Night Prey

opened a tool chest in front of the television. If somebody showed up, a cleaning woman, he could say he’d just finished fixing it . . . but nobody showed up.
    He ate cereal from one of her bowls, washed the bowl, and put it back. He lounged in her front room with his shoes off, watching television. He stripped off his clothes, pulled back the bedcovers, and rolled in her slick cool sheets. Masturbated into her Kleenex.
    Sat on her toilet. Took a shower with her soap. Dabbed some of her perfume on his chest, where he could smell it. Posed in her mirror, his blond, nearly hairless body corded with muscle.
    This, he thought, she’d love: he threw the mirror a quarter-profile, arms flexed, butt tight, chin down.
    He went through her chest of drawers, found some letters from a man. He read them, but the content was disappointing: had a good time, hope you had a good time. He checked a file cabinet in a small second bedroom-office, found a file labeled “Divorce.” Nothing much in it. Jensen was her married name—her maiden name was Rose.
    He went back to the bedroom, lay down, rubbed his body with the sheets, turned himself on again. . . .
    By five, he was exhausted and exhilarated. He saw the time on her dresser clock, and got up to dress and make the bed: she’d just about be leaving her office.
     
     
     
    SARA JENSEN GOT home a few minutes before six, carrying a sack full of vegetables under one arm, a bottle of wine and her purse in the opposite hand. The wet smell of radishes and carrots covered Koop’s scent for the first few steps inside the door, to the kitchen counter, but when she’d dropped her sacks and stepped back to shut the door, she stopped, frowned, looked around.
    Something wasn’t right. She could smell him, but only faintly, subconsciously. A finger of fear poked into her heart.
    “Hello?” she called.
    Not a peep. Paranoid.
    She tilted her head back, sniffing. There was something . . . She shook her head. Nothing identifiable. Nervous, she left the hallway door open, walked quickly to the bedroom door, and poked her head inside. Called out: “Hello?” Silence.
    Still leaving the door open, she checked the second bedroom-office, then ventured into the bathroom, even jerking open the door to the shower stall. The apartment was empty except for her.
    She went to the outer door and closed it, still spooked. Nothing she could put her finger on. She started unpacking her grocery sacks, stowing the vegetables in the refrigerator.
    And stopped again. She tiptoed back to the bedroom. Looked to her right. A closet door was open just a crack. A closet she didn’t use. She turned away, hurried to the hall door, opened it, stopped. Turned back. “Hello?”
    The silence spoke of emptiness. She edged toward the bedroom, looked in. The closet door was just as it had been. She took a breath, walked to the closet. “Hello?” Her voice quieter. She took the knob in her hand, and feeling the fright of a child opening the basement door for the first time, jerked the closet door open.
    Nobody there, Sara.
    “You’re nuttier’n a fruitcake,” she said aloud. Her voice sounded good, broke the tension. She smiled and pushed the closet door shut with her foot, and started back to the living room. Stopped and looked at the bed.
    There was just the vaguest body-shape there, as though somebody had dropped back on the bedspread. Had she done that? She sometimes did that in the morning when she was putting on her panty hose.
    But had she gotten dressed first that morning, or made the bed first?
    Had her head hit the pillow like that?
    Spooked again, she patted the bed. The thought crossed her mind that she should look under it.
    But if there were a monster under there . . .
    “I’m going out to dinner,” she said aloud. “If there’s a monster under the bed, you better get out while I’m gone.”
    Silence and more silence.
    “I’m going,” she said, leaving the room, looking back. Did the bed tremble?
    She went.

16
    THE CARREN COUNTY courthouse was a turn-of-the-century sandstone building, set in the middle of the town square. A decaying bandstand stood on the east side of the building, facing a street of weary clapboard buildings. A bronze statue of a Union soldier, covered with pigeon droppings, guarded the west side with a trapdoor rifle. On the front lawn, three old men, all wearing jackets and hats, sat alone on separate wooden benches.
    A squirrel ignored them, and Lucas and Connell walked