Chosen Prey

ahead . . . .
    Like great sex, she thought—if he’d ever get out of the bathroom.
     
    T HE ROPE WAS in his jacket, balled up. Qatar took it out and pulled his hand down the length of it, as though to strip away its history. Eighteen inches long, it had begun life as the starter rope on a Mercury outboard motor—one end still had the rubber pull-handle. The rope had been with him, he thought, for almost half his life. When he’d eliminated the tangles, he coiled it neatly around the fingers of his left hand, slipped the coil off his fingers, and pushed it carefully into his hip pocket. Old friend.
    Barstad had been a brutal disappointment. She’d been nothing like her images had suggested she’d be. She’d been absolutely white-bread, nothing but spread-your-legs-and-close-your-eyes. He couldn’t continue with a woman like that.
    The postcoital depression began leaking away, to be replaced by the half-forgotten killing mood—a fitful state, combining a blue, close-focused excitement with a scratchy, unpleasant fear. He picked up his jacket and carried it into the living room, a space just big enough for a couch and coffee table, hung it neatly on the back of a wooden rocking chair, and walked to the corner of the makeshift kitchen.
    The kitchen smelled a little of chicken soup, a little of seasoned salt, a little of cut celery, all pulled together by the hum of the refrigerator and the sound of the radio. Barstad was there, with both hands in dishwater. She was absently mouthing the words to a soft-rock tune that Qatar didn’t recognize, and moving her body with it in that self-conscious, upper-Midwest way.
    Barstad had honey-blond hair and blue eyes under pale, almost white eyebrows. She dressed down, in Minnesota fashion, in earth-colored shifts, turtlenecks, dark tights, and clunky shoes. The church-mouse clothes did not completely conceal an excellent body, created by her Scandinavian genes and toned by compulsive bicycle-riding. All wasted on her, Qatar thought. He stepped into the kitchen, and she saw him and smiled shyly. “How are you?” she asked.
    “Wonderful,” he said, twinkling at her, the rope pressing in his hip pocket. She’d known the sex hadn’t been that good—that’s why she’d fled to her dishes. He bent forward, his hands at her waist, and kissed her on the neck. She smelled like yellow Dial soap. “Absolutely the best.”
    “I hope it will get better,” she said, blushing. She had a sponge in her hand. “I know it wasn’t everything you expected . . . .”
    “You are such a pretty woman,” he said. He touched the side of her neck, cooing at her. “Such a pretty woman.”
    He pushed his hips against her, and she moved her butt back against him. “And you are such a liar,” she said. She was not good at small talk. “But keep it up.”
    “Mmmm.” The rope was in his hand.
    His fingers fit over the T of the handle; he would loop it over her chin, he thought, so that it wouldn’t get hung up by the turtleneck. He would have to pull her over, he thought; get a foot wedged behind hers and jerk hard, backward and down, then hang her over the floor, so that her own weight would strangle her. Had to watch for fingernails, and to control the attitude of her body with his knees. Fingernails were like knives. He turned one foot to block her heels, so that she would trip over it when she went down.
    Careful here, he thought. No mistakes now.
     
    “I KNOW THAT wasn’t too great,” she said, not looking back at him. A pink flush crawled up her neck, but she continued, doggedly, “I haven’t had that much experience, and the men . . . weren’t very . . . good.” She was struggling with the words. This was hard. “You could show me a lot about sex. I’d like to know. I really would. I’d like to know everything. If we could find a way to talk about it without being too, you know, embarrassed about it.”
     
    S HE DERAILED HIM.
    He’d been one second from taking her, and her words barely penetrated the killing fog. But they got through.
    She wanted what? To learn about sex, a lot about sex? The idea was an erotic slap in the face, like something from a bad pornographic film, where the housewife asks the plumber to show her how to . . .
    He stood frozen for a moment, then she half-turned and gave him the shy, sexy smile that had attracted him in the first place. Qatar pushed against her again and fumbled the rope back into his hip pocket.
    “I think