Velocity

looped around his belt, and the bag, lined with a dishtowel, hung at his left side. In it were the handcuffs, the small can of Mace, and the Taser.
    Depending from his belt at his right hip: the Wilson Combat holster. The loaded pistol filled it.
    He had pulled his T-shirt out of his jeans, to wear it loose. The T-shirt somewhat concealed the pistol. From a distance of more than a few feet, at night, no one would recognize the telltale outline of the weapon.
    When he reached Zillis’s place, he left the sidewalk for the driveway and then followed the wall of eucalyptus trees past the garage.
    At the front, the house had been dark behind the drawn blinds; but lights shone softly at some rear windows. Zillis’s bedroom, his bathroom.
    Billy stood in the backyard, studying the property, alert to every nuance of the night. He let his eyes forget the Street lamps and adapt more completely to the darkness.
    He tucked his T-shirt into his jeans once more, to make the holstered pistol accessible.
    From a pocket he took a pair of latex gloves, slipped his hands into them.
    The neighborhood was quiet. The houses were not far apart. He would need to be careful about noise when he got inside. Screams would be heard, as would gunfire not well muffled by a pillow.
    He left the yard for the covered patio, on which stood a single aluminum chair. No table, no barbecue, no potted plants.
    Through the panes in the back door, he could see the kitchen lighted only by two digital clocks, one on the oven and one on the microwave.
    He pulled the bread bag loose from his belt and withdrew from it the can of Mace. The dishtowel liner softened the sound of the shifting handcuffs. He twisted the neck of the bag and looped it securely around his belt again.
    On his first visit, he had stolen a spare key from a kitchen drawer. He inserted the key cautiously, turned it slowly, concerned that the lock might be noisy and that sound might carry too well in the small house.
    The door eased open. The hinges whispered with corrosion but did not squeak.
    He stepped inside and shut the door behind him.
    For a minute he did not move. His eyes were well accustomed to the dark, but he still needed to orient himself.
    His heart raced. Maybe that was partly the caffeine tablets at work.
    As he crossed the kitchen, the rubber soles of his Rockports squeaked slightly on the vinyl flooring. He winced but kept going.
    The living room was carpeted. He took two silent steps into it before stopping again to orient himself.
    Zillis’s scorn for furniture was a blessing. There weren’t many obstructions to worry about in the dark.
    Billy heard faint voices. Alarmed, he listened. He couldn’t make out what they were saying.
    Having expected to find Zillis alone, he considered retreating. But he had to know more.
    A dim glow marked the entrance to the hallway that led off the living room to the two bedrooms and bath. The hall fixture was off, but soft light entered the far end from the open doors of the last two rooms.
    Those rooms faced each other across the hall. As Billy recalled, the one on the left was the bathroom, Zillis’s bedroom on the right.
    Judging by pitch and timbre, not by content, he thought there were two voices, one male and one female.
    He held the Mace in his right hand, thumb under the safeguard, squarely on the button trigger.
    Instinct whispered that he should trade the Mace for the pistol. Not every instinct was more reliable than reason.
    If he started by shooting Zillis, he had nowhere to go. He must first disable him, not wound him.
    Moving along the hall, he passed the make-believe abattoir where the mannequins sat in bloodless mutilation.
    The better he could hear them, the more the voices had a make-believe quality, too. They were actors sharing a bad performance. A vaguely tinny quality suggested they issued from the speakers of a cheap TV.
    The woman suddenly cried out in pain, but sensuously, as if her pain were also her pleasure.
    Billy had nearly reached the end of the hall when Steve Zillis exited the bathroom, to the left.
    Barefoot, bare-chested, wearing pajama bottoms, he was scrubbing his teeth with a brush, hurrying to see what was on the television in the bedroom.
    His eyes widened when he spotted Billy. He spoke around the toothbrush: “What the fuh—”
    Billy Maced him.
    Police Mace is highly effective up to a distance of twenty feet, although fifteen is ideal. Steve Zillis stood seven feet from Billy.
    Mace in the