Night Prey

his keys. They went inside, and Koop waited. A woman was next, alone, and Koop perked up. But she was walking straight down the sidewalk, distracted, and not until the last minute did she swerve in toward the building. She would have been perfect, but she hadn’t given him time to move. She disappeared inside.
    Two men, holding hands, came down the walk. No. Two or three minutes later, they were followed by a guy so big that Koop decided not to risk it.
    Then Jim Flory turned the corner, his keys already in his hand. Flory scratched himself at his left sideburn and mumbled something, talking to himself, distracted. He was five-ten and slender. Koop pushed open the car door and slipped out, started down the sidewalk. Flory turned in at the building, fumbled through his keys, pulled open the outer door, went inside.
    Koop was angry: he could feel the heat in his bowels. Fucker has my key. Fucker. . . .
    Koop followed Flory up the walk; Koop was whistling softly, an unconscious, disguising tactic, but he was pissed. Has my key . . . Koop was wearing a baseball cap, jeans, a golf shirt, and large white athletic shoes, like a guy just back from a Twins game. He kept the hat bill tipped down. The steel re-rod was in his right pocket, sticking out a full foot but hidden by his naturally swinging arm.
    Goddamned asshole, got my key . . . Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, he whistled, Zip-a-dee-ay, and he was getting angrier by the second. My key. . . .
    Through the glass outer door, he could see Flory fumbling in the dark at the inner lock. Key must be in his hand. Koop pulled open the outer door, and Flory, turning the key on the inner door, glanced back and said, “Hi.”
    Koop nodded and said, “Hey,” kept the bill of his hat down. Flory turned back to the door and pulled on it, and as he did, Koop, the cocaine right there, slipped the re-rod out of his pocket.
    Flory might have felt something, sensed the suddenness of the movement: he stopped with the key, his head coming up, but too late.
    Motherfucker has my key/key/key. . . .
    Koop slashed him with the re-rod, smashed him behind the ear. The re-rod hit— pak!— metal on meat, the sound of a butcher’s cleaver cutting through a rib roast.
    Flory’s mouth opened and a single syllable came out: “Unk.” His head bounced off the glass door and he fell, dragging his hands down the glass.
    Koop, moving fast now, nothing casual now, bent, glancing ferretlike outside, then stripped Flory of his wallet: a robbery. He stashed the wallet in his pocket, pulled Flory’s key from the lock, opened the Sucrets tin, and quickly pressed one side and then the other into the glazier’s putty. The putty was just firm, and took perfect impressions. He shut the tin, wiped the key on his pants leg, and pushed it back into the lock.
    Done.
    He turned, still half crouching, reached for the outer door—and saw the legs.
    A woman stumbled on the other side of the door, trying to backpedal, already turning.
    She wore tennis shoes and a jogging suit. He’d never seen her coming. He exploded through the door, batting the glass out of his way with one hand, the other pulling the re-rod from his pocket.
    “No.” She shouted it. Her face was frozen, mouth open. In the dim light, she could see the body on the floor behind him, and she was stumbling back, trying to make her legs move, to run, shocked. . . .
    Koop hit her like a leopard, already swinging the re-rod.
    “No,” she screamed again, eyes widening, teeth flashing in fear. She put up her arm and the re-rod crashed through it, breaking it, missing her head. “No,” she screamed again, turning, and Koop, above her and coming down, hit her on the back of the neck just where it joined her skull, a blow that would have decapitated her if he’d been swinging a sword.
    Blood spattered the sidewalk and she went down to the stoop, and Koop hit her again, this time across the top of her undefended skull, a full, merciless swing, ending with a crunch , like a heavy man stepping on gravel.
    Her head flattened, and Koop, maddened by the interference, by the trouble, by the crisis, kicked her body off the step behind the arborvitae.
    “Motherfucker,” he said. “Motherfucker.” He hadn’t intended this. He had to move.
    Less than a minute had passed since he’d hit Flory. No one else was on the walk. He looked across the street, for motion in the windows of Sara Jensen’s apartment building, for a face looking down at him. Nothing that he could