Part 29 (2/2)

The third time, the gla.s.s suddenly collapsed, leaving a hole the size of his palm. He hadn't made a sound louder than a careful cough. He reached through the hole, flipped up the lock and pulled the latch, and slid the door back. Stopped. Listened. Inside, he turned on the flashlight. Yes. A bedroom, with a feel of disuse.

He crossed the room to the bedroom door, which was closed, took out the compa.s.s, waited until the needle settled, then ran it along the edge of the door. The needle remained steady, except at the handle, where it deflected. The door was not protected; he hadn't expected it to be, but it took only a moment to check.

He opened the door, half expecting the dog to be there, but found an empty hall, dimly lit from the lights downstairs.

Down the stairs, slowly, listening. Nothing. Through the hall.

Then: the dog's nails on the kitchen's vinyl floor, with a tentative woof. A few woofs were okay, but if the dog got out of hand . . . He reversed his grip on the crowbar, holding it by the flat end.

The dog came around the corner of the kitchen, saw him standing there, barked. Old dog, his legs stiff, his muzzle hair going white . . .

”Here, boy, c'mere,” Koop said, his voice soft. ”C'mere, boy . . .” He walked toward the dog, his left hand out, cupped, right hand behind him. The dog backed away, upright, barking, but let Koop get closer. . . .

”Here, boy.” One more step, one more.

”Woof.” Sensing danger, trying to back away . . .

Koop swatted the dog like a fly. The crowbar caught it in the center of the skull, and the dog went down without a whimper, just a final woof. Dead when it hit the floor, its legs jerked, running spasmodically on the vinyl.

Koop turned away. No need to be quiet anymore. He checked the front door. There was a keypad next to it showing an alarm light: the system was armed, but he wasn't sure what that meant. At the bas.e.m.e.nt door, he again checked with the compa.s.s. Again, nothing. Must only be the outer doors.

He eased the door open, took a step. Okay. Walked down to the bottom of the stairs, into the bas.e.m.e.nt-and the moment he stepped into the bas.e.m.e.nt, heard the rapid beep-beep-beep of the alarm system's warning, a bit louder than an alarm clock.

”s.h.i.+t,” he said.

One minute. He started a running count at the back of his head. Sixty, fifty-nine . . .

The safe was there, just as the moving man said. He worked the combination the first time and looked inside. Two sacks, two jewelry boxes. He took them out. One sack was cash. The other was as heavy as a car battery. Gold, probably. No time to think.

Thirty. Twenty-nine, twenty-eight . . .

He ran back up the stairs, to the front door, the alarm making its urgent beep-beep-beep warning. He hit it with the crowbar, silencing it. The call would be made anyway, but if someone was pa.s.sing in the street, he wouldn't hear the beeping.

Koop walked out the front door, back to the truck. Tossed the tools and the money bags on the front seat, started the truck, backed into the street.

Thinking: Fourteen, thirteen, twelve . . .

At zero, he'd turned the corner and was heading down the hill to West Seventh Street. Fifteen seconds later, he was in heavy traffic. He never did see a cop.

KOOP CHECKED THE bags in a Burger King parking lot. The first contained forty-five hundred dollars in cash: twenties, fifties, and hundreds. The second bag held fifty gold coins, Krugerrands. Already, one of the best scores he'd ever had. The first box held a gold chain with a ten-diamond cross. The diamonds were small but not tiny. He had no idea what they were worth. A lot, he thought, if they were real. In the second box, earrings to go with the necklace.

A wave of pleasure ran through him. The best score; the best he'd ever done. Then he thought of Jensen, and the pleasure began to fade.

s.h.i.+t. He looked at the gold in his lap. He really didn't want this. He could get money anytime.

He knew what he wanted.

He saw her every time he closed his eyes.

KOOP CRUISED JENSEN'S apartment. The apartment was lit up. He slowed, and thought he might have seen a shadow on the window. Was she naked? Or was the place full of cops?

He couldn't loiter. The cops might be watching.

He thought about the dog, the feet scratching on the vinyl floor. He wondered why they did that. . . .

The night had pushed him into a frenzy: exhilaration over the take at Posey's, frustration over the lights at Jensen's. He drove down to Lake Street, locked up the truck, and started drinking. He hit Flower's Bar, Lippy's Lounge, the Bank Shot, and Skeeter's. Shot some pool with a biker at Skeeter's. Scored another eight-ball at Lippy's and snorted most of it sitting on the toilet in the Lippy's men's room.

The c.o.ke gave him a ferocious headache after a while, tightening up his neck muscles until they felt like a suspension spring. He bought a pint of bourbon, went out to his truck and drank it, and started doing exercises: bridges, marine push-ups.

At one o'clock, Koop started back downtown, drunk. At five after one, drunk, he saw the woman walking back toward the hotel off Lyndale. A little tentative, a little scared. Her high heels going clackety-clack on the street. . . .

”f.u.c.k her,” he said aloud. He didn't have his ether, but had muscle and his knife. He pa.s.sed the woman, going in the same direction, pulled the truck to the curb, put it in neutral. He popped the pa.s.senger seat, groped beneath it until he found the bag, stripped out the knife, and threw the keys back in the box. Did a quick pinch of cocaine, then another. Groped behind the seat until he found his baseball hat, put it on.

”f.u.c.k her,” he said. She was walking up to the back of the truck, on the sidewalk. The night was warm for Minnesota, but she wore a light three-quarters trench coat. Koop wore a T-s.h.i.+rt that said ”Coors.”

Out of the truck, around the nose, a gorilla, running.

The woman saw him coming. Screamed, ”Don't!”

Dropped her purse.

Everything cocaine sharp, cocaine powerful.

Plenty of fuel, plenty of hate: ”f.u.c.k YOU.”

Koop screamed it, and the knife blade snicked out, and she backed frantically away. He grabbed her, got the shoulder of her coat. ”Get in the f.u.c.kin' truck.”

He could see the whites of her eyes, turning up in terror, pulled at her. The coat came away, the woman thras.h.i.+ng, slipping out of it, trying to run. She went through a sidewalk flower garden, crus.h.i.+ng pink petunias, lost one of her shoes, backed against the building and began to scream; the odor of urine rode out on the night air.

And she screamed. A high, piercing, loud scream, a scream that seemed to echo down the sidewalks.

Koop, drunk, stoned, teeth as large as tombstones, on top of her: ”Shut the f.u.c.k up.” He hit her backhanded, knocked her off her feet. The woman sobbing, trying to crawl.

Koop caught her by the foot, dragged her out of the flower garden, the woman trying to hold on to petunias. Petunias . . .

She began screaming again; no more words, screaming, and Koop, angrier and angrier, dragged her toward the truck.

Then, from above: ”You stop that.” A woman's voice, shrill, as angry as Koop was. ”You stop that, you a.s.shole, I'm calling the police.”

Then a man's voice: ”Get away from her. . . .”

From the apartment across the street, two people yelling down at him, one, two or three floors up, the other five or six. Koop looked up, and the woman began to sob.

”f.u.c.k you!” Koop screamed back.

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