blood flowed.
The rabbit twitched, not in an attempt to escape but a to express its
resignation to its fate; they were slow spas strangely sensuous, as if
the creature almost welcomed death. Over the years Candy had seen this
behavior in countless animals, especially in rabbits, and he always
thrilled to it, it gave him a heady sense of power, made him feel as one
the fox and the wolf.
The spasms ceased, and the rabbit went limp in his hand Though it was
still alive, it had acknowledged the immanence of death and had entered
a trance like state in which it felt no pain. This seemed to be a grace
that God bestowed small prey.
Candy bit into its throat again, harder this time, deeper,bit again,
deeper still, and the life of the rabbit spurted bubbled into his greedy
mouth.
Far away in another canyon, a coyote howled. It was answered by others
in its pack. A chorus of eerie voices rose fell and rose again, as if
the coyotes were aware that they were not the only hunters in the night,
as if they smelled the kill.
When he had supped, Candy cast the drained corpse aside. His need was
still great. He would have to break open blood reservoirs within more
rabbits or squirrels before his thirst was slaked.
He got to his feet and headed farther up into the canyon, where the
wildlife had not been disturbed by his first use of the power, where
creatures of many kinds waited in their burrows and hidey-holes to be
harvested. The night was deep and bountiful.
MAYBE IT was just Monday morning blues. May it was the bruised sky and
the promise of rain that formed her mood. Or maybe she was tense and
sour because the violent events at Decodyne were only four days in the
past and the fore still too fresh. But for some reason, Julie did not
want take on this Frank Pollard’s case. Or any other new case, that
matter. They had a few ongoing security contracts with firms they had
served for years, and she wanted to stick to the comfortable, familiar
business. Most of the work they did was about as risky as going to the
supermarket for a quart of milk but danger was a potential of the job,
and the degree of danger in each new case was unknown. If a frail,
elderly lady had come to them that Monday morning, seeking help in
finding a lost cat, Julie probably would have regarded her as a menace a
par with an ax-wielding psychopath. She was edgy. After a if luck had
not been with them last week, Bobby would no be four days dead Sitting
forward in her chair, leaning over her sturdy met and-Formica desk, arms
crossed on the green-felt blotter, Julie studied Pollard. He could not
meet her eyes, and that evasiveness aroused her suspicion in spite of
his harmless -even his appearance.
He looked as if he ought to have a Vegas comedian’s nam Shecky, Buddy,
something like that. He was about thirty yea old, Jive ten, maybe a
hundred and eighty pounds, which him was thirty pounds too much;
however, it was his face that was most suited for a career in comedy.
Except for a coup of curious scratches that were mostly healed, it was a
pleasant mug: open, kind, round enough to be jolly, deeply dimple A
permanent flush tinted his cheeks, as if he had been standing in an
arctic wind for most of his life. His nose was reddish too, apparently
not from too great a fondness for booze, but from having been broken a
few times; it was lumpish enough to be amusing, but not sufficiently
squashed to make him look like a thug.
Shoulders slumped, he sat in one of the two leather-arm chrome chairs in
front of Julie’s desk. His voice was soft and pleasant, almost musical.
“I need help. I don’t know where else to go for it.” In spite of his
comedic looks, his manner was bleak. Though it was mellifluous, his
voice was heavy with despair and weariness. With one hand he
periodically wiped his face, as if pulling off cobwebs, then peered at