Buried Prey

him.
    Might just want to stick a gun in his mouth . . . some other time.
    Some other time, because right now he was in an ugly mood, and the mood was feeding on itself, and he had that gun, and he had the address of the only woman who could identify him for sure.
    He went around the block and this time, there were lights on in the window, and he saw a shadow cross a drape. They were home.
    All right, he thought; time for tactics.
    He did a few more laps, took a long look at the neighbors. The Barkers’ street was quiet enough, but there were lights in almost every house. On the street behind the Barkers’, though, two dark houses sat side by side. If he parked on that street, he could cut between the two houses, walk down the side of the Barkers’ place, and around to the front door.
    Ring the bell, kill the bitch, and wheel. If her husband answered, knock him down with a couple of shots, go in after the woman, put her down, and go out the back.
    He pulled into a parking lot and parked, getting his guts up; sat and thought and then reached out to the glove box, opened it, and lifted out the fake black beard. Wouldn’t fool anyone from two feet, but it’d be good enough from eight or ten or fifty. It had little pull-off tabs that uncovered sticky tape. He pulled them off, threw them on the floor of the car, and stuck the beard on his face using the rearview mirror to get the position right. When he was satisfied, he pressed the tapes hard, ten seconds each, then smacked his lips to make sure it was on tight.
    Ready to go.
    Careful not to leave any DNA, not to touch anything. Let the bullets do the talking.
    Speaking of which . . .
    He checked around again to make sure he wasn’t being observed, took the shells out of the pistol’s magazine, and polished each one with a Kleenex, taking care not to touch them again as he pushed them back into the magazine, one by one.
    Thirteen rounds.
    Barker’s unlucky number.
     
     
    BUSTER HILL SAID, as they crossed the street, after parking, “When you see her on TV, you gotta think she’s having a good time. I mean, she’s been doing this for what, almost twenty years?”
    “She likes it,” Marcy agreed. “If you’re a victim, at least you’re something. You’re not just another nonentity.”
    “Got some drama in your life,” Hill said.
    “Exactly,” Marcy said. They got to the door and Marcy rang, and Kelly Barker answered, a puppy-like eagerness on her face.
    “Officer Sherrill? Come on in—you have to excuse the house, we’ve been running around like mad dogs since this started.”
    Her husband was smiling in the background, as eager as his wife. Marcy could smell coffee and coffee cake, and smiled, and led Buster inside.
    She could use some coffee cake.
     
     
    THE KILLER COULDN’T BELIEVE that he was going to do it, but he was. He just . . . did it. He parked on the street behind the Barkers’ house, got out, looked up and down the street—lots of lights, no people, all inside eating dinner, or watching TV, though it was a beautiful evening.
    Started walking. When he got around the block, there was a new car parked on the street across from the Barkers’ but nobody in sight. That was the last moment that he might have turned around.
    Instead, he put his hand on the Glock, in his jacket pocket, made sure the safety was off, and walked quickly across the yard and down between the two dark houses, pushed through a sickly hedge, and continued through the Barkers’ backyard, down the side of their house, and around to the front.
    Looked up and down the street, saw nobody watching, rang the doorbell. Heard the faint cadences of people talking, and footfalls on the floor inside. The knob turned, and he was looking at a thirty-something guy, a guy with an eager white face over a JCPenney suit. . . .
    The killer shot the guy three times, bap-bap-bap , and he went down, and the killer took a step forward, following the muzzle of his gun, saw three people frozen on the living room couch and then a dark-haired woman was moving and a big fat guy, and they seemed to have guns and the killer ripped out ten shots without stopping, just pointed the gun and let it rip, fast as he could move his finger, and saw people falling and then something tore at his side and he was running . . .
    Didn’t think, didn’t hear, didn’t do anything but run.
     
     
    MARCY HAD A SWEET ROLL in one hand—tasted good, she hadn’t had anything to eat since lunch—when the