Naked Prey

times on the head, hard, as though she were breaking rocks with a hammer.
    The second or third blow probably killed her; the others were just to make sure. There was some blood, and Singleton pulled one of the plastic sacks out of his pocket and handed it to her and she lifted Calb’s head by the hair and pulled the bag over it.
    Still a little blood on the kitchen floor. Margery found some 409 all-purpose cleaner under the sink, cleaned up the blood with a couple of paper towels. The towels went in the garbage bag on top of Calb’s head, and they dragged the body down a hallway and leaned it against the wall, in a slumped, seated position.
    Margery was breathing hard. She wiped her hands together, as if dusting them off, and said, “All right. That’s one. Give me that little gun—just in case. Gene’s a big one, and you’re hurt.”
    S INGLETON STEPPED INTO the living room, turned on a light, then turned on a hallway light that led upstairs, so there would be light coming down from an upstairs window when Calb pulled into the driveway. He wanted Calb to think that Gloria might be upstairs.
    He told his mother and she shook her head as if it were all a terrible mistake. He went to turn off the lights and she said, “Nah, nah, leave it. Get in position.” Then she slapped her forehead. “Oh, shit.”
    “What?”
    “I gotta make a call . . . You get in your spot.”
    If Calb pulled straight into the garage, as he should, he’d be coming in the back door, through the kitchen. Singleton moved across the half-lit kitchen and looked out a side window toward the garage. The garage lights should come on when Calb hit his remote control. Nothing yet.
    He could hear his mother muttering into the phone in the front room. What was all that about? Something at the nursing home?
    Singleton leaned back against the wall, and for the first time in five minutes, noticed the pain in his chest. Not so bad right now. Not quite so bad, but his chest felt wet. He stuck a hand inside his shirt, felt the wound, felt a dampness and pulled his fingers back out. Blood. Goddamnit, he’d broken the wound open.
    He had to find somebody to work on it, and soon. God knew what the lead bullet was doing inside of him. Probably poisoning him. Thinking about it sent him to the sink, where he washed his hands again, and wiped them carefully on paper towels. He put the towels in his pocket—DNA. His mother came back in the kitchen.
    “What ya doing?”
    “I’m bleeding again,” he said.
    “Won’t kill ya,” she said. “I seen a lot worse.” She turned up her head and sniffed. “Something in the oven?”She stepped over to the stove, and looked through the glass front. “Looks like a casserole.”
    “Pork chops,” Singleton said, nodding at the sideboard. Three thick center-cut porkchops sat on a sideboard, and one of the burners was glowing on the stove. “Turn the stove off,” he said.
    Margery left the burner on but put a kettle on it, obscuring the orange glow. Not bad, Singleton thought: the bubbling pot killed the silence. “Better get back in the hall,” Singleton told her. “Gene doesn’t miss dinner.”
    Calb arrived as the words came out of Singleton’s mouth. Margery slunk back into the hall as the headlights swept over the side of the house and the driveway. The lights in the garage went on, and Singleton said, aloud, “Be alone.” He pressed himself to the kitchen wall beside the door from the entry.
    The garage door went up, then went down, and a moment later, Calb was at the back door, stomping his feet on a snow mat. “Gloria?”
    He closed the outer door and stepped into the kitchen, leaning forward, groping for the light. “Gloria?”
    Singleton hit him on the crown of his head and he went down to his knees. Singleton, grimacing, hit him again, and Calb stayed on his knees and one hand came up, his face turned up, and he said “cars,” or something like that, and Singleton hit him across the eyes and this time, Calb went down.
    Margery stepped up, took the pipe, crouched, and began hitting him as she had Gloria, the hammer swinging once, twice, three times, four, five . . .
    Breathing hard, she finally stood upright, light in her rattlesnake eyes. How many times had she hit Calb? He had no idea, but Calb was dead, all right—his head was like a bag of bone chips.
    “That got him,” the old lady said with satisfaction.
    “Did you kill people at work? The old men you didn’t like?”
    The