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The Prey Series Easy Prey Virgil Flowers | Easy Prey Easy Prey is the longest of the Prey novels, at
105,000 words. And yet, it could easily have been longer. After the
deadline, the author added several sections designed to enhance the action and
give some insight into the minds of the bad guys. But because they were so late,
these sections never made it in. Also, some intact sections got cut due to the
length of the manuscript. Still, it's interesting to see what might have been if
the book had gone to press with all the additions included and the cuts sections
restored. While some books have been rewritten essentially from the
ground up Shadow Prey being a key
example it usually happens long before the deadline and the earler
version doesn't mesh with the final product. But in this book, because the
changes were so late, they can be inserted virtually intact. And be warned, these deleted scenes
contain spoilers, so if you haven't read Easy Prey yet, do not
continue. Thank you. In the original draft of Easy Prey, the Second Man
actually was introduced in the first chapter. This
small scene was cut after the deadline had passed, so it was a very late change.
It was originally placed after the sections about the First Man, but before the
introduction of Alie'e Maison. The Second Man had dreams of fighting and sex, though he never
got in fights or had sex in real life. Always turned his shoulder first when he
was walking toward another man in a hallway. Never said hello to a woman,
unless, maybe, she was old, or they'd gone to school together. Even then it was
hard. But he would dream; he would be dramatic. He
would be the man in the cool clothes, in the nightclub, with the
money; with the girl with the green eyes. He could see her body, pale, like a
streak of moonlight; with two delicate petals of pink at her breasts. But it
was her eyes... Sometimes he knelt beside his narrow bed and prayed to
Almighty God that the dreams wouldn't come because sometimes, he
couldn't get out of them. The dreams would go on night after night, an endless
cycle, following the woman through hallways and streets and smoky bars, she
always fifty feet ahead of him, looking over her shoulder, her green eyes
calling him. The Second Man had two bedrooms. One had the narrow bed, the
other a big chair and a television. They shared the shrine. The shrine was a
collection of photographs, more than two hundred now, of the girl with the
green eyes. Some were cut from fashion and women's magazines. Some were
publicity shots. The early photos were standard magazine-page rectangles, but a
few months earlier, to pare away the extraneous and distracting bordering
material, he'd began cutting her figure out of the page. And a few weeks ago, he'd grown even more severe: he began
cutting out her face alone, sticking the cutouts to the wall beside his bed.
Green eyes, mounted at eye-level, so he could look into them while he
masturbated. The Second Man was very near the edge. He could think of
nothing but the woman with green eyes: Alie'e. The party scene at the end of the first chapter was cut down to a few paragraphs for
reasons of space the book was too darn long as it was, and the party
scene didn't add enough. It introduces Del and Trick Bentoin earlier (although
they're not named), but this section isn't quite accurate to later changes in
the book. The killing of Sandy Lansing isn't mentioned here, but it gives away
the fact that she's the dealer. The instances of "xxx" indicate that the
information has yet to be filled in later. But since the scene was cut, that
never happened, and the "xxx" still remains. So this section isn't so much a
simple cut due to length as it is a cut due to extreme revision. But here it is
anyway. The party was pretty much open to anyone hip enough to know
about it, and cool enough to get past the two bikers Silly had hired to sit on
the porch... Sallance Hanson's house sat on the west bank above xxx lake, just
south and west of the loop. From her front door, she could see the buildings in
the downtown loop. Just inside the front door, past the bikers, a 60-inch flat
panel TV hung from the wall like a painting that moved... The year before, Alie'e had gotten a small part in a
television movie. She was murdered in the fourth minute drowned by a
SCUBA diver who dragged her under by the ankle but in the second minute,
she'd stood on a Malibu beach in an orange one-piece bathing suit, her blond
hair falling around her perfect oval face. She'd said, "If you think you can
create a simple psychological portrait of me, then you are not nearly as bright
as I thought, Rod; like all human beings, I am more complex than any computer
model." Rod, the man she was ostensibly speaking to, was, at the time
of the filming, three hundred feet away, eating a pastrami sandwich with one
hand and scratching his nuts with the other. Alie'e repeated the line over and
over to get the wood out, the director said. The over-and-over aspect of
television always confused Alie'e; she was unable to react to empty space the
way a real actor could. The film loop, "...you're not nearly as bright as I thought,
Rod..." played on the sixty-inch flat-panel screen, under the beat of a trashy
European techno band; the air was heavy with hemp, and the smell of flowers,
together oddly funereal. Fifty people crowed the apartment: just inside, Kopp, the
German couture rep had backed a butchy feminist poet against the wall, both
with drinks in their hands while Sandra Lansing, deeply stoned, stood to one
side and teetered, as though she might at any moment fall face down on the
oriental carpet. A dozen forty-somethings danced in the piano room; the rest
wandered through the five public rooms. A man who might have been a Catholic
priest sat on a library couch with a martini and a leather-covered book that
might have been the New Testament. A rental-apartment hustler named Carl
McBride was arguing with a commercial real estate investor named Luis Ramirez,
the two men not quite poking each other in the chests. Jael Corbeau passed
through, trailed by a dark-haired woman, rich, good-looking and not long
divorced; Sallance Hanson noticed the German's eyes following Jael and thought,
"Hmm." And all of that was fine, but Silly Hanson was looking for
Alie'e. The party wouldn't make the papers without her, though the
Star-Tribune's party reporter had been in the house for hours, and had gargled
down enough Stoli to float a boat. Silly had worked at Pillsbury, in public relations, until her
trust fund arrived, after which she lapsed happily, at first, into a life of
idleness, and then into competitive party-giving. For this particular effort,
she'd gotten a tape of Alie'e's movie, snipped the line on the beach, turned it
into a computer loop and now was playing on the big TV screen in the foyer, and
on the wall of monitors in the media room. Silly Hanson was idle, but not
without a slashing sense of humor, especially when the victim wasn't bright
enough to get it. A fuss at the door caught her attention. Alie'e? Silly stepped
to her left and turned her head, carefully she couldn't be seen to be
eager but when she got the right angle at the door, found that it was
only Jaime Lord making a fuss over Amnon Plain and a man so huge that he looked
like... like a moon coming over the horizon. She went that way, and Plain saw
her coming. "Plain," she said, looking up at the big man, "Introduce me to
your friend." "This is Clark," Plain said. "He's working with us on the
Alie'e shoot." Clark was dressed in Levis, a blue blazer that Silly suspected
was a product of Sears Roebuck, a black t-shirt from the same source and shiny
new brown loafers, without socks. He unexpectedly thrust out a hand and said,
"Pleased to meet ya." Silly shook: he was so big that she felt like she was putting
her hand in a drain pipe. At her side, Jaime looked up at Clark and said, "You
are such a monster." "You two oughta talk," Plain said to Clark, nodding toward
Jaime. "Just don't sign anything until I say it's okay." "Sign what?" Clark asked. "A modeling contract," Plain said. "And you might not want to
pick up any soap in Jaime's shower." "Plain..." To Silly: "Is Alie'e here?" "No, but Jael is." She pronounced the name Ya-El, the
Hebrew way. "Fuck Jael." He said Jail. "Maybe someday," Silly said. Across the room, the dark rich woman who'd come with Jael
whispered to Sandy Lansing, "Silly said you might help me get high...might have
something to share." Lansing, her pupils the size of pinpricks, sized up the dark
woman: "Cocaine?" she whispered. "Mm-hmm." Lansing nodded. "I just got some. I could let you have a
bit." "God, that would be wonderful. I am so low." They went back to the bathroom, and Sandy gave her an
eight-ball in a plastic baggie wrapper; several more baggies nestled in her
purse, and a half-dozen foil capsules. The dark woman dug in her purse and
found a folded bill, and handed it to Sandy. "Thank you, thank you, thank you,"
the woman said. "How often do you find this?" "Well...a couple of times a week, depending, you know, on
what's happening. If there's anything going on." "Do you have a phone number?" "Sure." Lansing groped in her purse, found a ballpoint pen.
"Give me your wrist." The woman turned her wrist over and Lansing wrote her number
on it. "My name's Pella," the dark woman said, "I really appreciate
this. I don't really have another friend who's..." She groped for a word, and
finally came up with, "...connected." "You do have to be around for a while," Lansing said.
"Jael said you're just sort of coming out now..." She wrote Pella on
her own wrist; otherwise, as high as she was, she'd forget it, and a dealer did
not want to forget her customers. McBride actually did poke Ramirez in the chest this
time, and he said, "You don't get that old retail out of that place and get
something new in there, you're gonna lose it. I walked through there on
Wednesday, and you know what you got in there? You know what you got? Shit
shops. That's what the Aussies call them. Shit shops. There's not a single
goddamn thing in there that anybody needs..." Ramirez didn't like being poked in the chest, and you didn't
have to be a real estate genius to know that the shit shops weren't generating
any revenue. But under his sales contract with the city, he had to take the
shops on current lease if he wanted the rest of the deal, and the rest of the
deal included the parking garage in the basement. The parking garage was the
jewel, and McBride apparently didn't realize that and that made
Ramirez wonder about how exactly McBride kept his little empire running. Of course, rental apartments were a whole different world than
commercial space, but when McBride said, "Get you some money and look for the
blue collar neighborhoods, something solid but shabby," well, everybody knew
that. But how do you handle the get you some money part? McBride had a
couple of dozen buildings scattered around the Twin Cities, but Ramirez had
never heard where the financing came from... Jael Corbeau walked past with Pella the Rich Woman, and
Ramirez had a quick vision of a Jael-Pella sandwich with himself as the
weenie... McBride poked him in the chest again and was saying, "... sell
the whole goddamned floor to some big outsider like Wal-Mart; that's the new
frontier, cost-cut retailers in the central cities..." And Ramirez thought, what is this asshole talking about? A
sudden lull in the talk turned his head, and he saw Alie'e Maison at the
door. "Movie star," he said to McBride. McBride turned his head, took her in, and said, "Fuck anything
that walks." "You?" "Well, not yet." "I'm gonna go meet her," Ramirez said. The German said to Jael, "You can't possibly be a
lesbian." "Why not?" "Because it's too sad to contemplate." Jael smiled: "I've been known to take a man to bed," she
said. "Thank God. And speaking of whom, your name and your
brother's. How did you two get Old Testament names?" "My parents were going through their Old Testament phase when
we were born," she said. "They were Jews for a while. A year or so." "They're not Jews any more?" "Mother died; father's a member of the Bahai, now. He's out in
California." "Of course," the German said. His eyes moved toward the door
and he said, "Here's the guest of honor." Jael turned, and saw Alie'e, just greeting Silly Hanson. "And
you ask me how I can be a lesbian?" she said to the German. "But you're so much more attractive than she is," the German
protested. With his rutted face, the skin-head haircut, the deep eyes, he was
brutally charming. "She's like an expensive piece of glass. She's pretty, but
there's nothing to go with it." Jael smiled and pressed the trip of her forefinger against his
chin: "You are a sweetie; but you have a cruel upper lip," she said. Then she
slipped away toward Alie'e. Pella came out of the can, and the first thing she saw was
Jael and Alie'e talking together, and Jael reach out and touch the side of
Alie'e's neck, and then her ear, an intimate, stroking movement. The cocaine
rush switched tracks, and became cocaine anger. Here she was, Pella Angstrom,
propelling herself out of the hands of a faithless male, into the safety of
sisterly sex, and now this happens? She went straight through the crowd, like a bullet, caught
Jael's upper arm in her hand, her nails digging into the soft flesh of her
triceps; she turned her face toward Alie'e. "Could you introduce me to your
friend, Jael?" The gravel in her voice caught the ears of the languid crowd,
and more faces turned toward them. A cat fight? The man who might have been a priest pushed himself off the
couch and lurched toward the bar. He'd had two or three more than he should
have had, and given the opportunity, hoped to have seven or eight more before
they closed him down. As he careened into the main room, he collided with a man
dressed in a worn tweed jacket and a t-shirt that said "I'm with stupid," with
an arrow pointing at his crotch. "Oops." "Steady there." The second man looked like a street character,
with a hound-dog face and yellow teeth. He didn't give with the impact, like a
street waster would, and when he caught the priestly one, his hands were wound
with muscle. "Good party," the priestly one burped. "Need a drink." "Lean right here," yellow-teeth said, easing the priestly one
against the wall. "I'll get it. What do you want?" "A martini would be nice. They got them in big pitchers.
Crystal pictures." "Be right back." "With two olives." Yellow-teeth, on his way to get the martini, elbowed through a
triangle of women, and sensing the tension, bumped into the blonde with the
scar, and said, "Oops, Jesus, I'm sorry, honey, are you okay?" The blonde said,
"Yeah," and yellow-teeth went on, leaving the three looking a little
disgruntled; but the spell had been broken, and the possibility of a cat-fight
dissipated. Alie'e asked, "Has anybody got anything?" The rich woman said,
"That woman over there just gave me some." She nodded at Sandy Lansing and the
three of them drifted that way. Luis Ramirez, the investor, hitched his pants
and said to Alie'e as she passed, "Hey, liked the movie. You gonna do
another?" "Ask my agent," Alie'e said. "I'd like to." "Let me give you my card," Ramirez said. "I know some people
out there..." "Don't give her your card, Luis, let the poor woman go with
her friends," said Silly. The party rolled along, as they do; people flowing in and out
of the apartment, then, at two o'clock, beginning to thin, a trickle of people
wandering away, couples headed for bed. A young married woman sat in a hallway
outside a bathroom and sobbed. Yellow-teeth stepped out of the can, zipping his
fly, stopped and asked, "You okay?" She said, "No," and "Go away." He went
away, but as he was about to turn a corner, she said, "My husband and I are
breaking up." He looked back. "Since when?" "Since now," she said. "Is he seeing somebody else?" Yellow teeth had curiously
sympathetic eyes. "No," the woman said shakily. "I am." Jael Corbeau said softly to Alie'e, "Right now, you are the
light of my life." Alie'e, flying a little, now, nodded: she'd always been the
light of somebody's life, ever since she was a kid. "What's you're friend doing?" she asked. She was looking at
Pella. "Pella...She seems to be involved." Pella, across the room,
was talking to a redhead in an Irish-green frock; they were sharing a joint.
"Would you like to go in the back?" "That guy is watching us." Jael turned and saw the German; Kopp smiled and turned away.
Another woman drifted by, touched Jael, "Want a little sleepy-time?" And Alie'e said, "Mmmm." The man with the yellow teeth was in the hallway when he
spotted a thin dark-haired man in a Mets baseball cap, jean jacket and cowboy
boots. He had the weathered face and smile lines of a Marlboro cowboy, and was
laying some bullshit on a forty-five year old woman who liked it. Yellow-teeth stopped in his tracks, staring. "Trick?" The cowboy looked up, eyes narrowing: "Man, they'll invite
anybody to these things." "Oh, shit." Yellow-teeth, stunned, still staring. The cowboy was puzzled: "What?" "You're dead," yellow-teeth said. Alie'e moved softly through the dark, sat back on the bed. The
third woman closed the door behind them, and went straight to the bathroom.
Jael sprawled beside Alie'e and licked the corner of her eye, then kissed her.
Alie'e let herself go, felt Jael's hand on her breast. It all felt so good; she
could do this four times a night... In the bathroom, the third woman took a cut-down spoon out of
her purse and laid on the counter top. Alie'e heard the metallic click as it
went down, and her hips twitched; then heard tearing paper, then the strike of
a match: the smell of the match and the light odor of soap made her think of
home, of her mother lighting the stove with a kitchen match, and the smell of
soap from the kitchen sink. The woman in the bathroom said, "Are you
ready?" "Yeah..." Alie'e turned her arm and began slapping the inside
of her elbow joint, looking for a vein; Jael lay beside her. "This isn't much, just enough," the third woman said. She
stepped out of the bathroom, a tiny syringe pointing into the air. "Let me," Alie'e said. She found a vein, took the needle, and
slipped it in. She liked the needle: liked the anticipation of the prick, and
the feel of the steel sliding under her skin. She backed it, brought a little
blood, then eased the brown fluid into her arm and pulled the needle. The other
woman took it, and went back into the bathroom. Alie'e never heard the second match: she'd closed her eyes,
waiting, and as Jael helped her slip out of her dress, felt the most exquisite
languor overtaking her body. Hands touched her at the throat, at the breasts; a
tongue somewhere, a hand, and she moaned and moaned again, and let the heroin
sing to her... When Alie'e lifted her head again, she couldn't remember
exactly where she was, though she recognized the situation. On a bed, on her
back, semi-naked, her dress a silky band pulled up under her armpits. There was
an indentation on the blankets next to her, but she couldn't remember exactly
who had made it. She sighed, fought the drowsiness, lost for a moment, fell
back on the bed. Woke again, rolled off the bed: her mouth tasted terrible. A
clock glowed on a nightstand: two-thirty. Sitting up, she nearly lost her balance, nearly tumbled off
the bed; she was disoriented. Turning, she saw a thin line of light, projected
under a door. She got up; she was still wearing a shoe. Her bare foot touched a
crumbled piece of clothing and she stooped, picked it up. Underpants. Couldn't
find her missing shoe... She felt around with her foot, but couldn't locate it,
and headed for the door. There'd be a light switch. She found the door knob
first, opened it, saw movement. The killer was there, looked at her. Alie'e touched her cheek, oblivious of the dress still hung up
around her hips, her nakedness from waist-down. She touched her cheeks and
said, "Oh," and the killer launched himself at her, struck her in the face.
Alie'e felt her nose break, but felt no pain: the heroin was still in her,
dulling her. Though she felt no pain, she did feel as though she were drowning,
the drowning sensation that comes with a broken nose. And she felt the thin
bone break, like a soda cracker, and she felt her self falling and put a hand
down. The navicular bone in her wrist snapped with the impact, but she didn't
feel that either. The killer landed on her, a heavy man, his knees pinning her
shoulders, his hands on her throat. She felt her eyes widening, bulging, as the
thumbs pressed in, crushed her adams' apple. Still, the heroin was with her. She waved her arms, feebly,
flopped like a dying fish on a hot riverbank, felt the darkness coming again.
She'd always sought the darkness, welcomed it. Before she went under, she felt
a sensation of wetness along her buttocks. Then she was gone. The killer squatted over her, holding his grip; felt her go
slack between his thighs, and still held on. When he was sure she was dead, he
turned toward the door, his teeth flashing in the light, his face tight, the
rictus of stress seizing him, stretching his face into a mask of spasmed
muscle. He listened, ready to leap again, ready to fight. But he heard
nothing. Moved to the door, glanced down the hallway. Was it possible? Could it be this easy? Could he walk away? Maybe. Maybe. Maybe... He looked down the hall, moved to his left. He could hear the
voices from the party. Could he get out here? Maybe maybe... Man, this morning when he got up this morning, he never
would have thought this might happen. The anger had gone; the killing had actually felt good. And it
was so easy. This section was at the back of chapter ten, right after the
Lucas scene ends, but just before the scene with Jael. This was the first of
six sections that weren't cuts so much as additions that never got put in. The
author feared that there wasn't enough action; all the action happened while he
was elsewhere. So these sub-chapters were added to "spice things up". But in
the end, they were all left out, as they removed tension. The first man had a bad feeling about the call. A call to talk
about the Sandy Lansing situation? He almost panicked, but not quite. This
sounded like blackmail, and if it was, it could still be negotiated. He met Derrick Deal at his office; they sat across the desk
from each other and Deal never quite brought it out: that he knew who'd killed
Sandy Lansing and Alie'e. He was too practiced a blackmailer for that. He didn't demand an envelope full of cash. He asked for a loan
a check would be fine. He'd pay it back... someday. Nor were there any
threats of documents hidden in safe deposit boxes, or left with lawyers. Deal
was a more genteel blackmailer; in his world, things were done by word
alone. But the first man couldn't tolerate the threat. He had another
problem, and if the cops put two-and-two together, along with Deal... Deal sat in the visitor's chair, a look of greedy amusement on
his face. When the pitch wasn't immediately rejected, he knew he'd been right:
there was something here... The first man said, "I'm not sure I know you well enough to
give you a personal loan. I know what you're doing, Deal; you're threatening to
put me with Sandy, and dragging me into that whole Alie'e mess." "That's not what I want; I'm just kinda in a personal jam,"
Deal said, wheedling. "So call me tomorrow. I can't do a damn thing here tonight.
I've got fifty dollars in my pocket, and I'm not going to give you that," the
first man said. "I don't want to give you a check. I've got a couple thousand
in cash salted away in a safe-deposit box..." They talked for another minute, then Deal said, "All right,
tomorrow's okay." They both stood up and Deal stepped toward the door, and as
he turned his back, the first man picked up the mallet-style putter that was
leaning against his desk. Deal was just outside the door when he half-turned
back; at that instant, the head of the club was five inches from his face,
traveling at sixty or seventy miles an hour. He never saw it, never suspected
it; the club-head buried itself in his face and he went down. He bled, but the first man dragged him onto the secretary's
plastic carpet protector, and rolled him face-up. He hit him five more times
with the putter, like swinging an ax, the heavy blade turning Deal's face into
bloody oatmeal. When he was done when he was satisfied the first
man dragged Deal's body to the door; drove the car as close as he could, popped
the trunk. Then, because he had no option, he simply carried the body out and
threw it in the trunk. There were no screams, no calls, no questions, no lights
or running feet. Nothing. He went back inside, got a pile of tissue from the ladies
room, soaked half of them, and cleaned up the blood. That was more of a problem
that he'd expected, since there'd been some spray from the club head. The job
took an hour, but he got it done right. When he was finished, he carried the
towels back to the men's room, tore them up, and flushed them. Washed his
hands, rinsed his face. Now to dump the car. Someplace where it wouldn't be noticed
too quickly... someplace he could walk back from. This addition required some "surgery" on the book, to
shuffle things around. It deals with the killing of Amnon Plain, and that
happens inside a chapter rather than between chapters. Still, you can probably
see the intent here. It takes place towards the end of chapter eleven. The second man was a little disoriented. The night before,
he'd tried Jael Corbeau's house: in all of his television-watching experience,
when you hit a house, there was always a way to get in. You came in through
glass doors across a back patio, climbed a drainpipe or a fire escape or a
convenient tree, or you picked a lock... But Corbeau's place was like a
fort. And this place looked worse. A big blocky brick warehouse,
with a small parking lot in back. He circled it a few times; on one of the
circles, a woman came out the front door, and let it slowly close behind her as
she walked away. Three or four circles later, a guy came out the same door; and
it closed slowly behind him. Neither had looked back. He'd never seen that on a cop show, but it seemed workable. He
left the car on the street, got the gun out of the back seat, stuffed it inside
his coveralls and walked up to the building. If he stood just around the corner
from the door, he could hear it open... There was almost no traffic; still three hours 'til dawn. He'd
seen on a show that this was the most unguarded time of night, when everybody
was in deepest sleep... That seemed right, right enough that it stuck in his
head, but people were coming and going out of here like it was five o'clock,
not as if it were a couple of hours before dawn... The door opened, making a breathing sound, an airy hiss. The
second man waited for a long beat, then sidled around the corner. The person
going out never looked back; and the second man was inside. He took a piece of paper from his pocket, looked at it: Suite
722. He knew what the guy looked like from the news shows. A
tough-looking guy. The second man didn't want a fight. He took the stairs,
paused at four and six, a little out-of-breath, and on six, was startled when a
woman ran by in the hallway. She glanced at him, and kept going, laughing. He
hurried up the stairs, listened, then found 722. He could see light under the
door somebody was awake at this time of night? He pulled the gun, aimed it at the door, knocked. Knocked
again, louder, heard somebody call, "Yeah, hang on." The second man backed across the hallway, the gun
leveled. A dead-bolt rattled, and the door opened. The second man
pulled the trigger just once. This bit, meant for insertion after chapter seventeen, was
primarily to add some depth to the first man and the second man, both of whom
had only tangentially been in the book as characters at that point. What was going on? What was happening? The first man couldn't
stop watching TV. Deal had been found, sooner than he'd hoped, but Deal was
only a small part of it. Three other people murdered, and a cop shot? A woman
cop? The police would ever stop now. This would never drift off to oblivion,
like he'd originally hoped... Who was doing this? And why? Whatever the answer to those questions, he'd have to move now.
He had to insulate himself; and maybe make some provisions to run... The second man also watched his work on television. And
through the filter of the screen, nothing that had been done seemed much
different than any of the rest of it. He clicked through his 999 channels, from
the Alie'e murders to a History Channel documentary on Nazi atrocities to a Fox
network real-crime show to Murder, She Wrote to an Animal Planet piece
on African poaching to a noir shoot-out on HBO and a slasher movie on Cinemax
to a gansta-rap video to boxing to great car chases and finally to pro
wrestling and back to Alie'e one seamless, continuous pastiche of blood
and bodies in any format he wished. The whole Alie'e thing seemed a little pallid, in fact. He couldn't really expect anybody to forget about it, but was
it really that serious? Alie'e needed to be avenged people should
understand that, you certainly saw it often enough. Half the shows on
television were about the same thing. He wondered: if he quit now, would he get
away with it all? He thought about that as the murders and atrocities mounted on
the wide-screen TV in front of him. And he decided: he had to go back. There
were three more to do: Jael Corbeau, Catherine Kinsley, and whoever actually
killed Alie'e. He had an image of that last shooting in mind: the killer
being led across an open plaza, his hands tied in front of him, a sneer on his
face, a group of thuggish cops around him in grey suits and fedoras. He's gonna
get away with it, somehow, some hotshot attorney. Then the camera pulls way
back and we realize that we're looking at the scene through a scope, and that
cross-hairs are tracking the killerĂ–His finger tightens on the trigger, and the
gun jumps, and the killer throws his hands in the air as the bullet shatters
his brain... The second man leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and
did a stop-action slo-mo replay of the whole scene; sort of gave him a
hard-on. And this bit does the same thing: add more depth to the two
baddies. Both sections detail give away what's going to happen, and are
redundant given that Lucas then finds out what happened. Everything gets
explained twice, which is unnecessary. This insert was to come after chapter
nineteen. By eleven o'clock Tuesday morning, the first man was fairly
certain about one thing: he couldn't run. After all the work, the plotting, the
bullshit, there just wasn't enough money. Not if he had to hide. He would have
to stay put, to gut it out. And shovel some confusing bullshit over what had already been
done. Shoveling could be dangerous - but he had to remember that he was
ultimately managing for a trial. If he were never picked up, that would be
perfect; but if he was... A trial would hurt him, but wouldn't kill him, if it
were managed right. An acquittal, after all, was as good as innocence. The second man felt the warm breath of celebrity wandering
away. There were now stories almost as big as Alie'e at least, there
were if you went out on the satellite, got away from Minnesota. And the 'Net
was hardly paying any attention at all anymore. It was all Christmas sales now.
The second man had an insight: the Internet was television. That's all! It was
just more TV. But then that wasn't bad, was it? He punched up his
computer, went out in the newsgroups, clicked on alt . binaries . pictures .
celebrities . aliee and found a picture of Alie'e that emphasized the green
eyes: and with sixty-two inches of movie-format green eyes peering at him, the
second man drifted away into fantasies of sex, celebrity and revenge. He could do it all, if he could just get away from
here... Another long insert here, and yes, it's another
action-oriented one. This one details the killing of Rodriguez, and is pretty
effective, despite being a near-rerun of the Deal killing. Still, it adds more
to the book than the previous two sections. At least, insofar as the first man
is concerned. It goes after chapter twenty-four. The first man felt as though he were being tortured. He'd
visited Rodriguez apartment late in the day, had slipped a note under the door,
and then had retreated to the parking lot of a neighboring apartment complex to
wait for him. Rodriguez always worked until six or six-thirty, so that he'd
miss the evening rush to Woodbury. But on this night this one critical night he
hadn't shown up. The first man waited until seven, then decided to wait another
half-hour; and at seven-thirty decided to wait another half hour. And as his
car clock was coming up on eight, was about to decide to wait one more half
hour... when Richard Rodriguez arrived. Finally. Another car pulled into the lot couple of minutes after
Rodriguez, but nobody got out. Cops? Probably. Cops could be good, if
everything worked out right. They could be valuable witnesses... The light in Rodriguez' apartment came on; five minutes later,
Rodriguez headed across the parking lot toward his car. He was not-quite
trotting. The first man exhaled, cranked his car up and headed for the
parking lot exit. He had to beat Rodriguez downtown by at least a couple of
minutes. He beat him by more than that. After running as fast as he
could downtown, he dumped his car in the first on-street parking place he
found, then walked a block and a half to Rodriguez' building, and turned down
the alley to the loading dock. If the door was still set, he was okay. If not,
he'd have to go in through the Skyway, and risk being seen by somebody... But the door was just fine. He gave it a tug, and swung it
open, and stepped up and inside. When he'd first seen it, while scouting the
building, it appeared to have been used almost never; even the loading dock
itself was covered with a rime of greasy dust. Of course, it was possible that
a janitor checked it; but the first man had unlocked it at five-thirty, and if
it had just stayed unlocked for that two and a half hours... Excellent. He stepped up, inside, into the dark. Pulled the
door shut and locked it. Took out a pen light, and walked along a dark corridor
to a dirty stairwell, picked up a piece of wood the length of a ball bat, split
from a two-by-six. He slipped it under his coat, then headed up the stairs to
the third floor, one floor above the entrance from the parking ramp. He could
look through to the atrium to the entrance from the parking ramp. And this was
the sticky part. This was the part where somebody could walk in on him, and
wonder at him, waiting in the dark. There were other possible problems. If Rodriguez took the
elevator, he'd have to ambush him on the way out, and who knows how long that
would be? And there were at least a couple of people in the building: he could
hear them, upstairs, with vacuum cleaners, occasionally calling to each
other. If Rodriguez were right behind him... But Rodriguez wasn't. He
expected the other man to show within three or four minutes. Fifteen minutes
went by; an elevator went down, then back up. An office door closed echoing in
the dark, and somebody rode the elevator down to the second floor, and walked,
heels clicking, out through the door of the parking ramp. Somebody said something, and the first man leaned forward,
trying to see... and Rodriguez came through the door. The first man listened for just a second: only one set of
heels clicking down the tile. He opened the stairwell door, ran down a flight:
and waited. Five seconds later, Rodriguez pushed through. He saw the first man,
flinched, but had no more time than that. The club knocked him down, groaning.
A second swing silenced him. The first man stepped into the hallway, watched and listened.
Picked up Rodriguez, staggered to the atrium. Hung him on the railing,
listened, then pushed him over, holding onto his pants legs and then his feet
until Rodriguez was falling straight down. A little more than a second later, Rodriguez hit with a wet
thump. The first man hurried back to the stairwell, found Rodriguez briefcase,
carried it back to the atrium and left it. He spent fifteen seconds checking the stairwell with the
penlight, but found nothing at all. A minute after that, he was letting himself out of the
building, into the alley. He couldn't lock the door behind him. He'd have to
hope that whoever found the unlocked door wouldn't connect it with Rodriguez.
It seemed a good bet. If he could make it one more block down the street, he'd
be gone... This last, short insert was meant to go after chapter
twenty-five. It's another character-development piece, but like the
other ones is too short to really do any good, and just gets in the way
otherwise. And, again like the other short inserts, everything in it is
essentially redundant, as everything comes out elsewhere. The second man thought about Spooner. Got angry as he thought
about him. A banker, yet. A banker who'd taken Alie'e away from him. Wasn't
satisfied with whatever you could take out of a bank... The second man wanted Jael Corbeau and Catherine Kinsley, but
that could wait. That could even wait weeks; but Spooner couldn't wait. He
could feel the pressure in his head to hit the man; take him out; waste him;
terminate him. He'd had a vision of himself sniping at the killer as the cops
led him across a plaza, but now, it seemed the cops might not ever arrest him.
The first man had seen all the court shows: he knew the level of proof that was
needed. There'd been several cases on Law and Order where the crook
had almost gotten off, or even had plea-bargained for a lot less than he might
have gotten. Had escaped justice. Sneering, corrupt people in good suits with
smart lawyers maybe he ought to take a couple of lawyers... But he was getting distracted. Spooner was the one he wanted... |
27 February 2020 The Prey series, the Virgil Flowers series,
the Kidd series, The Singular Menace, The Night Crew, Dead
Watch, The Eye and the Heart: The Watercolors of John Stuart Ingle,
and Plastic Surgery: The Kindest Cut are copyrighted by John Sandford.
All excerpts are used with permission. All original content on the website (excluding some other
specifically disclaimed text) is copyright © 1997-2019 by Roswell Anthony
Camp. Please do not steal anything from these pages. If you want to borrow
something, write and ask first. Help keep moofs happy. |