Prey: Night Prey Part 37

"He's got a scope, and he's watching her," Del said. "Christ, he must feel like he's inside the room with her."

"I'm sure he does," Connell murmured into her headset. Lucas looked across at her: the gun was still against her cheek.

Jensen put down her newspaper and rolled off the bed, wandered toward the bathroom. This was not part of the script. "What?" Lucas asked.

She didn't answer, just ran water in the bathroom for a moment, then walked back out. The bathrobe had fallen open. Lucas was looking at her back, but he had a feeling . . .

Jensen came out of the bathroom. The bathrobe had fallen open, and she was wearing only underpants beneath it. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s looked wonderful against the terry cloth, alternately exposed and hidden. She was apparently upset by something. She spent a few minutes pacing, back and forth across the gap in the curtains, sometimes exposed, sometimes not. All told, it was the best strip show Koop had ever seen. His heart caught in his throat each time she pa.s.sed the window.

Then she dropped on the bed again, on one elbow, facing him, one breast showing, and began going through the papers. Then she rolled onto her back, bare legs folded, feet flat on the bed, knees up, head up on a pillow, the robe open again, b.r.e.a.s.t.s flattening of their own weight. . . .

Koop groaned with the heat of it. He nearly couldn't bear to watch it. Absolutely couldn't bear to take his eyes away.

LUCAS SWALLOWED, GLANCED back at Connell. She wasn't getting any of this. She simply sat, staring sightlessly at a cupboard. He looked back at Jensen, on the bed. Jensen's eyes had flicked toward him once, and he thought he saw the thinnest crease of a smile. Jesus. He began to feel what Koop did, the physical pull of the woman. She gave off some kind of weird Italianate hormone-cooking vibrations. Where'd she get the name Jensen? Had to be a married name; whatever was bubbling out of the woman on the bed, it wasn't Scandinavian.

Lucas swallowed again.

If there was such a thing as a politically correct cop manual, this would be specifically outlawed. But Lucas had no objection: if this didn't do it to Koop, nothing would. Sara got out of bed again, robe open, went into the bathroom, closed the door. When she did this, she usually stayed awhile.

Koop dropped back behind the ventilator duct, tried to light a cigarette. Found that the cigarette was damp, realized that he was soaked with sweat.

He couldn't do this. He had the hard-on of a lifetime. He found his knife, pushed the b.u.t.ton. The blade sprang out like a serpent's tongue.

Time to go.

"H E ' S DOWN," DEL said. "Holy s.h.i.+t, he's down. He's walking across the roof, he's through the door. . . ."

"Greave, you hear that? It's on you, man," Lucas said.

"We got it," Greave said.

Lucas stepped into the bedroom. "Sara. Time to go."

Jensen came out of the bathroom, the robe tied tight. "He's coming?"

"Maybe. He's off the roof, anyway," Lucas said. She felt vulnerable, intimate; he'd seen the show too. "Get your slippers."

Jensen got her slippers, a bundle of clothes, and her purse, and then they waited, waited, Jensen standing next to Lucas. He felt protective, sort of big-brotherly. Sort of . . .

"He's out the door," Greave called. "He's crossing the street."

"I'm coming down," Del said.

Greave: "He's got a key for that one, too, he's coming in, he's in the building. . . ."

"He's coming," Lucas said to Jensen. "Go."

Jensen left, running down the hall in her robe, with her purse and clothes, like a kid on her way to a slumber party. Connell, on her feet, moved back to the living room, still with the dreamy look in her eyes, the gun in her hand.

Lucas went with her, caught her arm. "I don't want any dumb-s.h.i.+t stuff. You've got a weird look about you. If you pull the trigger on the guy, you're just as likely to hit Del or Sloan. They'll be coming in a hurry."

She looked up at him and said, " 'Kay."

"Look, I f.u.c.kin' mean it," he said harshly. "This is no time . . ."

"I'm fine," she said. "It's just that I've been waiting a long time for this. Now we got him. I'm still alive for it."

Worried, Lucas left her and moved into the kitchen.

As soon as Koop opened the door, Lucas would hit it with his body weight. The unexpected impact should blow Koop back into the hallway. Del and Sloan would be coming, and Lucas would jerk the door open, be right on top of the guy. Greave and the other two would be on the stairs, coming up. . . .

They had him sewn up. They might already have enough for a trial, just with the entry across the street and the peeping.

But if he cracked Jensen's door, they had him for everything. If he just cracked it . . .

KOOP WENT QUICKLY through the building straight to the stairs, pulled open the door and into the stairwell. Before the door shut completely, he thought he heard a flap-click.

What? He froze, listening. Nothing. Nothing at all. He started up, silently, listening at each landing, then padding up another.

"He's taking the stairs," Greave called. "He's not in the elevators. He's on the stairs."

"Got it," said Lucas. "Del?"

"I'm set."

"Sloan?"

"Ready."

KOOP WOUND AROUND the concrete stairs. What had that been, the flap-click? Like somebody running in the stairwell, a footfall and a door closing. Whatever it was, it had come from high in the building. Maybe even Jensen's floor. Koop got to the top, reached toward the door to the hall. And stopped. Flap-click?

There was one more flight of stairs above him, going to the roof of Jensen's building. Was he in a hurry? Not that much, he thought. Cat burglar: move slow . . .

He climbed the last flight, used his key-Sara's key-to let himself out on the roof. Nice night. Soft stars, high humidity, a little residual warmth from the day. He walked silently to the edge of the roof. Jensen's apartment would be the third balcony from the end.

At the edge of the roof, he looked over. Jensen's balcony was twelve feet below him. A four-foot drop, if he hung from the edge. Nothing at all. Unless he missed-then it was a forever and a day down to the street. But he couldn't miss. The balcony was six feet wide and fifteen feet long.

He looked across the street, at the apartment building where'd he'd spent so many good nights. There were lights, but only a few windows with the drapes undrawn, and n.o.body in those.

Twelve feet. Flap-click.

"WHERE'N THE f.u.c.k is he?" Del asked from his closet. "Greave? You see him?"

"Must be on the stairs," Greave said. "You want me to go up?"

"No-no, stay put," Lucas said.

Connell was listening to the conversation through her earplug, and almost missed the light-footed whop fifteen feet away. With Lucas's "No-no," in her ear, she didn't even know where it came from, didn't think about it much, looked to her right. . . .

KOOP LANDED IN front of the open balcony door, softly, both feet at once, absorbing the shock with his knees. The first thing he saw, there in the fishbowl, was the blonde with the pistol beside her face, one hand to her head, pressed against the wall, waiting for the hallway door to open.

Koop didn't need to think about it. He knew. And he had no way out. The rage was there, ready, and it blew out.

Koop screamed and charged the woman on the wall. . . .

CONNELL SAW HIM coming when he was ten feet away, had less than a half second to react. The scream froze her, the words in her ear scrambled her, and then Koop hit her, an open-handed blow to the side of her head. The blow knocked her down, stunned her, and then he was on top of her and there was blood in her mouth and the pistol was gone.

LUCAS HEARD THE scream and turned and saw Koop hurtle past the archway to the living room wall, and he screamed "He's here, he's here" into the headset and he ran toward the living room, where Koop and Connell were in a pile. Her pistol skittered across the rug and disappeared half under a couch. Koop's back was toward him, rolling over on Connell. Lucas couldn't use the pistol, not with Connell there; instead he raised it over his head and swung it at the back of Koop's head. Koop felt it coming: he cranked his body half around, one eye finding Lucas, the blow already on the way. Koop had time to bunch his shoulder and flinch, and the barrel hit him on the big muscle of his shoulder and Koop somehow found his feet and was coming at Lucas.

This was no boxing match. Koop launched himself straight up, came straight in, and Lucas. .h.i.t him hard with a roundhouse left, but Koop blew through it as though he'd been hit with a marshmallow, and his arms wrapped around Lucas's ribs.

Lucas and Koop staggered backward, together, wrapped up like drunken dancers, banging around inside the small kitchen, the pressure from Koop's arms like a machine-press around Lucas's chest, crus.h.i.+ng him. Lucas slapped him on the side of the head with the pistol, but couldn't get a good swing. Feeling as though his spine might break, he finally pressed the pistol to Koop's ear and pulled the trigger, the slug going up through the ceiling.

The noise of the explosion an inch from his ear blew Koop's head back, stunned him like the blows hadn't. Lucas caught a breath, but a bad one: pain lanced through his chest, as though a bone were being pulled loose. Broken ribs. He caught the breath and hammered Koop once in the face, and then Koop stepped back and caught Lucas in the ribs with a short roundhouse. Lucas felt the ribs go, felt himself bounced by the blow, helplessly pulled his elbows in. He took one blow there, slapped the pistol weakly at Koop's face, cutting him, not breaking him, and Koop was crus.h.i.+ng him again, Lucas wiggling, trying to hit, both of them cras.h.i.+ng back and forth across the kitchen. Lucas could hear the beating on the outer door, people shouting, strained to look that way, Koop crus.h.i.+ng him, crus.h.i.+ng . . .

CONNELL LANDED ON Koop's back. She had short square nails but big hands and powerful fingers, and she dug them into Koop's small eyes, not more than two inches from Lucas's face. He saw her fingers dig in, way in, pulling at Koop's eye sockets, and thought, deep at the back of his mind, Christ, she's blinded him. . . . And she sunk her teeth into Koop's neck, her face contorted with hate, like a rabid animal's.

Koop screamed and let go of Lucas, and Lucas. .h.i.t him again in the face, cutting him more, still not putting him down. Connell's fingers went deeper in his eyes and Koop bucked, tried to throw her. Her feet came off the floor and wrapped around his waist, her middle fingers digging into his skull, Koop screaming, twisting, dancing, reeling, Lucas. .h.i.tting him, closing on him.

Then Koop, with a wild, blind, backhanded spin and swing, caught Lucas on the side of the head, coming in. Lucas lost everything for a moment, like a blown switch knocking out the lights in a house. Everything went dim for a moment, and he lost his feet, rolled back against a cupboard, scrambled up, headed back toward the twisting pair of them, Koop trying to wrench the woman free.

Still she rode him, and she was screeching now, like a madwoman. . . .

The door popped open and Sloan was there with his pistol, aiming at them, starting across, Lucas a stumbling step in front of him as Koop staggered backward, onto the balcony.

Connell felt him b.u.mp the railing just below his hips. She looked down. She was actually over. She unwrapped her legs, stood on the metal rail, saw Lucas coming. . . .

AND LUCAS SCREAMED at her: MEAGAN . . .

Connell, wrapped into Koop, pumped her powerful legs once, backward, and they both flipped together over the railing and out into the night.

LUCAS, TWO STEPS away, dove then, actually touched Koop's foot, lost it, smashed into the railing, felt himself caught by Sloan. He leaned over the rail and saw them go.

Connell's eyes were open. She loosened her grip on Koop's head during the fall, and at the end, they were in a splayed-out star shape, like sky divers.

All the way to the sidewalk.

And forever.

"JESUS CHRIST, " S L OA N said. He looked from Lucas to the railing to Lucas again. Blood was pouring from Lucas's nose, down his s.h.i.+rt, and he was standing with one shoulder a foot lower than the other, crippled, hung over the balcony.

"Jesus H. Christ, Lucas. . . ."

34.

LUCAS SAT IN his vinyl chair, staring at the television. A movie was playing, something about an average American family that was actually a bunch of giant bugs trying to blow up an atomic power plant and one of the kid-bugs smoked dope. He couldn't follow it, didn't care.

He couldn't think about Connell. He'd thought about her all he could, had considered all the different moves he might have made. He made himself believe, for a while, that she was ready to die. That she wanted it. That this was better than cancer.

Then he stopped believing it. She was dead. He didn't want her to be dead. He still had things to say to her. Too late.

Now he'd stopped thinking about her. She'd come back, in a few hours, and over the next days, and the next few weeks. And he'd never forget her eyes, looking back up at him. . . .

Ghost eyes. He'd be seeing them for a while.

But not now.

A door opened in the back of the house. Weather wasn't due for three hours. Lucas stood, painfully, stepped toward the door.

"Lucas?" Weather's voice, worried, inquiring. Her high heels snapped on the kitchen's tile floor.

Lucas stepped into the hallway. "Yeah?"

"Why are you standing up?" she asked. She was angry with him.

"I thought you were operating."

"Put it off," she said. She regarded him gravely from six feet away, a small woman, tough. "How do you feel?"

"I hurt when I breathe . . . Is the TV truck still out there?"

"No. They've gone." She was carrying a big box.

"Good. What's that?"

"One of those TV dinner trays," she said. "I'll set it up in the den so you don't have to move."

"Thanks . . ." He nodded and hobbled back to the vinyl chair, where he sat down very carefully.

Weather looked at the television. "What in G.o.d's name are you watching?

"I don't know," he said.

THE DOCTORS IN the emergency room had held him overnight, watching his blood pressure. Blunt trauma was a possibility, they'd said. He had four cracked ribs. One of the doctors, who looked like he was about seventeen, said Lucas wouldn't be able to sneeze without pain until the middle of the summer. He sounded pleased by his prognosis.

Weather tossed her purse onto another chair, waved her arms. "I don't know what to do," she said finally, looking down at him.

"What do you mean?"

"I'm afraid to touch you. With the ribs." She had tears in her eyes. "I need to touch you, and I don't know what to do."

"Come over and sit on my lap," he said. "Just sit very carefully."