77

The Lincoln was parked inches from the back of the house, and its front bumper gave him a great boost to the window.

Drapes on this one too, but not drawn tightly; he had a perfect view of the kitchen, helped along by a small light over the stove. The living room, too, separated only by a waist-high counter. A floor lamp there cast charcoal shadows on gray carpet. Enough light to see the front door. Red glow off to the right side. Alarm. Too bad. But better to know up front.

Three doors to the left, probably bedrooms and bathroom. Not much space between them. Small rooms, better for stabbing.

And that was the entire layout. Excellent…

No sign of the boy since he'd first ventured out onto the porch. The old guy, either. Both bedroom doors closed. The boy and the old man- with or without wife- fast asleep? Or maybe the old guy was a queer and the boy was sleeping with him.

That would sure explain taking him home.

Sleep made it a helluva lot easier: Burst in, throw the bedroom doors open, boom boom boom, gone even before the time delay kicked in on the alarm.

Knock stuff over on the way out, maybe steal something, to make it look like a gang thing.

He got down from the car, checked the alley for intruders, examined the house's rear door. Two dead bolts. Bad. But putting a little weight on the wood, he felt some give. One or two good shoves would take it off the hinges. Probably ruin his shoulder, but he was used to pushing his way through obstacles. The door was nothing compared to a defensive line.

Okay, then. Here come da blitz. The knife if it worked, the gun ready for backup. Either way, he could do it in seconds, run out the back, fade into the night.

One last look through the kitchen window.

He was scared, had to admit it. This was different, not like Lisa, the German girl, Sally, the stupid Russian. All those times, he'd set up the scenes.

But there were times you had to improvise.

He climbed up on the Lincoln's bumper again. Nothing different, but still he hesitated. Up again, down again. Compulsive. When his anxiety rose, he handled it with repetition. Like his mother's head banging. The stupid bitch. She deserved to die in that stupid helmet.

Okay, one last look- this time, he saw the boy- see, it pays to be thorough!

Coming out of the middle door to the left. A bathroom, just as he'd guessed.

Skinny little thing, light enough to drop-kick. He watched him emerge, go into the kitchen, open the refrigerator, take something out- a carrot.

Would he wash it? The sink was right below the window. Duck.

Crouched next to the outer wall, he heard plumbing kick in. Hygienic little sucker.

The water stopped. He waited, finally raised his head, peeked in, again. The kid was standing in the living room, back to the kitchen window, eating the carrot. Finishing half of it, he walked to the front door, punched the alarm panel- damn, too far to make out the code.

Opening the door, the kid stepped out again. But only for a few seconds, and here he was again, back inside, closing the door, turning, about to face the window.

Could he see anything out here in the darkness? Probably not, unless it was right up against the glass, but be extra careful, duck again.

Another thirty seconds passed before he dared another look. The kid was still standing in the living room, munching on the carrot, visible in profile.

Just another face.

The kid finished the carrot, bent, and picked something up. A magazine. He eats healthy, washes, reads. Such a good little citizen.

But not careful. Because the light on the front alarm panel was green.

He'd forgotten to trigger the goddamn alarm!

God was wonderful!

The blitz was on!

78

“Sunrise Court,” said Petra, thumbing through her Thomas Guide.

Wil took his penlight out of his mouth. “I know it, one of the walk streets.” He was outside the stand, recording the details of the Zhukanov crime scene.

“Which direction?” she said.

“North, five, six blocks.”

The license number and Samuel Ganzer's name hadn't impressed him. “Could be Zhukanov's boss, a customer. Zhukanov could've recorded the license for a check authorization.”

“Could be,” said Petra, having only instinct to back her up. She closed the map book. “So you'll stay here, keep Zhukanov company?”

“Sure. Maybe he'll teach me Russian.”

79

It's almost eleven. Sam should be back soon. I thought I'd stay up till he got here, but now I'm tired; guess I'll go to sleep.

He's probably having a good time with Mrs. Kleinman. I could eat another carrot, but I'm not really hungry… maybe I'll take another shower. No, I already had one, don't want to use up too much of Sam's water.

I go to turn off the living room lamp- maybe I'll take some magazines to bed- uh-oh, I forgot to switch the alarm back on.

I head for the panel, reach out for the buttons, and from behind me comes an explosion, then a crash- from the back of the house. Oh no, did I leave the stove on or something?

But I don't smell gas or anything burning, and when I turn, I see a big black space where the kitchen door was and the door's down on the floor and a guy's coming through the space, he's in the house, now, seeing me, throwing open the door to Sam's room, looking in, coming out-

Coming at me.

Dressed all in black.

Weird orange-pink skin and yellow hair.

Big.

He looks right at me. I don't know him, but he knows me!

PLYR 1!

How?

Oh God, no oh no- he's coming right at me and he's got a knife- a big pink man with a knife. I want to scream, but my mouth is frozen. I reach for the doorknob, touch only air, and he's coming faster, closer, such a big knife- I run to the left, but that just puts me in a corner, nowhere to go, bookshelves behind me. I have to do something- throw something, that worked before- books.

I start pulling them off the shelves and heaving them at him as hard as I can. A few hit him, but he keeps coming, walking slower, smiling, taking his time, holding the knife out in front of him, waving it back and forth.

I keep pulling out books and throwing them, they hit him in the face, the chest, the stomach, he laughs, pushes them away, keeps coming, the room's dark, but he can see me, he keeps coming straight at me.

I try to shove the dusty couch at him, but it's too heavy.

He laughs.

I pick up the music stand and throw it.

That surprises him. He loses his balance, and I run around him into the kitchen, toward the back door.

Suddenly I'm down on the floor.

Something around my leg.

He's pulling me by the ankle, I see his knees bend, see the bottom of his chin, his arm, the knife's coming down-

I twist around like a snake, just keep moving, moving, maybe if I move he'll miss and I can get out through the back door. He's squeezing my ankle, hurting it, I punch at him, keep twisting, get close enough to the arm that's holding my ankle and bite it, bite it hard, Billy Snake Billy Viper.

He shouts and lets go and I want to run out the back, but he's blocking the way- where where where- the only choice is fake him out, move to the left then the right, into the bathroom, next best thing get in there, lock myself in.

I jump up, run faster than I've ever run before across the kitchen he's running too breathing hard I make it into the bathroom slam the door lock it squeeze in between the toilet and the bathtub cold floor breathing fast my chest hurts so bad-