Phantom Prey

out the minutes, with hours that never ended.
    The conversation went on endlessly, raging arguments—Loren, pushing to kill Davenport, to get rid of him. “He knows, he knows, he knows . . . Do you think Weather was gushing at you out of sympathy? Bullshit. She was doing it for him. And if she tells him that I believed that the other three were the killers, that Loren did this and that Loren did that, he’ll remember that name. He will remember that I am dead and he will conclude that you are a psychotic. Once he convinces himself that you’re guilty, he is the kind of man who will manufacture the evidence he needs to arrest you. He is crazier than any of us, he will do anything to win the game. He has to be eliminated. He’s too dangerous to let go.”
    Alyssa resisted: “No. No, he’s a friend of mine, he wouldn’t do that to me. He’s got no evidence.”
    “He will manufacture the evidence if he’s convinced you killed the three.”
    “No, no, no . . .”
    Fairy took Loren’s side: “If we do it right, if we kill him, who’s to know? A lot of people must want him dead. He must have enemies all over the Cities, all over the state. Killers. Drug dealers. Gang members. If we did it cleanly enough, who’d know? With a gun, not with a knife. In the dark. One shot in the heart, and run.”
    “I won’t do it,” Alyssa said.
    “I will,” Fairy answered.
    “She will,” Loren said.
    “I know she will. She likes killing. She likes the taste of blood, for God’s sake. She puts it in her mouth, sucks it off her fingers.”
    “It’s self-defense,” Fairy said. “As simple as that.”
    Alyssa woke once, in the middle of the night, shivering, and found that she’d thrown off the covers. Her mind was clear as glass—the clarity of insomnia, when she knew that immediate sleep was out of the question. She got up, turned on the light, got her tarot cards, shuffled them, laid out a Celtic cross, tried to focus: What would happen if ?
    The cards failed her—the answers all seemed obscure or trivial or irrelevant. She yawned, and thought about going back to bed, but knew better: the insomnia was trying to trick her. She had to be yet sleepier, to get any sleep. Had to seek exhaustion.
    Downstairs, she had some milk. Thought about watching television, gave it up as a bad idea: she wasn’t interested in television, she was interested in what she had to do.
    Loren, reflected out of a window overlooking the lake, said, “You have no choice, Alyssa. I don’t think you’d do well in the women’s prison. You’re not cut out for being locked in a cell, for that blue-collar misery, washing floors and working in a laundry. Year after year after year, until you turn into a hag. We have to kill him.”
    “Go away,” she said. “You got me into this, you asshole, now go away and let me think.”
    Back upstairs, she stopped at the door to Hunter’s bedroom, then pushed the door open and stepped inside. She could still smell him. He used an old-fashioned aftershave—Bay Rum, like that—and it clung to the room, as long as he’d been gone.
    She noticed, in the dark, the small amber lights on the stereo: had they always been on? Maybe. She’d never been in the room for more than a few minutes at a time, after his death. On impulse, she picked up the remote control, clicked Play. After a few clicking sounds, Paul Simon came up: “Still crazy, after all these years . . .”
    With the music playing softly in the background, she sat on Hunter’s bed, not knowing exactly what she was up to. Closed her eyes, and let the karmic energy flow over her, through her, tell her what to do. The song ended, and she opened her eyes, and opened the bottom drawer on the bedstand.
    The gun was there—a .38, with hollow-point bullets. When concealed carry became legal in Minnesota, Hunter had been one of the first to qualify for a permit. Then he carried for a while—the .38, a Beretta 9mm, a .45, and then it all just got too heavy, and he started leaving the guns at home.
    He took the .38 with him, though, when he and his biker buddies rode out to Sturgis—they actually cheated, and shipped the bikes to Bismarck in the back of a couple of Chevy vans, driven by wives sworn to secrecy, and rode into Sturgis from there, greasy jeans and leather chaps and dirty boots and four-day beards, aging Brandos right out of the executive suite. The .38, he told her, was a necessity should there be trouble: “Nobody knows that I’ve