Sudden Prey

salesman, in the lighted room, pulling on a coat. Martin took the knife out of the sheath and put it in the right side pocket of his coat. Ten seconds later, the salesman, shoulders humped against the snow, trotted out to the car. His coat hung open, showing a rayon necktie.
    “She’s a beaut,” he said, tipping his head at the car.
    “You’re Mr. Sherrill?” asked Martin.
    “Yeah, Mike Sherrill. Didn’t we meet last week sometime?”
    “Uh, no, not really . . . Listen, I can’t see the mileage on this thing.”
    Sherrill was in his mid-thirties, a onetime athlete now running to fat and whiskey. A web of broken veins hung at the edges of his twice-broken nose, and his once-thick Viking hair had thinned to a blond frizz. “About fifty-five thousand actual. Let me pop the door for you.”
    Sherrill skated around the car, used a gloved hand to quickly brush the snow off the windshield, then fumbled at the locked keybox on the door. Martin looked past him at the dealership. Another salesman stood briefly at the window, looking out at the snow, then turned away.
    “Okay, here we go,” Sherrill said. He got the key out of the keybox and unlocked the car door.
    Martin didn’t mess around, didn’t wait for the better moment. He stood to one side as Sherrill opened the door. When Sherrill stepped back, he moved close against the other man, put one hand on his back, and with the other, delivered the killing thrust, a brutal upward sweep, like a solar plexus jab.
    The knife took Sherrill just below the breastbone, angling up, through the heart.
    Sherrill gasped once, wiggled, started to go down, his eyes open, surprised, looking at Martin. Martin guided his falling body onto the car seat. He pushed Sherrill’s head down, caught Sherrill’s thrashing legs and pushed them up and inside. Sherrill was upside down in the car, his feet over the front seat, his head hanging beneath the steering wheel. His eyes were open, glazing. He tried to say something, and a blood bubble came out of his mouth.
    “Thanks,” Martin said.
    Martin pushed down the door lock, slammed the door and walked away. There was nobody in the dealership window to see him go.
     
     
     
    BUTTERS WAITED UNTIL the man in the white shirt had a customer and the woman was free. He walked into the store, his hand on the silenced pistol. At the back of the store, near the door to the storeroom, was a display for DirecTV. He headed that way, and Elaine Kupicek followed. She was a nice-looking woman, Butters thought, for a cop’s wife.
    “Can I help you?” She had a wide, mobile mouth and long skinny hands with short nails.
    “I own a bar, down in St. Paul.”
    “Sure . . .”
    “If I put in DirecTV, would I be able to get, like, the Green Bay games, even when there’s no broadcast over here?”
    “Oh, sure. You can get all the games . . .”
    The man in the white shirt had moved with his customer to a computer display, where they were talking intently about TV cards for a Windows 95 machine.
    “We have a brochure that shows the options . . .”
    Butters looked at her, then put the fingers of his left hand to his lips. She stopped suddenly in midsentence, puzzled, and then he took the .380 out of his left pocket and pointed it at her.
    “If you scream, I’ll shoot. I promise.”
    “What . . .”
    “Step in the back; this is a robbery.”
    He prodded her toward the door. She stepped backward toward it, caught the knob with her hand and her mouth opened and Butters said, conversationally, “Be quiet, please.”
    She went through, her eyes looking past Butters, searching for the man in the white shirt, but Butters prodded her further into the room, and then closed the door behind them.
    “Don’t hurt me,” she said.
    “I won’t. I want you to sit down over there . . . just turn over there.”
    She turned to look at the chair next to a technician’s desk: a brown paper lunch sack sat on the table, with a grease stain on one side. Her lunch sack, with a baloney sandwich and an orange. She stepped toward the desk and said, “Please don’t.”
    “I won’t,” he promised, in his gentle southern accent. She turned back to the chair and when her head came around, he took the nine-millimeter out of the Velcroed flap in one swift, practiced motion, put it against the back of her head and pulled the trigger once.
    Kupicek lurched forward and went down. Butters half-turned, and waited, listening. The shot had been as loud as a hand-clap,