Phantom Prey (10 page)

She crossed the street, as smooth as a leopard, the knife beating i
n h
er jacket pocket like a second heart. She paused inside the door, looked left and right, letting the black hair flip, and then Roy called, "Honey."

She looked left and smiled at the name; he was standing next to a table with two other couples. She twiddled her fingers at them, cocked her head at Roy, pulled him in. He was a smooth-faced boy, maybe twenty-four, a few adolescent blemishes still spotting up one cheek. Light brown eyes, he'd have grown to be a light brown man, working wistfully unhappy in some service industry, behind a desk, with a name tag--that is, if he'd had a chance to do it. She said, "Why don't we find a place in back?"

Away from witnesses.

"Sure. Want a wine?"

"Let's see if we can find a place."

They went into the back, and as they walked, she snagged the fingers of his right hand in her left, letting him lead by a step. She knew she was running about 440 volts through him, that the thing with the hand-holding would pull him through.

She looked in a mirror; would Francie be looking out at her? Would Francie have her hand on Roy's shoulder? Nothing.

They got to a booth and she turned to sit down and happened to look back toward the front door and froze for a moment, then unfroze with the thought:
Move.

Fairy turned her face up to Roy and said, "Just believe in me for two minutes. For two minutes. Come on. Hurry. Come on." She pulled his hand and they went left down a hallway to the restroom and which, she hoped, went to a back door. But it didn't--it led back to the main room. She peeked out. Wait, wait, wait . . .

"What?" Roy whispered.

Then: "Hurry," tugging at his fingers, and they scampered acros
s t
he room and out the front door. In the cold air, she laughed and said, "Run."

He followed behind, across the street, into the car. She fired it up, cranked the wheel, and they were off down the street: she took the first right, playing with the clutch, rolling, rolling, and she lifted her foot and the clutch engaged and they rolled silently into the dark.

Roy asked, "What was that?"

"An old, old friend who I never want to see again," she said. "Let's find someplace to walk for a while. He'll be gone, we can go back."

"I know another place," Roy said. "On the other side of town-- across the river. Not so nice as November, though."

"What's it called?"

"Al."

"I know that place," she said. "Sounds like a barbeque sauce."

They parked along the riverfront, because, she told him, she still needed to walk. "I'm cooped up all day. Work, work, work. It's the crisis of American life, huh? We need time to think. Time to brood."

"I get up, I go to work," Roy said, shyly. "I'd like to be a writer. I've got some ideas, but I never have the time. It's like you said--time to think. If I could get away, someplace . . ." He scuffed his feet, head down a little, hands in his pocket, and he said, "Well, fuck it."

She took his hand, pulled him into the strip of grass along the river, under a cottonwood, and said, "If you don't do it, the time can run out on you."

"I know, but . . . I've still got time. I read about writers, you know. A lot of them had lots of experiences, lots of jobs, before they got published. That's what I'm doing now. I'm getting experience. I thought about going into the army, but I've . . ."

"What?"

"Nothing. Nothing serious."

They stopped under the tree and she stepped close to him and looked up and said, "This place we're going--wasn't there a murder there? It just struck me."

"Yeah, the bartender," Roy said. "Dick. He . . . I don't know."

"Did you know him?" Fairy asked.

"Yeah. He was a nice guy. I don't know what happened."

"I saw the story in the
Pioneer Press,"
she said. "They said he had some connection with this girl who disappeared. What was her name?"

"Frances. Austin. I knew her, too," Roy said. "It gives me the creeps. I've never even seen a
dead
guy, and now I used to know two people who were murdered."

"The girl . . . they don't know she's dead."

"Well, they think she is," Roy said. "I mean, if you read the papers, I guess her house was full of blood, and they know it was hers, so . . . I assume she's dead."

"How well did you know her?"

"I'd see her around. She was like us, you know, gothic. I'd say hello. We went over to her apartment one time, a bunch of us, got some pizza and played some games."

"God. So you really knew her."

"Yeah, I guess." He shrugged.

She made her move, moving another inch closer to him. "How do you think she died? The girl? Any idea?"

"What?"

"Frances Austin. Have you heard anything? Rumors, or . . . Somebody's got to know. These people are still out there. With two Goths dead . . . I mean, you probably know the killers yourself."

The ambient light came from the condos, a bar, a couple of streetlights, the cars on the bridge; not much, but enough to see his eyes widen. He stepped back from her. "You know, they say Dick . . ."

"Dick . . . ?"

"Dick was talking to a fairy Goth before he was killed."

"A fairy Goth?"

"You know . . ." He smiled, defensive, glanced back toward the bar. "Like you."

"Me."

"It doesn't mean anything," he said. "But you know . . . was it you?"

She let her shoulders slump and she looked up at him, her smile gone and she said, "You're asking me . . ."

"You know, just because you seem interested in the murders . . ."

"Is she dead? Or alive?"

"For God's sakes, how would I know?" There was a note of irritation in his voice now, and maybe fear. He was thinking about her, about how close she was, about how the darkness was almost palpable. Running, screaming, wouldn't be manly, would it? And if she was innocent, he was blowing a shot at the highest-quality pussy ever to step out with him. . . . He looked down at her, saw something in her eyes; and she saw him seeing it.

She sighed and said, "Uh-oh," and slipped her hand into her coat and felt the dry wooden handle on the knife.

"What?" he asked. He was looking around again, but they were alone. "Maybe we should go . . ."

The knife slipped in so easily. Soft and easy, like it'd slip into the breast meat of a roasted chicken, just out of the oven. She looked up at his eyes, now wider, feeling it, not sure what it was.

She had the handle in one hand, the other hand supporting the first
,
and she ripped him and he went "Ah!" and tried to run, his legs going all wobbly. He banged into a bench and went over it, and down. She stepped up next to him, knelt, and wiped the knife on his shirt. Sat and watched. He never looked at her, his eyelids simply batted for a while and then stopped.

He was gone.

She stood up, put the knife back into the jacket. Looked around at the lights; and Loren whispered from somewhere nearby,
Time to go; but don't run.

Back in the car, Loren's eyes were in the rearview mirror. He asked, "Did you enjoy it?"

"A little," she said. Then, "No, not really." And, a moment later, "I wish he'd told us where she is.
How
she is."

"Hovering," Loren said. "We can bring her back, if we can find her. I can sense her, but we need more information. It would help if we knew where she was on the material plane, so we could lay our hands on her."

"Oh, God."

"We still have another possibility, another suspect," Loren said.

"One more," she said. "But maybe we could wait a day or two or three. This one hurt me. The first one, Ford, didn't hurt me. This one did."

"Okay."

Down through the city in the Batmobile. After a while, she said, "I lied. It did feel good. I can't deny it. But it felt good and hurt me at the same time. I had more control, this time, though. I can wait until I get home to fuck you. Last time, I couldn't."

His eyes in the mirror: "I know. You're growing."

"But I need to find out about Frances," Fairy said. "I need to find everybody involved--I need to end this."

Chapter
7.

Inside November,
Lucas talked with the two Goth couples about Roy and the woman. Both of the male Goths were tall and thin, dressed in black from head to toe: Greg and Dave. Dave seemed to be wearing a skirt, but it may have been a jacket tied around his waist. Both of the women were short and chunky: Sharon and Wanda, who was called Wolfie; both with black fingernail polish and scarlet lipstick.

"They were being flirty," Sharon said. "Cute with each other. She was holding his hand. There was something going on."

"He doesn't have another friend?" Lucas asked.

"Roy? No. Not recently."

"An odd couple," Greg said, pensively.

"Why odd?" Lucas asked.

"Well, she's pretty hot," Greg said. He snapped a sideways glance at his girlfriend and then said, "Roy . . . I've never heard a woman call
him
hot."

"He doesn't ring a lot of bells," Wolfie agreed.

"Tell me about the woman."

The fairy woman was short, lithe, dark-haired, pale-complected, probably in her early twenties. Well-dressed, in the Goth style. Leather jacket, with what Sharon said was a "really nice top. Her skirt was cheapish, though. It looked cheap. Too short."

"Nice shoes," said Wolfie.

"Older than early twenties," Sharon said. "Too self-possessed. Knows what she wants, and making friends isn't one of them."

Dave grinned and said, "She had an early-twenties ass."

"Where does Roy get off running around with a chick like that?" Greg asked. He seemed offended. "I mean, she
is
somewhat out of his league, don't you think?"

The Goths all nodded at one another.

"Too good," Dave said. "Why's somebody that good hanging with Roy?"

"He's actually a good guy," Jean said.

"Yeah, but good like Charlie Brown . . ."

They were still talking when Shockley and Price, the Goths whom Lucas had interviewed earlier, came through the door with a long
-
haired man in a field jacket and blue jeans bloused over combat boots. Lucas asked one of the Goths, "See the fairy over there? Does she look like the one with Roy?"

"Leigh? Oh . . . she's over in that direction, but it wasn't Leigh. I mean . . ." He raised his voice. "Hey! Leigh!"

Price turned their way, spotted Lucas, came over: "Find her?"

"Just missed her," Lucas said.

"She was here with Roy," one of the Goths in the booth said.

Price shook her head: "I don't know him."

"The guy who started the chicken dance."

Price smiled: "Okay." To Lucas: "I know who he is now. But I don't know him."

"Chicken dance?" Jean asked.

"At the Halloween party. He started people doing the chicken dance. That's not something that Goths do every day."

On the way
out with Jean, Price hooked him by the elbow and pulled him aside, and asked, "So what do you do when you're not copping?"

He felt a little ridiculous when he said it, but he said it anyway: "Taking care of my wife and kids."

"Don't cops have rocky marriages?"

"Some do." He smiled. "I could introduce you to some, if you want. I got this guy Virgil . . ."

"Virgil Flowers?" Her face lit up. "You know Virgil? I knew he was a cop."

Lucas smiled, stepped back. "He works for me."

"Well, shoot. If you see him, tell him that Leigh says hi."

"He's been married so often that he's got a 'Just hitched' sign in his closet," Lucas said.

"I don't want to
marry
him," she said. "He's just a really . . . interesting guy."

Lucas nodded, said, as though jilted, "Well. Maybe see you around," and headed out the door.

"What was that all about?" Jean asked, as she trailed behind.

"Just this guy," Lucas said. "That fuckin' Flowers."

Lucas left Jean at her apartment. She said she'd stay up until Roy got back.

"I'll be up late. When he comes in, call my cell," Lucas said, as he scribbled the number on the back of one of his business cards. "So. Call me."

"You think Roy's all right?"

"I wish they hadn't disappeared like that," Lucas said. "It was s
o q
uick, it was like they were running. I wish she hadn't been too good for Roy. That worries me."

"That kind of judgment . . ."

". . . Is almost always right," Lucas said. "Not fair, but right."