Night Prey

a small white scar on her near knee. On her hip, a tattoo? What? No, a birthmark, he thought. Or a bruise.
    She finished with the far foot, and lifted the near one. From his angle on the roof, he could see just the curve of her vulva, with a bit of hair. He closed his eyes and swallowed, opened them again. He went back to her hip: definitely a birthmark. To her breasts, back to the pubic hair, to her face: she was so close, he could almost feel the heat from her.
    When she finished with her foot, she gathered the trimmed nails in the palm of her hand and carried them out of sight into the bathroom. Again she was gone for a while, and when she came back, the towel was no longer wrapped around her head and her hair fell on her shoulders, frizzy, coiled, still damp.
    She took her time finding a nightgown; walked around nude for a while, apparently enjoying it. When she finally pulled a nightgown out of her dresser, Koop willed her naked for just another second. But she pulled the nightgown over her head, facing him, and her body disappeared in a slow white erotic tumble of cotton. He closed his eyes: he simply couldn’t take it. When he opened them, she was buttoning the gown at the neck; so virginal now, when just a moment before . . .
    “No . . .” A single dry word, almost a moan. Go back, start over . . . Koop needed something. He needed a woman, was what he needed.
     
     
     
    KOOP PUT SARA Jensen to bed before he left, developing the same sense of loss he always felt when he left her; but this time he closed his eyes, saw her again. He waited a half hour, looking at nothing but darkness; when he finally dropped off the air conditioner and took the stairs, he could barely remember doing it. He just suddenly found himself in the street, walking toward the truck.
    And the pressure was intense. The pressure was always there, but sometimes it was irresistible, even though it put his life in jeopardy.
    Koop climbed into the truck, took Hennepin Avenue back toward the loop, then slid into the side streets, wandering aimlessly around downtown. He ran Sara Jensen behind his eyes like a movie. The curve of her leg, the little pink there . . . Thought about buying a bottle. He could use a drink. He could use several. Maybe find John, pick up another eight-ball. Get an eight-ball and a bottle of Canadian Club and a six-pack of 7-Up, have a party. . . .
    Maybe he should go back. Maybe she’d get up and he could see her again. Maybe he could call her number on a cellular phone, get her up . . . but he didn’t have a cellular phone. Could he get one? Maybe she’d undress again . . . He shook himself. Stupid. She was asleep.
     
     
     
    KOOP SAW THE girl as he passed the bus station. She had a red nylon duffel bag by her feet and she was peering down the street. Waiting for a bus? Koop went by, looked her over. She was dark-haired, a little heavy, with a round, smooth, unblemished face. If you squinted, she might be Jensen; and she had the look he always sought in the bookstores, the passivity. . . .
    Impulsively, he did a quick around-the-block, dumped the truck behind the station, started into the station, turned, ran back to the truck, opened the back, pulled out the toolbox, closed up the truck, and went through the station.
    The girl was still standing at the corner, looking down Hennepin. She turned when she sensed him coming, gave him the half-smile and the shifting eyes that he saw from women at night, the smile that said, “I’m nice, don’t hurt me,” the eyes that said, “I’m not really looking at you. . . .”
    He toted the heavy toolbox past her, and she looked away. A few feet farther down, he stopped, put a frown on his face, turned and looked at her.
    “Are you waiting for a bus?”
    “Yes.” She bobbed her head and smiled. “I’m going to a friend’s in Upper Town.”
    “Uptown,” he said. She wasn’t from Minneapolis. “Uh, there aren’t many buses at this time of night. I don’t even know if they run to Uptown . . . Can your friend come and get you?”
    “He doesn’t have a phone. I’ve only got his address.”
    Koop started away. “You oughta catch a cab,” he said. “This is kind of a tough street. There’re hookers around here, you don’t want the cops thinking. . . .”
    “Oh, no . . .” Her mouth was an O , eyes large.
    Koop hesitated. “Are you from Minnesota?”
    She really wasn’t sure about talking to him. “I’m from Worthington.”
    “Sure, I’ve been