Chosen Prey

1
    J AMES Q ATAR DROPPED his feet over the edge of the bed and rubbed the back of his neck, a momentary veil of depression falling upon him. He was sitting naked on the rumpled sheets, the smell of sex lingering like a rude perfume. He could hear Ellen Barstad in the kitchen. She’d turned on the radio she kept by the sink, and “Cinnamon Girl” bubbled through the small rooms. Dishes tinkled against cups, fingernail scratches through the melody of the song.
    “Cinnamon Girl” wasn’t right for this day, for this time, for what was about to happen. If he were to have music, he thought, maybe Shostakovich, a few measures from the Lyric Waltz in Jazz Suite Number 2. Something sweet, yet pensive, with a taste of tragedy; Qatar was an intellectual, and he knew his music.
    He stood up, wobbled into the bathroom, flushed the Trojan in the toilet, washed perfunctorily, and studied himself in the mirror above the sink. Great eyes, he thought, suitably deep-set for a man of intellect. A good nose, trim, not fleshy. His pointed chin made his face into an oval, a reflection of sensitivity. He was admiring the image when his eyes drifted to the side of his nose: a whole series of small dark hairs were emerging from the line where his nose met his cheek. He hated that.
    He found a set of tweezers in the medicine cabinet and carefully tweezed them away, then took a couple of hairs from the bridge of his nose, between his eyebrows. Checked his ears. His ears were okay. The tweezers were pretty good, he thought: you didn’t find tweezers like this every day. He’d take them with him—she wouldn’t miss them.
    Now. Where was he?
    Ah. Barstad. He had to stay focused. He went back to the bedroom, put the tweezers in a jacket pocket, dressed, put on his shoes, then returned to the bathroom to check his hair. Just a touch with the comb. When he was satisfied, he rolled out twenty feet of toilet paper and wiped everything he might have touched in the bedroom and bathroom. The police would be coming around sooner or later.
    He hummed as he worked, nothing intricate: Bach, maybe. When he’d finished cleaning up, he threw the toilet paper into the toilet, pressed the handle with his knuckles, and watched it flush.
     
    E LLEN B ARSTAD HEARD the toilet flush a second time and wondered what was keeping him. All this toilet flushing was less than romantic; she needed some romance. Romance, she thought, and a little decent sex. James Qatar had been a severe disappointment, as had been all of the few lovers in her life. All eager to get aboard and pound away; none much concerned with her, though they said they were.
    “That was really great, Ellen, you’re great—pass me that beer, will ya? Ya got great tits, did I tell you that . . . ?”
    Her love life to this point—three men, six years—had been a pale reflection of the ecstasies described in her books. So far, she felt more like a sausage-making machine than the lover in the Song of Solomon: Your breasts are like two fawns, like twin fawns of a gazelle that browse among the lilies. Until the day breaks and the shadows flee, I will go to the mountain of myrrh and to the hill of incense. All beautiful you are, my darling, there is no flaw in you.”
    Where was that? Huh? Where was it? That’s what she wanted. Somebody to climb her mountain of myrrh.
    James Qatar might not look like much, she thought, but there was a sensual quality in his eyes, and a hovering cruelty that she found intriguing. She’d never been pushy, had never pushed anything in her life. But as she stood with her hands in the dishwater, she decided to push this. If she didn’t, what was the point?
    Time was passing—with her youth.
    Barstad was a fabric artist who did some weaving, but mostly made quilts. She couldn’t make a living at it yet, but her quilting income was increasing month by month, and in another year or two she might be able to quit her day job.
    She lived illegally in a storefront in a Minneapolis warehouse district. The front of the space was an open bay, full of quilting frames and material bins. The back she’d built herself, with salvaged drywall and two-by-fours: She’d enclosed the toilet and divided the rest of the space into bedroom, sitting area, and kitchen. The kitchen amounted to a tabletop electric stove and a fifties refrigerator, with a bunch of old doors mounted on sawhorses as countertops. And it was all just fine for an artist in her twenties, with bigger things