Night Prey

by Carol Davis Luce

  Tobie?

  Jake’s lips came back to hers, his hands reached under her shirt to caress her feverish skin. He inched her shirt upward until flesh met flesh. She’d never made love in the woods before. The thought filled her with a tingling anticipation. A delicious ache throbbed in a feverish core low in her abdomen.

  The steady beat in her body migrated to her head. She heard it pounding in her ears like the hoofbeats of a horse, felt the ground beneath her feet vibrate. It slowly dawned on her that was exactly what she was hearing— the hoofbeat of a horse—Tobie’s horse.

  “Yoo-hoo. Hello?” her sister’s voice called out.

  Without releasing her, Jake loosened his hold on Robbi, allowing her shirt to slide down. His mouth nuzzled her ear as he said, “She’s a sweet kid, but I hate her.”

  She laughed lightly. His mouth covered hers, muffling the sound.

  The hoofbeats were deafening, the clatter diminishing gradually to a prancing tattoo.

  Robbi and Jake turned their heads to see Tobie astride the black stallion. She glanced at them, looked away, a shy smile on her face.

  “Oops,” Tobie said. “Sorry. Mom sent me out to get you, Robbi. I could tell her I couldn’t find you.”

  Jake smiled and stepped back. He took hold of Robbi’s hand and pulled her away from the tree. Together they went to where his shirt was spread on the ground. Robbi tossed several pine cones on top of the others, Jake lifted the makeshift satchel, and, without a word, they headed back toward the house, the horse and rider following.

  Jake dumped the cones into the bed of his pickup, then shook out the shirt and put it on again. Robbi took him around to the back door and they went in through the kitchen. She plucked pine needles and chips of bark from his shirt.

  “Looks like you’ve been rolling in the forest,” she whispered.

  “Don’t I wish,” he whispered back as they joined her mother in the living room.

  Lois Paxton insisted they stay for one cup of tea. She smiled as she glanced from her daughter to Jake, as if pleased they were seeing each other again. Yet nothing was said on the subject. Forty-five minutes later Jake and Roberta said good-bye and left.

  In the truck, halfway down the long driveway, Jake looked over at Robbi. He laid his hand on her thigh and gave it a slight tug. Robbi slid over close to him. He shifted gears and as he did so the backs of his fingers brushed maddeningly along the inside of Robbi’s bare thigh.

  “Come home with me,” he said.

  Her answer was to press his hand down on her leg and to lay her head on his shoulder.

  He shifted again, his hand caressing her inner thigh.

  She shivered.

  The old pickup followed at a discreet distance.

  THIRTY-THREE

  At Jake’s high-rise condominium, Robbi stood in the middle of the living room and took in the surroundings. The furniture was modern. Glass, brass, and leather in a color scheme of off-white, black, and gold. Here and there a bit of bright peacock blue emerged. Large paintings by Vasques Q. in strong, bold hues of black and white accented the light walls.

  While Jake fixed drinks, Robbi took her time looking at wall photos of Jake and his family and their two-story frame house. The front porch, the old fashioned kind right out of Mayberry R.F.D., with its porch swing and wicker chairs, seemed to be a favorite spot for family picture taking. Dates, in five-year increments, were inked in at the bottom. The earliest showed five females and three males. Jake, skinny as a stick, was the only boy child. Roberta felt a strange tugging in her belly. She moved on to the next photo. Now only four females on the porch—the mother had died. In each successive photo the children grew, became adults, had children of their own. The last picture was dated the spring of the present year. Eleven adults and over a dozen kids crowded on the porch. A reunion.

  Roberta crossed the room and let herself out onto the balcony. Four floors up, the view of the tree-lined river and the downtown buildings caught her breath. With a full moon reflecting on the river and the casinos brilliantly lit, the view was spectacular.

  A cricket chirped in the brush below. The night air smelled of grass and juniper. Roberta leaned on the rail, listening to the rushing river. Sparks of white flashed where the water broke over the jutting rocks and logs.

  “Sure you’re not hungry?” Jake asked, coming up behind her. He handed her a glass of chilled white wine.

  She shook her head, took the glass, and thanked him. “Are you?”

  He smiled that boyish smile and moved his head slowly from side to side. “Not for food.”

  He set his glass on the rail and turned to her. She followed suit. They melded into each other’s arms, their lips meeting in a stirring kiss that seemed to pick up where the kiss in the woods had left off. Within minutes Robbi’s smoldering passion, passion that on the drive home had been kept alive by his exploring hand on her thigh, was rekindled.

  Jake pulled away and silently led her into the deeper shadows of the balcony. He reached inside the sliding glass door and flipped a switch that extinguished all the lights. Across the river, twinkling lights reflected brightly in the moving water. Jake slipped his feet out of his shoes, then he crossed his arms, took hold of his shirt, and peeled it off.

  “I like watching you do that,” she said, low in her throat.

  “Taking off my shirt?”

  “Ummm.”

  “Sounds like I do it often.”

  “Ummm,” she murmured, nodding her head.

  He gingerly tugged at her T-shirt. “Show me how it looks.”

  Staring into his eyes, Robbi took hold of the hem of her shirt and, gathering it in her fingers, slowly pulled it up and over her head. She rested her wrists on top of her head, letting the shirt drop to the floor.

  Jake stepped closer. “That was nice.” He brought his hands up as if to caress her breasts, but instead he stroked the insides of her raised arms. His fingertips went as far as her elbows, then traversed back down, under her arms, along her sides, to pause at the waistband of her shorts.

  Robbi’s fingers went to the catch at the front of her bra, snapping it open. She parted the silk cups, arched her chest to loosen the straps from her shoulders. The bra dropped to the floor with her shirt.

  Jake gazed down at her. His hands gently cupped her breasts, his thumbs lightly brushing across her nipples. He leaned down, kissed them, his tongue tracing their contours, their texture, tasting, teasing.

  She sighed.

  He took her hands in his and backed up, pulling her along until they were inside the condo. Scarcely clearing the threshold, he caught her to him, the crisp hair of his chest tickling her sensitive breasts, and kissed her again.

  His hand slipped between their bodies and undid the button at her waist. Then he unzipped his own jeans. He knelt on one knee, removed her canvas shoes, then carefully pulled down her shorts and panties; she stepped out of them. His hands caressed the backs of her knees, her thighs, her buttocks.

  Roberta coaxed him up. She wanted to be held by him, to feel his hot skin flush against hers. Then they were kissing again. She loved his kisses. They were tender, lingering, urgent, and fiery.

  He buried his fingers in her hair, said her name softly.

  She tugged at his jeans.

  Jake stripped off the rest of his clothes. He lowered her to the thick carpet. Again his mouth sought to drive her mad. With an urgency she failed to understand, she wanted him inside her. Deep inside her as one. It was essential she experience the bonding of their bodies, the mingling of their energies and escalating passion now, before it was too late. Too late? Too late for what? She pushed the unformed thoughts away. Now, it must be now.

  She reached for him, stroked the solid, rigid length of him.

  “Oh, Jesus.” It was a half sigh, half moan.

  He supported himself above her as she opened herself to him. He entered her. Slowly, filling her up. Looking into his eyes, she saw a primordial hunger, a hunger for her that serve
d only to heighten her own desire. Intense. A look that seemed beyond desire, closer to anguish, pain. Where was that faint smile? That teasing glint? What was it about a man whose usual countenance was playful—boyish almost—what was it that made the awakening passion in his eyes so damn sensual? When he looked at her in that way, that soul- searching, erotic way, it was as though she could see the two of them making love in the reflection of his eyes— his mind’s eye. She wanted to cry with sheer pleasure, the sheer agony of it.

  Slowly he moved inside her, slowly and rhythmically. He continued to look into her eyes. She marveled at his face, his eyes were soft, loving, yet the muscles in his jaw tense, as though he struggled with an inner tumult. They shared, she realized then, the same sharp joy, the same pure torment.

  She had never felt this degree of passion or pleasure. It was something she had not even allowed herself to imagine, so inconceivable was the ecstasy.

  His hand moved from one breast to another, caressing. Pinpoints of pleasure spirited about wherever he touched. They moved together now, matching rhythm, as though they were one, had always been one. Gradually the rhythm increased until he was thrusting into her, his strokes long and swift. His breathing quickened; her breath came in sharp gasps.

  She had a vague sense of a storm building inside her, gusts swirling and battering at her soft, tender places. She heard the rumbling, crashing sound of thunder in her ears. An amassed electrical energy gathered. She closed her eyes and saw flashes of light, strokes of charged power streaking throughout her body. Lightning. Would it snake down, penetrate her most inner core, burst her asunder? She welcomed it. It was the only way she could possibly endure this relentless onslaught.

  And when his urgent, driving motion forced the raging storm inside her to erupt into a devastating climax, she cried out, clinging tightly to him. His mouth was kissing hers savagely. An instant later he was pulling her to him, his throbbing merging with hers in the eye of the tempest.

  Afterward she felt drained, so tired she could scarcely move. She had survived the storm. She felt like a survivor often does, reverent, grateful, and purged, with a new meaning for existing.

  Jake kissed her, a sweet kiss filled with tenderness. Then he rose, helped her to her feet, and led her into the bedroom. They slid beneath the sheets, embracing.

  Robbi felt herself slipping away into a gossamer world of serenity.

  Eckker grinned. Roberta Paxton, the very woman he had to find, had come to him that evening, had come to his woods. He had only to get his pickup, drive to the Paxton road that intersected the main highway, wait, then follow them back to Reno, to the high-security complex.

  Knowing he would not be allowed through the guarded gates, Eckker drove to the park at the end of the block, left his truck, and took the jogging path behind the units. He stood at the river’s edge and, on the fourth floor of the six-story building, watched the lovers embrace, partially disrobe in the shadows, then move indoors.

  Several minutes later Eckker jogged back to his pickup, an inflamed need gnawing at his gut.

  Jake, propped up on one elbow, watched Roberta as she slept. In the moonlight she was beautiful, angelic. Her hair, a mass of lazy tangles, spread across his pillow. He lifted a corkscrew strand, twisted it around his finger. It was soft, the texture fine. Her skin glowed by the soft light coming from the hallway. Her creamy complexion was the type that changed little from the sun. It deepened like a ripe peach, glowed warm and healthy. He detected a faint smattering of freckles across her nose.

  Robbi lay on her side, facing him, the sheet covering only her lower half. Jake caressed her seemingly flawless body with his eyes. She wasn’t rail-thin like the model figures of the past several decades. Her body was curvy, full in the breasts and buttocks, slender at waist and legs, her tummy flat. And she was soft, like a woman should be, he thought, lightly stroking his hand along the indentation of her waist and hips. The silky texture of her skin brought to mind their lovemaking of a while ago, and he felt himself swelling with the sweet memory of it. He wanted her again. He longed to kiss and caress her. Yet he knew she needed sleep. There was plenty of time. They had the entire night. He would fix them a snack. He would fill the platform bathtub with water and they would drink iced champagne with strawberries floating in it. They could make love again. Then they would talk. He wanted to know everything about her. Everything.

  He realized how little he knew. But what he knew, he admired. And what of her Wall Street boyfriend? She hadn’t said a thing about him since the hospital. Was it over?

  His hand lightly caressed the length of her torso. She stirred. He leaned down, kissed her smooth shoulder.

  She began to squirm; soft mewling sounds came from her throat. She’s dreaming, he told himself. What was she dreaming?

  A restlessness, a deep irritability gnawed at his nerve endings. Eckker turned this fitful energy toward the blond woman at the far end of the bar. She was there again, just as he sensed she would be. Last night a seizure had sent him running out into the alley, aborting his plan. Tonight nothing would stop him.

  On the end stool she sat feeding quarters into the video poker machine. Her mass of golden hair was pulled up into a ponytail to one side of her head, secured by a shiny clip. He didn’t care for that, but when he got her home, he’d ask her to let it down. A woman’s hair should be worn down about her shoulders, natural, flowing.

  He watched her scan the occupants of the bar casually, as if looking for someone in particular. Her scrutiny continued, finally penetrating deep into the dark recesses of the corner of the lounge where he sat watching her.

  Her gaze met his and locked.

  He smiled.

  Detective Kathleen Lerner scanned the bar area of the Zenith Club for the fugitive. A tip from an informant put the California escapee in this bar only two nights ago. Jesus Manuel Gonzales, a.k.a. Chino, was reported to be a regular here. He usually showed around midnight. It was getting close to that now.

  Her partner, Avondale, was in the pit shooting pool. Music from a DJ sound system blasted throughout the place. The crackerbox dance floor with its prism of lights was packed. An oldie, “Leroy Brown,” beat out from the speakers. Well, she’d had worse nights, she thought. At least she was inside with a cool drink in hand. The music wasn’t bad and she’d been lucky on the poker machine.

  She chuckled to herself; actually, this was all right. Aside from the fact that she couldn’t drink on duty, it was pretty much like her nights off when she did the single scene with friends; danced, played slots, and sometimes sat in on a draw poker or Texas Hold’em game. She was a damn good poker player. Like Kenny Rogers, she knew when to hold ‘em and when to fold ‘em.

  A man asked her to dance. She declined. She sipped her diet Coke and checked out the bar again. In the far corner of the room, through the dusty fronds of a silk palm tree, a big man sat staring at her. Her eyes moved on, then came back, involuntarily, to the man. She was mistaken, he wasn’t staring, he was devouring. Something utterly slimy oozed from his eyes, transmitting to her.

  His craggy face a mask of granite, he smiled again.

  Detective Lerner shuddered and quickly looked away. She twisted her head, looking for Avondale, and felt a measure of assurance when she caught his eye briefly.

  Although she didn’t look back at the man in the corner, she continued to feel the force of his black eyes on her. She sipped her drink, her throat suddenly dry. No matter how many partners she had for backup, how skilled she was in self-defense, or how heavily armed, that was one hombre she wouldn’t want to meet up with in a dark, deserted alley.

  Twenty minutes later she watched Avondale finish the pool game and then take a stool at the bar directly opposite her. After four Cokes, Kathleen Lemer had only one thing on her mind now—pit stop. She stared at Avondale until he looked her way. With her eyes she indicated that she was going to the rest room. His acknowledging nod was discernible only to her.

  She slid off the stool and
started in the direction of the alcove marked REST ROOMS, EXIT. Something compelled her to look in the back corner of the room. The man sat there still, his dark eyes followed her until she passed from his view. She would have to tell Avondale to keep an eye on that one. He looked like trouble.

  She clutched her purse closer to her. Through the soft leather she felt the positive, steel bulk of both the service revolver and the handcuffs. Then she was through the door into the rest room and the man in the bar was forgotten.

  While finishing up in one of the stalls, she heard the door open, footsteps, then the door of another stall close. She flushed, left the stall, and went to the sink. She heard the bolt release on the occupied stall. She shook the water from her hands, reaching for a paper towel, and, as she did, she looked into the mirror. He stood there, a massive figure in a dark jacket and pants.

  Two things about him initially shocked her senses. His immense size and the look in his eyes, a giant with intense black eyes. The smile made him all the more menacing.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing in here?” she said.

  He moved toward her, that insane grin on his bearded face. “I want you to come with me “ he said quietly. “I won’t hurt you.”

  “Get out of here,” she said, trying to keep the hysteria out of her voice.

  She opened her bag, reached inside. He was on her instantly, a huge hand clamping over the entire lower half of her face, his other arm pinning her arms to her side. She struggled, trying to use the self-defense moves that could bring down an antagonist larger than herself. The man was too big, the advantage clearly his. He lifted her off the ground. She kicked, her high-heeled shoes met unyielding bone; he seemed oblivious to pain.

  If he intended to rape her, he would have to loosen his hold, reposition her, and then she’d have him.

  He did the unexpected. He pushed through the door into the dim hallway and, as if she were a weightless mannequin, he carried her down the hall to a back door. Her muffled cries were lost to the blaring music.