Chosen Prey

observant, questioning, wondering where the speaker was going, ready with the surprise and denial.
    “And,” his mother concluded, “they have learned that he looked like this man.”
    “Yes?”
    “James. That is you, ten years ago. Even five. That is you,” she said.
    His chin dropped. Then he said, voice rising, “You think, you think . . . Mother, you think it’s me? My God, this man is a monster. You think it’s me?”
    Her head bobbed. “I’m afraid that’s what I think, James. I want you to convince me that it’s not true. But I remember all those poor cats, with their heads twisted.”
    “That was not me. That was Carl Stevenson, I told you then it was Carl.”
    She shook her head, “James . . .”
    “What can I tell you?” He was on his feet. “Mother, I did not do this.”
    “Convince me.”
    He shook his head. “This is crazy. This is completely crazy. Lord, I hope you haven’t told anybody about this. It’s my life, my career. I had nothing—nothing—to do with any of this, but just the accusation or even the suggestion would finish me. My God, Mother, how can you think this?”
    She looked at him, tears in her eyes now. “I want to believe that, but I don’t. I knew about the cats. I hid it even from myself, but I saw you one day, going out in the garage, and I found the cat later.”
    And suddenly she broke down and began to cry, a series of breath-catching moans—a sense of agony that brought tears to Qatar’s eyes, not because of his mother’s pain, but because of the injustice and the lack of understanding, that she should betray him by her lack of belief.
    “That was not me,” he insisted. “Mother, who have you talked to about this?”
    “Nobody,” she said, shaking her head. “I know the effect this could have on your life. I took care—but now I have something to pray over. My own flesh and blood.”
    “Ah, man . . . Mother, I don’t want to have to deal with this, but I have to say it: I think you are . . . afflicted. You’ve made this up. Created it. The man on the television is not me; I saw the drawings on television. You really think I could draw those things? C’mon, Mother.”
    But it wasn’t going to work. He could see it. “I need something to drink—water,” he said. “Don’t go away.”
    He walked past her, through the living room and into the kitchen, opened a cupboard, got a glass, let the water run for a moment as the calculations flew through his mind. With the glass overflowing, he turned the water off, drank a sip, exhaled, poured the rest of the water down the drain.
    Well, she knew. He had to act.
     
    S HE WAS STILL sitting in the rocker when he walked back into the room; the actor’s face was still frozen on the TV screen, watching them. Helen seemed in despair, but without a touch of fear.
    “The best thing to do—” she began.
    She didn’t finish. He caught her one-handed by the hair and pulled her straight forward onto the carpet. She yelped once and went facedown, and he dropped on top of her, pinning her with his weight. She grunted, desperately, “James,” and turned her head, her eyes rolling wildly, looking up at him, unbelieving, and he slipped one hand around her face and cupped her mouth in the palm of his hand and with his thumb and forefinger, pinched her nose. He took care: He didn’t pinch tightly enough to bruise, only to stop the flow of air. She struggled, she tried to get a breath—he could feel the suction against the palm of his hand—but it was all over quickly enough. He held her until he knew she was dead, then held her a minute longer.
     
    A LL RIGHT. THAT was done. They were four blocks from St. Pat’s. She walked most days, so moving her car would not be a problem. She was always the first one to work, so finding her there would not raise any eyebrows.
    He would have to change her, find something appropriate for work. He went to her bedroom, found a rack of business suits still in their plastic clean bags, found one that he knew she favored. The change itself was distasteful: She was like a withered bird, no muscle left, barely sexed. He hurried through it, but made sure that she was neat, just as she was in life.
    He turned off the porch light, stepped outside, waited for a moment in the dark, scanning the strip of visible street. This was all familiar enough, and he was good at it. When he was sure, he quickly moved her to the backseat of his car.
    Purse and keys. He got