and pulled himself up after it. There was still enough light that Sara Jensen might see him if she looked out her window, so he duckwalked across the housing until he was behind the exhaust vent.

Putting the tacos aside, he shook the Kowa scope out of its canvas case and surveyed the apartment. Where was the blond guy? Had he come back? His heart was chilly with the fear. . . .

The drapes from both rooms were open, as usual. Sara Jensen was nowhere in sight. The bathroom door was closed.

Satisfied for the moment, Koop settled in behind the vent, opening the tacos, gulping them down. He dripped sour cream on his jacket: s.h.i.+t. He brushed the sour cream with a napkin, but there would be a grease stain. He tossed the napkin off the edge off the housing, then thought, I shouldn't do that, and made a mental note to pick it up before he left.

Ten minutes after he arrived, Sara Jensen walked-hurried-out of the bathroom. She was nude, and the thrill of her body ran through him like an electric current, like a hit of speed. He put the scope on her as she sat at her dressing table and began to work on her makeup. He enjoyed seeing this, the careful work under the eyes, the touch-up of the lashes, the sensuous painting of her full lips. He dreamed about her lips. . . .

And he loved to watch her naked back. She had smoothly molded shoulders, the ripple of her spine from the top of her round a.s.s straight to the nape of her neck. Her skin was fine, clear-one small dark mole on her left shoulder blade, the long, pale neck . . .

She stood, turned toward him, face intent, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s bobbing, the gorgeous pubic patch . . . She dug through her dresser, looking at what? Underwear? She pulled on a pair of underpants, took them off, threw them back, pulled on a much briefer pair, looked at herself in the mirror. Looked again, backed away, pulled the bottom elastic of her pants away from her thighs, let it snap back, turned to look at her b.u.t.t.

And Koop began to worry.

She found a bra to go with the pants, an underwired bra, perhaps: it seemed to push her up. She didn't really need it, he thought, but it did look good. She turned again, looking at her self, snapped the elastic on her pants leg again.

Posed.

She was pleased with herself.

"What are you doing, Sara?" Koop asked. He tracked her with the scope. "What the f.u.c.k are you doing?"

She disappeared into a closet and came back out with a simple dark dress, either very dark blue or black. She held it to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, looked into the mirror, shook her head at herself, and went back into the closet. She came back out with blue jeans and a white blouse, held them up, put them on, tucked in the s.h.i.+rt. Looked at herself, made a face in the mirror, shook her head, went back into the closet, emerged with the dress. She took off the jeans, stripping for him again, exciting him. She picked up the dress, pulled it over her head, smoothed it down.

"Are you going out, Sara?"

She looked in the mirror again, one hand on her a.s.s, then took the dress off, tossed it on the bed, and looked thoughtfully at her chest of drawers. Walked to the chest, opened the bottom drawer, and took out a pale-blue cotton sweat suit. She pulled it on, pushed up the sleeves on the sweats.h.i.+rt, went back to the mirror. Pulled off the sweats.h.i.+rt, took off the bra, pulled the sweats.h.i.+rt back on.

Koop frowned. Sweat suit?

The dress had been simple but elegant. The jeans casual but pa.s.sable at most places in the Cities. But the sweat suit? Maybe she'd just been trying on stuff. But if so, why all the time in the bathroom? Why the sense of urgency?

Koop turned away, dropped behind the duct, lit a Camel, then rolled onto his knees and looked back through her window. She was standing in front of her mirror, flipping her hair with her hands. Brus.h.i.+ng it back: breaking down its daytime structure.

Huh.

She stopped suddenly, then ducked back at the mirror, gave her hair a last flip, then hurried-skipped once-going out of the bedroom, into the front room, to the door. Said something, a smile on her face, then opened the door.