under the man’s head and jerk it back, and his right brought the blade across the throat in a single cut. He stepped back quickly to avoid the blood and the falling body, preparing to strike again not because it would be needed but because that was the correct way to complete the motion. He remained poised to thrust for two seconds, then dropped the knife into the hot, soapy water in the sink and took two steps toward the door.
The polished wooden surface abruptly swung inward at him, and a waiter nearly collided with him. There was no time for decisions. The killer’s body did what it had practiced so many times: the legs pushed off to dodge aside and pivot, ending behind the waiter. The hands shot up, one beside the waiter’s jaw and the other to the opposite side of the head, and they pushed hard to turn the head against the body’s momentum and break the neck. The killer let the body drop on its back beside the other one.
Prescott moved to the swinging door. He stopped at the hinged side and reached to the small of his back for the pistol, pulled the slide to cycle it and put a round in the chamber. He felt the need to proceed quickly, but he used one second to visualize the dining room he had seen through the front window: where the nine customers had been seated, where the waiter and the boss had stood, and the places where they might have moved. He stepped through the door smoothly, his gun already aimed at the table where Robert Cushner sat. Bang!—through the forehead. Bring the gun to the right ten degrees, the arm still extended. The boss and the waiter both at the front of the room, the boss at the little podium where there used to be a reservation book and a telephone, and the waiter leaning against the wall near him. Two shots for them, one in the waiter’s chest because he was young and already on his feet, and one through the boss’s neck because he was near the phone—probably a head shot that was a bit low, but maybe a slip of the mind and not the hand, because the killer was aware he might try to use the phone. Then there were the two who dashed to the door—the young guys. They had been sitting in the booth by the window, and getting out the door had looked easy to them. By then the killing had seemed intended to be a clean sweep. He pictured them tugging on the door handle, and sensed a small, amused chuckle. Why was that? They looked funny: pulling on the door, pulling harder, their eyes widening with the bad news. BAM BAM BAM. Their bodies collapsing.
He moved his arm to the left, and found the parents with the two little girls. The husband popped up, probably with a vague intention of protecting the others, but making his chest an easier shot. Then the wife, clinging to him as he went down, a shot through the head. The two ten-year-old girls taking a step to run, two shots placed identically between the shoulder blades.
That left the young couple under the front window. The man had pushed over a table and lay on top of the woman to shield her from the bullets. Prescott saw the table in his mind, felt the impulse to fire through it ten inches from the floor, so the man would die on top of her, then to fire through it again to kill her. But he did not allow himself to be that sloppy. He took four steps around the fallen table, stopped at their feet, and fired through the man’s head, then his back, down into the woman’s chest. Both dead.
Incredibly quiet. Listen for noises from the street: cars stopping? People rattling the door? Nothing. He looked around him. There was nothing more to do but pick up the spent brass casings. First the two that had ejected to his right while he was shooting the couple. Then the bunch to the right of the kitchen door: three for the men at the locked door, two for the waiter and the boss, one for Robert Cushner. Eight. Then four for the parents and two children. Twelve.
He looked around again. Good. Brilliant. Only one shot into the target’s head, so Cushner looks no more like the target than any one of several others. The young couple share two holes, and that looks like random craziness. Shooting two little girls in the back makes it conclusive. All the brass casings are up. The cops use those to figure the order of shots, and now they won’t have them, or the distinctive marks a firing pin and extractor make on them that can reveal the model of the gun. There was a moment of elation, and Prescott savored it, tested it, and felt the delayed beating of the heart, the slug of fresh, oxygen-laden blood to the brain. Pride: I’m so fucking smart. A look at the bodies—a still life, juicy, cut fruit with a few dead fish laid beside it on the wooden floor, their eyes already clouding over. A work of art.
He turned and stepped to the kitchen door, switched off the light in the dining room, then backed through to the kitchen. He stopped to look down toward the spot where he had sliced the cook, to be sure he saw where the blood had run. Five quarts in a grown man, and a good bit of it pumped out on the floor while the heart was still beating: step carefully. But it’s okay: the tile floor in the kitchen has a little slope to it so water will go down to the drain when they wash it. The knife—take it? No, what the hell. Leave it in the sink.
First a new clip in the gun, then the back door. Stop, listen, then out quick and shut the door so the light won’t shine out into the alley and the door will lock. Walk at this pace—not in a big hurry, but not loitering in a dark alley, either. Don’t cut between buildings. This isn’t an emergency, so there’s no need to take the chance. Come out at the end on the side street. Now to the car and go. I’m gone now. There is no more connection to that restaurant than there is to any other place I see driving down this road. It’s done.
The elation is taking over. The pay. Yeah, that’s good too, but it’s almost beside the point. Reliving the sense that everyone else in the room is slow, as though they’re moving with weights tied to them. He had always been ahead of them, a superior being. He was still ahead, only this time he was ahead of the cops: they would never figure out what he had just done. Prescott pulled the car to the side of the road and turned the engine off. It was power. This killer had to be stronger and faster and braver, but mostly he had to be smarter, because that made the difference. If he was smarter, they were all in his power. If they were smarter, then he was in theirs. He could not allow them this giddy pleasure; he could not allow them to make him that afraid.
Millikan was grading final examinations when the telephone rang. The voice was the one he had been dreading for days. “Danny Millikan,” it said. “It’s me.”
Millikan sighed. “I’m not in this. I gave him your number, and that’s all. I’m not involved.”
“I wanted to thank you for the referral. It pays pretty well.”
“No, you didn’t,” Millikan said irritably. “You don’t do this for the money any more than the other killer does. You need the kick to keep your heart beating.”
“Actually, what I wanted to thank you for was giving the old man the stuff from the cops—the crime-scene photographs, and the reports. You knew he would give them to me. What good would they be to him?”
“You’re welcome,” said Millikan. “Now—”
Prescott interrupted. “You were there, weren’t you—at the restaurant? That’s why you gave him my number.”
“Yes.”
“You think it was Cushner first, then the rest?”
“That’s what I think.”
“I didn’t see any misses—none in the walls or the furniture.”
“There weren’t any.”
“Did he scoop up the shell casings too? I don’t see any pictures with brass, and no circles on the floor.”
“Right. No brass, no prints, no footprints in the blood, no identifiable fibers or hairs.”
“You have to wish somebody noticed him before he got this good at it, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” said Millikan. “I told the cops to find his client and make a deal for his name.”
“How promising is that?”
“The suspects are three big companies that wanted to take over Cushner’s business. The directors are retired senators, the chairmen of other companies, college presidents. There’s nobody to squeeze.” He was silent for a moment. “He’s yours now.”
“Don’t worry,” said Prescott. “If your luck holds, you may never hear from me again. I don’t need to check in with cops very often.”
“I’m not a cop anymore,” said Millikan. “I teach.”
“You teach people to be cops.”
“What is it? What do you want?”
“I spent the night at the restaurant. I can feel him. There’s something there at each step.”
“It’s different,” admitted Millikan. “I could feel that much.”
“He’s told us a lot. The padlock shows me he’s learned to open locks: probably took a locksmith course somewhere. He was in a hurry, but he spotted the lock and went right to it. That was because he knew he could open it, how long it would take. And he didn’t know the back door was open, either, but he knew that there would be a door, and that he would be able to open it. Then there’s the cook.”
Millikan couldn’t help himself. “That was the thing that struck me, too. He’s got a gun, he knows the front
