within the area visible to Jud, at least. That included the entire back of the house, and its southern side.
Jud wasn’t much concerned about the front. In the Thorn and Kutch killings, the assailant had apparently entered by breaking rear windows. He must’ve come across the yard from the woods behind the house.
If anyone entered tonight, Jud would get a look at him.
But not a shot at him.
That would have to wait. You don’t take down a bastard just because he goes into a house at night, or because he’s wearing a monkey suit. You’ve gotta be sure.
He scanned the area with his binoculars. Then he ate another sandwich, washing it down with canteen water.
When the sun was too low to keep him warm, he put on his shirt. It was dry, now, and slightly stiff. He tucked it into his jeans.
Lighting another cigar, he leaned back against the steep rock face. The protective uprise of rocks at the front of his ledge blocked some of his view. The entire backside of the house was still visible, though. He would settle for that. A fair exchange, so he wouldn’t have to squat or crouch his way through the night.
After watching the house for an hour, he folded his parka and sat on it. Its thickness not only padded the hard ground but also gave him extra height, improving his view.
As he watched, he thought of many things. He concentrated on what he’d learned of the beast, searching for the most plausible explanation of its identity. Always, he came back to the time element: the first killings in 1903, the most recent in 1977. That certainly seemed to rule out the possibility that one man had performed all the killings.
Yet he couldn’t buy the idea that the killer was some ageless, clawed monster. In spite of what Larry had said. In spite of Maggie Kutch’s stories.
In spite of the scars on Larry’s back?
A human could have made those scars. If not with fingernails, then with the claws of artificial paws. A human dressed up in a monkey suit—or a beast suit.
What about the time element, then? Almost seventy-five years.
Okay, several humans in beast suits.
Okay, who and why?
Suddenly he had a theory. The more he puzzled over his theory, the better it looked. As he began to reflect on ways to gather proof, however, he noticed that darkness had come.
He crawled forward quickly to the stone lip. The house was black. Its lawn was a dark expanse, empty of detail like the surface of a lake on a cloudy night. Reaching into his pack, Jud pulled out a leather case. He opened its snap and removed a Starlight Noctron IV. Putting it to his eye, he made a quick scan of the house and lawn. In the eerie red light generated by his infrared scope, nothing seemed out of place.
When his legs ached from squatting, he backed away from the front. He lowered the Starlight long enough to put on his coat. Then he stood, leaning back against the rock face, and continued his surveillance.
If his theory was correct, he had nothing to gain by spending a cold night up here. He wouldn’t see any beast.
Well, it couldn’t hurt to stick around.
We should’ve put somebody inside the house. Bait.
Who’d go in?
Me, that’s who.
Too early in the game for that. This is time for surveillance, a good look from a safe distance. Learn the nature of the enemy.
If nothing else, I learn that the enemy didn’t enter the house tonight from the rear.
The scope was growing heavy. He put it down and removed the final sandwich from his pack. As he ate it, he watched without the aid of his expensive scope, and could see little except darkness. He finished the sandwich quickly and returned to using the scope.
After a while, he knelt and rested his elbows on the ledge of rock. He scanned the yard, the edges of the forest, the gazebo, even the windows of the house, though their glass would block most heat that the scope might pick up.
Leaving the scope in place on the rock, he stepped around his backpack and urinated into the darkness.
He returned to the scope. He swept the grounds. Nothing. He glanced at his wristwatch. Just after ten-thirty. He settled down, then, and watched for nearly an hour without changing position.
During that time, he thought about the beast. Thought about his theory. Thought about other nights he’d spent alone with a Starlight and a rifle. Thought a lot about Donna.
He thought about the way she looked that morning in her corduroys and blouse, hands tucked into the hip pockets of her pants. They became his hands, stroking the warm smooth curves of her rump. Then he saw his hands unfastening the buttons of her blouse, slowly parting it, touching breasts he had never seen but could vividly imagine.
Hard, his penis strained against the front of his pants.
Think about the beast.
Into his mind came the fat, black face of General Field Marshal and Emperor for Life Euphrates D. Kenyata. One of the big, round eyes vanished as a bullet ripped through it and took out the back of the emperor’s skull.
The Beast of Kampala was dead.
And so was Jud’s erection.
The guards—if they’d caught him. But they hadn’t. They hadn’t even come close. No closer than he’d allowed for, at least. Still, if they’d caught him…
There!
Just this side of the fence.
He held the scope steady. Though something—probably a bush—blocked portions of the heat image, he could see that the crouching figure had the basic shape of a human.
It lay down flat. It shoved something forward, apparently through a gap beneath the fence. Then it squirmed under the fence, itself. On the other side, it picked up the object and stood upright on two legs. It looked both ways, turning.
In profile, it had breasts.
It ran to the back of the house, climbed stairs, and disappeared into a porch.
A few seconds passed. Then Jud heard a quick, faint crash of breaking glass. 3.
When Jud reached the fence, gasping and hurting from his rush down the dark hillside, he didn’t take time to find the burrow. He tossed his flashlight through the bars of the fence, leaped up, and grasped the high crossbar with both hands. He flung himself upward. Stiff-armed, he braced himself above the bar. A muffled scream came from the house. His weight shifted forward too much, and he felt the point of a spike prod his belly. He leaned back, and kicked up his left leg. His foot found the bar. He shoved hard upward, letting go. His right leg cleared the spikes. He fell for a long time. When he hit the ground, he tumbled, rolled to his feet, and retrieved the flashlight. Then he sprinted to the back of the house.
As he rushed up the porch steps, he unholstered his Colt .45 automatic. He wondered briefly if he should change clips—exchange the standard seven-shot magazine for the twenty-shot oversize he kept in his parka. Hell, if he couldn’t get it with seven…
Inside the porch, the house door stood open. One of its glass panes was broken.
He entered. He flicked on his flashlight, swung its beam. The kitchen. He ran through a doorway into a narrow hall. Ahead, he saw the stuffedmonkey umbrella holder, and the front door. He shined his light over his left shoulder. It lit the staircase bannister. He rushed to the foot of the stairs, checked to the left and right, then swung his beam up the stairway.
Halfway up, it lit the red of a gasoline can lying on its side. He climbed to the can. Its caps were still in place. A three-foot length of rope had been passed through its handle and knotted, forming a sling. Liquid sloshed inside the can as he set it upright. He holstered his pistol and unscrewed one of the caps. He dropped it into his shirt pocket and sniffed the opening. Gasoline, all right. As he reached into his pocket for the cap, he heard breathing above him. Then a sound of parched laughter.
