Shadow Prey

owned twelve guns; he carried four away from the safe, along with three boxes of ammunition. He crawled into the space under the workbench where Jennifer had been. It would give him some protection from direct hits coming through the floor, and he could see the stairs. He first loaded the Browning Citori over and under; he used the twenty-gauge shotgun for hunting. His only shells were number-six shot, but that was fine. At a short distance, they would punch a convincing hole through a man’s head.
    Next he loaded the two Gold Cup .45s that he’d used in competition, seven rounds per magazine, one round in each chamber, both weapons cocked and locked. Then the P7, loaded with nine-millimeter rounds, waiting. As he finished loading the P7, he began to wonder if Shadow Love had fled: the firing had been stopped for nearly a minute . . . .
     
    Shadow Love could hear the woman screaming, could hear Davenport’s voice, but not what he said. Damn walls, it was hard to tell where they were, but he thought to the right, and they sounded somehow distant, toward the far end of the basement. He watched the stairs for a few seconds, then took a fast dozen strides through the house, almost to the end, and once again began to pour gunfire through the floor. This time, though, he fired as he ran back to the basement door, blowing a trail of bullet holes through the carpet . . . .
     
    In the basement, the metal fragments and splinters filled the air, plucking at Lucas’ back and sleeve. He was hit and it hurt, but it felt superficial. He rubbed at his back and left a trail of pain where the slivers stuck through his shirt. If he stayed in the basement, he could be blinded. Shadow Love’s last run had gone the whole length of the basement. Lucas got the Gold Cups ready. If he tried it again . . .
    • • •
    Shadow Love had been counting on the bullets to ricochet rather than fragment. He imagined the basement as a blizzard of wildly careening slugs. Pleased with the idea of making a trail the length of the house, he waited near the top of the stairs for a rush, waited, waited . . . Nothing. He refigured his ammunition supply. He’d fired at least twenty shots, he decided. He pulled the clip, slapped in the new one and checked the first. Six rounds left. Still plenty for a fight.
    He waited another few seconds, then hurried again through the house, picked out a new pattern and raced back toward the stairwell, firing as he went. He was almost at the stairs when the rug suddenly popped up once, then again, not six feet away, and he realized that Davenport was shooting back through the floor, something big, something coming up through the carpet and into the ceiling, close, and Shadow Love dove into the garage . . . .
     
    Lucas watched the firing pattern develop, tried to anticipate where Shadow Love would move and fired back with one of the .45s. He had little hope of hitting him, but he thought it might force Shadow Love to stop firing through the floor.
    As the firing run ended at the back of the house, Lucas stood and walked quickly across the width of the basement to the safe.
    “Jen, Jen?”
    “What?”
    “The next time he fires through the floor, I’m going to pull the circuit breaker and try the stairs. The lights will be out. Stay cool.”
    “Okay.” The baby was gasping. Jennifer now sounded remote and cold; she had it under control.
    One of the .45s was almost empty. Lucas laid it on the floor, stuck the other in his pants pocket with the butt sticking out, and crossed the basement floor and waited, the shotgun pointing at the base of the stairs, the switch box open.
     
    Shooting through the floor wasn’t good enough: Shadow Love wouldn’t know when or if Davenport was hit, and his time must be running out. The black spot, larger, pressed against his consciousness. Attack now. He had to attack.
    The door to the garage was still open, and in the shaft of light coming from the kitchen, he saw the gas can for the lawn mower.
    “Motherfucker,” he whispered. He glanced at the stairwell, groped for a minute, found the switch for the garage light and turned it on.
    There was a rack of shelves next to the door, with a variety of bottles, mostly plastic. One, containing a tree-borer insecticide, was made of brown glass. Keeping the M-15 pointed at the stairwell, Shadow Love unscrewed the top of the insecticide bottle, turned it upside down and drained it. When it was empty, he stepped over to