Michael Prescott - Deadly Pursuit

He unclasped the latches and opened the lid.

The bundle of gear had been hastily crammed inside, wrapped in a towel in a futile attempt to prevent water leakage.

Jack removed the bag, rummaged in it, and found his Swiss Army knife.

There were other knives in the house, of course. Steak knives, carving knives. But those were difficult to conceal. And any of them, unlike this weapon, would be unfamiliar in his hand.

He practiced extracting and retracting the spear blade, pleased by the sharp snap it made with each release.

When he slipped the knife into his pocket, he felt complete again, revitalized. His old sense of power and control was back.

Sometime tonight he would find a way to feed this knife of his.

It was hungry now. Hungry for blood.

Silence around the dinner table.

Kirstie ate slowly, watching Jack Dance and her husband, who watched each other.

Strong violet light, the last glory of the sunset, flooded through the French doors, dimming the bulbs in the wrought-iron chandelier to a mere afterthought. The faces of the two men were murky and strange in the purple glow.

Jack, chewing industriously with his elbow on the table, delivering forkfuls of food to his mouth with conveyor-belt efficiency, was an engine single-mindedly stoking itself. Steve, barely nibbling at his portion, seemed lost in dark thoughts.

On the floor by Jack’s feet, Anastasia whined. Absently, Jack offered her a bite of chicken.

“I wish you wouldn’t feed her,” Kirstie said. Her voice seemed loud and startling in the stillness. “I don’t want her begging for table scraps.”

Jack shrugged. “She’s a good dog.” His smile, meant to be ingratiating, was merely insolent. “Deserves a little attention now and then. Don’t you, sweetheart?”

He ruffled Ana’s fur. The wolfhound made a contented purring sound.

“She gets plenty of attention, but not at the table.”

Kirstie looked at Steve, hoping for support. “Anyway, she’s already eaten.”

“Still seems to have an appetite,” Jack said.

“Dogs always have an appetite.”

“Well, that’s why they should be fed.” He gave Anastasia another scrap, then let her lick his fingers. “See how she loves her Uncle Jack?”

Kirstie studied his face, his hazel eyes, and saw no benevolence there, no fondness for the dog, no enjoyment other than malicious satisfaction.

He’s doing this only to get me upset, she realized. He doesn’t even like Ana. He just… hates me.

Hate. A strong word. Yet it seemed to fit.

And why not? She hated him, didn’t she? She wasn’t even sure why. The feeling was almost instinctual-the automatic response of two natural enemies-the lion and the hyena, the mongoose and the…

Snake.

They continued their meal without further conversation. The sun was gone, darkness total, by the time dinner was finished. From the garden droned the shrill buzz of cicadas. Somewhere a vireo sang.

“Delicious, Mrs. G.” Jack wiped his mouth with a napkin.

“Delicious,” Steve echoed emptily.

She acknowledged their compliments with a muted thank-you, then added perfunctorily, “Anyone for dessert?”

“Just coffee, please,” Jack said, and Steve nodded.

She rose. “I’ll put these dishes in the sink, then put on a pot of decaf. That okay, Jack?”

“Perfect.” He stood also. “Let me help you clear the table.”

“How thoughtful.”

“The least I can do.”

His politeness was grating in its artificiality, her own responses equally false.

Isn’t it funny how we’re all pretending everything is normal when we know it’s not?

She gathered up the plates and carried them into the kitchen. Anastasia trailed her, hunting for more food.

“Quit it, Ana. You’ve had enough.”

She filled the sink with soapy water and let the plates soak. Turning, she nearly stumbled over Ana, begging theatrically, her paws lifted, head cocked.

“Damn.” She caught her breath. “All right, out of the kitchen. Go on. Out.”

She shooed Ana into the dining room, then followed, passing Jack as he carried in the glasses.

“You’ve spoiled my dog,” she said with a frozen smile.

“Hey, let her live a little. These go in the sink?”

She nodded. “Please.”

Ana circled the table, sniffing the floor. She found Steve and nuzzled his leg.

“Get away, girl,” Steve muttered as he collected napkins and place mats.

“He’s leaving soon,” Kirstie whispered close to his ear. “Or I am.”

“Don’t worry. Everything will be fine… You, uh, you put on the coffee?”

“Not yet.”

“You’re having some, too, aren’t you?”

“Sure. Why?”

He turned away. “Just wondered.”

Jack returned and began to stack the salad bowls. Anastasia licked his pants leg industriously. Jack laughed.

“Hey, sweetheart, I love you, too.”

“Ana,” Kirstie snapped. “Stop that.”

The dog obeyed with a hurt expression.

At least she still listens to me, Kirstie thought bitterly. She hasn’t completely forgotten where her loyalties lie.

Steve came back from the kitchen, his hands empty, and looked for something to do.

“Looks like we’re just about done here,” Kirstie said. “If you’d like, you can start the coffee.”

“I’ll do that.” He glanced at Jack. “In fact, why don’t you two go sit on the patio, and I’ll bring out the coffee when it’s ready?”

The words were addressed to her, but at the margin of her vision she caught Jack’s nearly imperceptible nod.

“Uh… fine,” she answered.

“Okay.” Steve half turned toward the kitchen doorway. “It’ll take maybe five minutes-”

Ana, still seeking attention, reared up and planted both forepaws on Steve’s side, sweeping her tongue across his face.

“Hey, hey, get down.”

He took a clumsy backward step. Ana scrabbled at his waist to hang on. Something shifted under Steve’s jacket-Kirstie saw a flash of panic on his face, a jerk of his hand toward his side-too late-the jacket flapped open, and a metallic object, bulky and blue-black, tumbled out.

It hit the floor with a crack and skidded across the inlaid tiles, coming to rest against one leg of the table.

The Beretta.

Kirstie looked blankly, uncomprehendingly, at her husband.

Steve returned her stare, then shifted his focus to Jack.

Their gazes locked.

For a moment-it might have been a second or an hour-no one moved.

A splintering crash.

Shatter of porcelain.

The salad bowls Jack had been holding, now in pieces on the floor.

Jack on his knees, plunging under the table, groping for the gun.

Steve threw Anastasia aside, flung himself prostrate, right arm outstretched.

Jack’s hand closed over the blued barrel. Steve seized the handle and wrenched the pistol free.

He scrambled backward and lurched upright, aiming the Beretta at Jack with shaking hands.

Slowly, Jack got to his feet, panting raggedly, his hair in sweaty disarray.

From the doorway. Ana whined.

Kirstie stood motionless, her glance ticking from one man to the other.

This couldn’t be happening. It was some kind of joke. She waited for Steve and Jack to burst out laughing.

But there was no laughter. Steve steadied his gun hand and wiped a strand of hair from his forehead. Jack watched the Beretta warily, a vein beating in his temple.

The slow, visible pulsation of that vein finally convinced Kirstie that all this was real.

“What the hell is going on?”

The voice startled her. She needed a heartbeat of time to recognize it as her own.

Jack smiled. A smile cleansed of any phony friendliness now. Pure malice, open and concentrated, frightening to see.