Night Prey

actually getting in tune with it, the steel in the blade. . . .
    When the door closed behind Blondy, Koop barely gave Sara Jensen a thought. There’d be time for her later. She turned away, hurrying back to the bedroom to get ready for work.
    Koop, wearing his glasses and snap-brimmed hat, flew off the air-conditioner housing. He had just enough control to check the apartment hallway before bursting into it from the roof access; a man stood in it, facing the elevator. Koop cursed, but the man suddenly stepped forward and was gone. Koop ran the length of the hall and took the stairs.
    Took the stairs as though he were falling, a long circular dash, with no awareness of steps or landings, just a continuous drop, his legs flashing, shoes slapping like a machine gun on the concrete.
    At the bottom, he checked the lobby through the window in the stairway door. Three or four people, and the elevator bell dinged: more coming. Frustrated, he looked around, then went down another flight, into the basement. And found a fire exit, leading out through the back. Just before he hit the back door, he saw a sign and read the first words, DO NOT, and then he was through. Somewhere behind him, an alarm went off, a shrill ringing like King Kong’s telephone.
    Were there pictures? The possibility flashed through his brain and then disappeared. He’d worry about that later. That he hadn’t been seen in the building—that was important. That he catch Blondy in the street—that was even more important.
    Koop ran down the alley at the back of the building, around the building. There were a dozen people up and down the street, in business clothes, some coming toward him, some walking away, briefcases, purses. A cane.
    He groped in his pocket, wrapping his fist around the knife again. Checked faces, checked again. Blondy was not among them. Where in the hell . . . ?>
    Koop pulled the hat farther down on his head, looked both ways, then started walking toward the entrance of Sara Jensen’s apartment. Had he already gotten down? Or was he slow getting down? Or maybe she’d given him a parking card and he’d left his car in her ramp. He swerved toward the ramp exit, although if the guy was in a Mercedes or a Lexus what was he gonna do, stab it? He thought he might.
    A car came out of the ramp, with a woman driver. Koop looked back at the door—and saw him.
    Blondy had just come out. His hair was wet, his face soft, sated. His necktie, a conservative swath of silk, was looped untied around his shirt collar. He carried a raincoat.
    Koop charged him. Started way back at the entrance to the parking ramp and hurtled down the sidewalk. He wasn’t thinking, wasn’t hearing, wasn’t anything: wasn’t aware of anyone other than Blondy.
    Wasn’t aware of the noise that came out of his mouth, not quite a scream, more of a screech, the sound of bad brakes . . .
    Wasn’t aware of other people turning . . .
    Blondy saw him coming.
    The soft look fell off his face, to be replaced by a puzzled frown, then alarm as Koop closed.
    Koop screamed, “Motherfucker,” and went in, the blade flicking out of his fist, his long arm arcing in a powerful, upward rip. But quicker than Koop could believe, Blondy stepped right, swung his arm and raincoat, caught Koop in the wrist, and Koop’s hand went past Blondy’s left side. They collided and they both staggered: the guy was heavier than he looked, and in better shape. Koop’s mind began working again, touched by a sudden spark of fear. Here he was, on the street, circling a guy he didn’t know. . . .
    Koop screamed again, and went in. He could hear the guy screaming, “Wait. Wait.”, but it sounded distant, as though it came from the opposite shore of a lake. The knife seemed to work on its own, and this time he caught the blond, caught his hand, and blood spattered across Koop’s face. He went in again, and then staggered: he’d been hit. He was astonished. The man had hit him.
    He went in again, and Blondy kept backing, swinging. Koop was ready this time, blocked him.
    And got him.
    Really got him.
    Felt the knife point go in, felt it coming up . . .
    Then he was hit again, this time on the back of the head. He spun, and another man was there, and a third one coming, swinging a briefcase like a club. Koop felt Blondy go down behind him, with a long ripping groan; almost tripped over his body, avoiding the briefcase, swung the blade at the new attacker, missed, slashed at the second one, the one