Eyes of Prey

wanting to impress. Another new feeling. “When she went down, I got on her back, got an arm around her neck, and jerk  . . . that was it. Neck just went pop. Sounded like when you bite into a piece of gristle. I put my pants on, walked out the door . . . .”
    “Scared?”
    “No. Not after I was out of the place. Something that simple . . . what’re the cops going to do? You walk away. By the time you’re down the block, they got no chance. And in that fuckin’ place, they probably didn’t even find her for two days, and only then ’cause of the heat. I wasn’t scared, I was more like . . . hurried.”
    “That’s something.” Bekker’s approval was like the rush Druze got from applause, but better, tighter, more concentrated. Only for him. He had gotten the impression that Bekker had a confession of his own but held it back. Instead the other man had asked, “You never did it again?”
    “No. It’s not like . . . I enjoy it.”
    Bekker had sat staring at him for a moment, then had smiled. “Hell of a story, Carlo.”
     
    He hadn’t felt much when he’d killed the girl. He didn’t feel much now, ghosting through the darkened breezeway, closing in. Tension, stage fright, but no distaste for the job.
    Another door waited at the end of the passage, wooden, with an inset window at eye level. If the woman was at the table, Bekker said, she would most likely be facing away from him. If she was at the sink, the stove or the refrigerator, she wouldn’t be able to see him at all. The door would open quietly enough, but she would feel the cold air if he hesitated.
    What was that song? The woman’s voice floated around him, an intriguing whisper in the night air. Moving slowly, Druze peeked through the window. She wasn’t at the table: nothing there but two wooden chairs. He gripped thedoorknob solidly, picked up a foot, wiped the sole of his shoe on the opposite pantleg, then repeated the move with the other foot. If the gym shoe treads had picked up any small stones, they would give him away, rattling on the tile floor. Bekker had suggested that he wipe, and Druze was a man who valued rehearsal.
    His hand still on the knob, he twisted. The knob turned silently under his glove, as slowly as the second hand on a clock. The door was on a spring, and would ease itself shut . . . . And she sang: Something, Angelina, ta-dum, Angelina. Good-bye, Angelina? She was a true soprano, her voice like bells . . . .
    The door was as quiet as Bekker had promised. Warm air pushed into his face like a feather cushion; the sound of a dishwasher, and Druze was inside and moving, the door closed behind him, his shoes silent on the quarry tile. Straight ahead was the breakfast bar, white-speckled Formica with a single short-stemmed rose in a bud vase at the far end, a cup and saucer in the center and, on the near end, a green glass bottle. A souvenir from a trip to Mexico, Bekker had said. Hand-blown, and heavy as stone, with a sturdy neck.
    Druze was moving fast now, to the end of the bar, an avalanche in black, the woman suddenly there to his left, standing at the sink, singing, her back to him. Her black hair was brushed out on her shoulders, a sheer silken blue negligee falling gently over her hips. At the last instant she sensed him coming, maybe felt a rush in the air, a coldness, and she turned.
    Something’s wrong: Druze was moving on Bekker’s wife, too late to change course, and he knew that something was wrong . . . .
     
    Man in the house. In the shower. On his way.
    Stephanie Bekker felt warm, comfortable, still a little damp from her own shower, a bead of water tickling as it sat on her spine between her shoulder blades . . . . Her nipples were sore, but not unpleasantly. He’d shaven, but not recently enough . . . . She smiled. Silly man, must not have nursed enough as a baby . . .
    Stephanie Bekker felt the cool air on her back and turned to smile at her lover. Her lover wasn’t there; Death was. She said, “Who?” and it was all there in her mind, like a fistful of crystals: the plans for the business, the good days at the lakes, the cocker spaniel she had had as a girl, her father’s face lined with pain after his heart attack, her inability to have children . . .
    And her home: the kitchen tile, the antique flour bins, the wrought-iron pot stands, the single rose in the bud vase, red as a drop of blood . . .
    Gone.
     
    Something