Shadow Prey

anything to spook her, bitch cunt, I’ll blow your motherfuckin’ brains out . . . .”
    The thought that the maid might betray him gripped Shadow Love’s stomach, and the black spot popped into his line of vision, obscuring her face. He forced it down, down, concentrating: Not this one; not yet.
    The maid was terrified. She clutched at the package, holding it to her chest.
    “Here,” she squeaked.
    The black spot was still there, smaller, floating like a mote in God’s eye, but he could read the number on the door: 408. Shadow reached out and knocked, quietly. No answer. The killing rush was coming now, like cocaine, even better . . . . He knocked again. No answer.
    “Open it,” he said. He pressed the gun against the woman’s forehead. “If there’s a noise, I’ll fuckin’ kill you, bitch. I’ll blow your fuckin’ brains all over the hall.”
    The woman slipped the key into the lock. There was a tiny metallic click and she flinched, and Shadow Love tapped her with the barrel. “No more,” he whispered. “Open it.”
    She turned the key. There was another click and the door eased open.
     
    Lily got out of the bathtub, steam rolling off her body; she felt languid and soft from the bath oils. She heard the knock and stopped toweling. It wasn’t a maid’s knock. It was too soft, too . . . furtive. She frowned, took a step toward the bathroom door, looked through the bedroom to the outer sitting room; it was dark. A lamp was on in the bedroom, as were the lights in the bathroom. There was another knock, a pause, then a click. Somebody coming in.
    Lily looked around for her purse, with the gun in the concealed holster: outer room. Shit. She reached back, hit the bathroom light switch and started for the lamp.
     
    Shadow Love pushed the maid forward. The door opened and the woman went through. There was little light, apparently coming from a bathroom . . . . No. There’s another room. Fuckin’ rich bitch has a suite  . . . . The light suddenly went out, and they were in darkness, Shadow Love and the maid silhouetted against the light from the hallway.
     
    Lily killed the lamp as the door opened. She felt a tiny surge of relief when she saw the small woman and the familiar colors on the package. She reached again for the wall switch, then saw the man behind the woman and what looked like a gun.
    “Freeze, motherfucker,” she screamed at the dark figures, dropping automatically into her Weaver stance, her hands empty. But the movement, in the dark, might be convincing . . . .
     
    The scream startled him. Shadow Love sensed the cop woman dropping into a shooter’s stance, and swept the maid’s feet from under her and went down on top of her. He could feel the woman moving sideways in the minimallight in the room, and he pivoted and kicked the outer door shut. The dark was complete.
    “Got a woman, here, a maid,” Shadow Love called. He pointed the gun toward where he thought the other door was, although he was disoriented and felt he might be off. But if she fired at him, he’d get her in the muzzle blast. “Come out and talk; I just want to talk about the Indians, about the Crows. I’ve worked with the police.”
     
    Bullshit. Shadow Love. Must be.
    “Bullshit. You move, motherfucker, and I’ll spread you around like spaghetti sauce.”
    Lily, nude, crawled across the bedroom floor in the dark, her hands sweeping from side to side, looking for a weapon. Anything. Nothing. Nothing. Back toward the bathroom, creeping in silence, waiting for the killing light . . . Into the bathroom. Groping. Up the walls. A towel rack. She tugged on it. It held. She put her full weight on it, bouncing frantically, and suddenly, explosively, it came free. She went flat again, frozen, waiting for the light, but nothing came. She went back to the floor and, with the towel bar in her hand, crawled out the bathroom door toward the front room.
     
    There was a sudden, terrific clatter. Shadow Love started, put his face next to the maid’s and whispered, “Move, bitch, and I’ll slit your fuckin’ throat.” He could feel the woman trembling in her thin maid’s uniform. “And I got the gun; if you go for the door, I’ll shoot you.”
    He left her then, and crawled toward the spot where he thought the inner door was, feeling his way across the carpet in the dark.
    What was the noise? What was she doing? Why hadn’t she risked a light? She wouldn’t be any worse off