Phantom Prey

license, two credit cards, four fifty-dollar bills and a twenty. The size of a clamshell, she held it in one hand, and it was so cool that other Goth women looked more at her purse than her face.
    She crossed the street, as smooth as a leopard, the knife beating in her jacket pocket like a second heart. She paused inside the door, looked left and right, letting the black hair flip, and then Roy called, “Honey.”
    She looked left and smiled at the name; he was standing next to a table with two other couples. She twiddled her fingers at them, cocked her head at Roy, pulled him in. He was a smooth-faced boy, maybe twenty-four, a few adolescent blemishes still spotting up one cheek. Light brown eyes, he’d have grown to be a light brown man, working wistfully unhappy in some service industry, behind a desk, with a name tag—that is, if he’d had a chance to do it. She said, “Why don’t we find a place in back?”
    Away from witnesses.
    “Sure. Want a wine?”
    “Let’s see if we can find a place.”
    They went into the back, and as they walked, she snagged the fingers of his right hand in her left, letting him lead by a step. She knew she was running about 440 volts through him, that the thing with the hand-holding would pull him through.
    She looked in a mirror; would Francie be looking out at her? Would Francie have her hand on Roy’s shoulder? Nothing.
    They got to a booth and she turned to sit down and happened to look back toward the front door and froze for a moment, then unfroze with the thought: Move.
    Fairy turned her face up to Roy and said, “Just believe in me for two minutes. For two minutes. Come on. Hurry. Come on.” She pulled his hand and they went left down a hallway to the restroom and which, she hoped, went to a back door. But it didn’t—it led back to the main room. She peeked out. Wait, wait, wait . . .
    “What?” Roy whispered.
    Then: “Hurry,” tugging at his fingers, and they scampered across the room and out the front door. In the cold air, she laughed and said, “Run.”
    He followed behind, across the street, into the car. She fired it up, cranked the wheel, and they were off down the street: she took the first right, playing with the clutch, rolling, rolling, and she lifted her foot and the clutch engaged and they rolled silently into the dark.
    Roy asked, “What was that?”
    “An old, old friend who I never want to see again,” she said. “Let’s find someplace to walk for a while. He’ll be gone, we can go back.”
    “I know another place,” Roy said. “On the other side of town— across the river. Not so nice as November, though.”
    “What’s it called?”
    “A1.”
    “I know that place,” she said. “Sounds like a barbeque sauce.”
    They parked along the riverfront, because, she told him, she still needed to walk. “I’m cooped up all day. Work, work, work. It’s the crisis of American life, huh? We need time to think. Time to brood.”
    “I get up, I go to work,” Roy said, shyly. “I’d like to be a writer. I’ve got some ideas, but I never have the time. It’s like you said—time to think. If I could get away, someplace . . .” He scuffed his feet, head down a little, hands in his pocket, and he said, “Well, fuck it.”
    She took his hand, pulled him into the strip of grass along the river, under a cottonwood, and said, “If you don’t do it, the time can run out on you.”
    “I know, but . . . I’ve still got time. I read about writers, you know. A lot of them had lots of experiences, lots of jobs, before they got published. That’s what I’m doing now. I’m getting experience. I thought about going into the army, but I’ve . . .”
    “What?”
    “Nothing. Nothing serious.”
    They stopped under the tree and she stepped close to him and looked up and said, “This place we’re going—wasn’t there a murder there? It just struck me.”
    “Yeah, the bartender,” Roy said. “Dick. He . . . I don’t know.”
    “Did you know him?” Fairy asked.
    “Yeah. He was a nice guy. I don’t know what happened.”
    “I saw the story in the Pioneer Press, ” she said. “They said he had some connection with this girl who disappeared. What was her name?”
    “Frances. Austin. I knew her, too,” Roy said. “It gives me the creeps. I’ve never even seen a dead guy, and now I used to know two people who were murdered.”
    “The girl . . . they don’t know she’s dead.”
    “Well, they think she is,” Roy said. “I