floor beneath. Then I climbed through and sprinted into the hall.
A minute later, I was at the rear door. A simple dead bolt lock. I allowed myself the faintest smile before I opened it.
Jack shook his head. “You make me feel old.”
“It’s the makeup. Spend too long looking that age and you’ll start to feel it.”
I was damned tired of talking. We’d been nursing our drinks for almost an hour, and I’d done nothing but talk.
What else was there to do in a bar? Dance? Jack would sooner shoot out the bar lights for target practice. We couldn’t drink; we had to keep our reflexes and wits sharp. So that left conversation—which wouldn’t have been so bad, if Jack had actually participated.
After a while, I’m sure everyone around us pitied the poor guy stuck with the ditz who wouldn’t shut up. When I tried to stop, though, he’d always prompt me with a question.
Under normal circumstances, this wouldn’t have been a problem. Talking is good. It fills the silence, keeps the brain from sliding into places you’d rather it didn’t go. But I didn’t want to talk. I was on a trail and my prey was sitting only twenty feet away.
Cooper was a contact, not a job. Yes, he was a drug dealer, but from what I saw, his customers were willing enough. And he was a middleman, but he’d turned down that “offer” from Baron, so he wasn’t a complete scumbag. Yet none of that mattered because what swirled about me, as heady and intoxicating as peyote smoke, was the scent of prey.
“So you’ve been taking these courses in Peterborough…” Jack prompted.
His voice was sharp and I surfaced abruptly, my brain snarling at being disturbed. I tried to retreat, to pull the mask back on, but it was too late. Yet his eyes never left mine, just fixed me with a level stare.
“Your courses, Dee. What have you taken?”
“Umm…sociology, English, a classics course that I will never have any use for—” I stopped. “We have a likely customer.”
Jack looked at the mirror beside our table. The mirror allowed Jack to stay hidden in the corner of the booth, and me to keep the back of my head to the bar crowd while I watched them, focusing on a forty-something dark-haired bearded man in a black suede cowboy hat and matching shirt. Cooper.
I’d been here long enough now to establish Cooper’s sales pattern. Customer walks up. Customer engages in requisite two minutes of small talk. Customer leaves out the front door. Two minutes later, Cooper heads for the bathroom, located next to the rear exit. Five minutes later, Cooper would be back in his seat, his stash lighter and his wallet heavier.
We’d been waiting for the right kind of customer, and this one looked like it: a middle-aged man in pressed blue jeans and a cowboy hat that probably saw the outside of his closet only when he needed his fix.
While Cooper’s customer went through the small-talk portion of the ritual, Jack headed out the front door. I could swear I heard a round of cheers as he escaped the living Chatty Cathy doll.
A minute later, the middle-aged customer left, and so did I, but I veered toward the bathrooms as he hurried to the front.
Moving slower, I crept to the back door, then stepped out into the night. The middle-aged customer hovered at the edge of the parking lot, near the alley, casting anxious glances into its dark depths, unwilling to enter until Cooper was there to protect him.
Keeping in the shadows to hide my face, I strolled toward him, humming a Cowboy Junkies tune, which I don’t think qualified as country, but it seemed suitable, under the circumstances.
Hearing me, the man started. I looked over at him, smiled and slid my jean jacket open, giving him a peek at my holstered Glock.
He bolted.
I took his place.
I held myself still and silent in the shadows. Every dry leaf skimming over the pavement sounded as loud as crumpling newspaper. Water plinked into a puddle nearby. No, not water, antifreeze, dripping from a
A minute later, I was at the rear door. A simple dead bolt lock. I allowed myself the faintest smile before I opened it.
Jack shook his head. “You make me feel old.”
“It’s the makeup. Spend too long looking that age and you’ll start to feel it.”
I was damned tired of talking. We’d been nursing our drinks for almost an hour, and I’d done nothing but talk.
What else was there to do in a bar? Dance? Jack would sooner shoot out the bar lights for target practice. We couldn’t drink; we had to keep our reflexes and wits sharp. So that left conversation—which wouldn’t have been so bad, if Jack had actually participated.
After a while, I’m sure everyone around us pitied the poor guy stuck with the ditz who wouldn’t shut up. When I tried to stop, though, he’d always prompt me with a question.
Under normal circumstances, this wouldn’t have been a problem. Talking is good. It fills the silence, keeps the brain from sliding into places you’d rather it didn’t go. But I didn’t want to talk. I was on a trail and my prey was sitting only twenty feet away.
Cooper was a contact, not a job. Yes, he was a drug dealer, but from what I saw, his customers were willing enough. And he was a middleman, but he’d turned down that “offer” from Baron, so he wasn’t a complete scumbag. Yet none of that mattered because what swirled about me, as heady and intoxicating as peyote smoke, was the scent of prey.
“So you’ve been taking these courses in Peterborough…” Jack prompted.
His voice was sharp and I surfaced abruptly, my brain snarling at being disturbed. I tried to retreat, to pull the mask back on, but it was too late. Yet his eyes never left mine, just fixed me with a level stare.
“Your courses, Dee. What have you taken?”
“Umm…sociology, English, a classics course that I will never have any use for—” I stopped. “We have a likely customer.”
Jack looked at the mirror beside our table. The mirror allowed Jack to stay hidden in the corner of the booth, and me to keep the back of my head to the bar crowd while I watched them, focusing on a forty-something dark-haired bearded man in a black suede cowboy hat and matching shirt. Cooper.
I’d been here long enough now to establish Cooper’s sales pattern. Customer walks up. Customer engages in requisite two minutes of small talk. Customer leaves out the front door. Two minutes later, Cooper heads for the bathroom, located next to the rear exit. Five minutes later, Cooper would be back in his seat, his stash lighter and his wallet heavier.
We’d been waiting for the right kind of customer, and this one looked like it: a middle-aged man in pressed blue jeans and a cowboy hat that probably saw the outside of his closet only when he needed his fix.
While Cooper’s customer went through the small-talk portion of the ritual, Jack headed out the front door. I could swear I heard a round of cheers as he escaped the living Chatty Cathy doll.
A minute later, the middle-aged customer left, and so did I, but I veered toward the bathrooms as he hurried to the front.
Moving slower, I crept to the back door, then stepped out into the night. The middle-aged customer hovered at the edge of the parking lot, near the alley, casting anxious glances into its dark depths, unwilling to enter until Cooper was there to protect him.
Keeping in the shadows to hide my face, I strolled toward him, humming a Cowboy Junkies tune, which I don’t think qualified as country, but it seemed suitable, under the circumstances.
Hearing me, the man started. I looked over at him, smiled and slid my jean jacket open, giving him a peek at my holstered Glock.
He bolted.
I took his place.
I held myself still and silent in the shadows. Every dry leaf skimming over the pavement sounded as loud as crumpling newspaper. Water plinked into a puddle nearby. No, not water, antifreeze, dripping from a
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