Night Prey

half-dozen times a night, occasionally stopping to snoop. She was safe, she thought. Her jewelry case, of polished black walnut, sat right there on the dressing table.
    Koop picked it up carefully with both hands, pulled it against his stomach like a fullback protecting a football. He stepped back through the door and padded back down the hall to the living room, where he placed the case on the rug and knelt beside it. He carried a small flashlight in his breast pocket. The lens was covered with black tape, with a pinhole through the tape. He turned it on, held it between his teeth. He had a needle of light, just enough to illuminate a stone or show a color without ruining his night vision.
    Sara Jensen’s jewelry case held a half-dozen velvet-lined trays. He took the trays out one at a time, and found some good things. Earrings, several pair in gold, four with stones: two with diamonds, one with emeralds, one with rubies. The stones were fair—one set of diamonds were more like chips than cut stones. Total retail, maybe five thousand. He’d get two thousand, tops.
    He found two brooches, one a circle of pearls, the other with diamonds, a gold wedding band, and an engagement ring. The diamond brooch was excellent, the best thing she owned. He would have come for that alone. The engagement stone was all right, but not great. There were two gold bracelets and a watch, a woman’s Rolex, gold and stainless steel.
    No belt.
    He put everything into a small black bag, then stood, stepping carefully around the empty trays, and went back through the bedroom. Slowly, slowly, he began opening the dresser drawers. The most likely place was the upper left drawer of the chest. The next most likely was the bottom drawer, depending on whether or not she was trying to hide it. He knew this from experience.
    He took the upper drawer first, easing it out, his hands kneading through the half-seen clothing. Nothing hard. . . .
    The belt was in the bottom left-hand drawer, at the back, under some winter woolens. So she was a bit wary. He drew it out, hefting it, and turned back toward Sara Jensen. She had a firm chin, but her mouth had gone slightly slack. Her breasts were round and prominent, her hips substantial. She’d be a big woman. Not fat, just big.
    Belt in his hands, Koop started to move away, stopped. He’d seen the bottle on the dressing table, and ignored it as he always ignored them. But this time . . . He reached back and picked it up. Her perfume. He started for the door again and almost stumbled: he wasn’t watching the route, he was watching the woman, spread right there, an arm’s length away, his breath coming hard.
    Koop stopped. Fumbled for a moment, folding the belt, slipped it into his pocket. Took a step away, looked down again. White face, round cheek, dark eyebrows. Hair splayed back.
    Without thinking, without even knowing what he was doing—shocking himself, recoiling inside—Koop stepped beside the bed, bent over her, and lightly, gently, dragged his tongue over her forehead. . . .

    HARRIET WANNEMAKER WAS frankly interested in a drink at McClellan’s: she had color in her face, the warmth of excitement. She’d meet him there, the slightly dangerous man with the mossy red beard.
    He left before she did. His nerves were up now. He hadn’t made a move yet, he was still okay, nothing to worry about. Had anybody noticed them talking? He didn’t think so. She was so colorless, who cared? In a few minutes . . .
    The pressure was a physical thing, a heaviness in his gut, an inflated feeling in his chest, a pain in the back of his neck. He thought about heading home, ditching the woman. But he wouldn’t. There was another pressure, a more demanding one. His hand trembled on the steering wheel. He parked the truck on Sixth, on the hill, opened the door. Took a nervous breath. Still time to leave . . .
    He fished under the seat, found the can of ether and the plastic bag with the rag. He opened the can, poured it quickly into the bag, and capped the can. The smell of the ether was nauseating, but it dissipated in a second. In the sealed bag, it quickly soaked into the rag. Where was she?
    She came a few seconds later, parked down the hill from him, behind the truck, spent a moment in the car, primping. A beer sign in McClellan’s side window, flickering with a bad bulb, was the biggest light around, up at the top of the hill. He could still back out. . . .
    No. Do it.

    SARA JENSEN HAD tasted of