“What’s your name?” I asked him.
“Kurt,” he said. “Kurt Wagner. What’s yours?”
“Dexter,” I said. “Wait here a moment, Kurt.” I hurried over to Deborah before the strain of trying to think again proved too much for the boy.
“Deborah,” I said, “we may have a small break here.”
“Well, it isn’t your damned pot ovens,” she snarled. “They’re too small for a body.”
“No,” I said. “But the young man over there is missing a girlfriend.”
Her head jerked up and she rose to standing almost on point like a hunting dog. She stared over at Jessica’s like-boyfriend, who looked back and shifted his weight from foot to foot. “About fucking time,” she said, and she headed for him.
I looked at Angel. He shrugged and stood up. For a moment, he 80
JEFF LINDSAY
looked like he was going to say something. But then he shook his head, dusted off his hands, and followed Debs over to hear what Kurt had to say, leaving me really and truly all alone with my dark thoughts.
Just to watch; sometimes it was enough. Of course there was the sure knowledge that watching would lead inevitably to the surging heat and glorious flow of blood, the overwhelming pulse of emotions throbbing from the victims, the rising music of the ordered madness as the sacrifice flew into wonderful death . . . All this would come. For now, it was enough for the Watcher to observe and soak in the delicious feeling of anonymous, ultimate power. He could feel the unease of the other. That unease would grow, rising through the musical range into fear, then panic, and at last full-fledged terror. It would all come in good time.
The Watcher saw the other scanning the crowd, flailing about for some clue to the source of the blossoming sense of danger that tickled at his senses. He would find nothing, of course. Not yet. Not until he determined that the time was right. Not until he had run the other into dull mindless panic. Only then would he stop watching and begin to take final action.
And until then—it was time to let the other begin to hear the music of fear.
E L
E V E N
Her name was Jessica Ortega. She was a junior and lived in one of the nearby residence halls. We got the room number from Kurt, and Deborah left Angel to wait at the kilns until a squad car arrived to take over.
I never knew why they were called residence halls instead of dormitories. Perhaps it was because they looked so much like hotels nowadays. There were no ivy-covered walls bedecking the hallowed halls here, the lobby had lots of glass and potted plants, and the halls were carpeted and clean and new-looking.
We stopped at the door of Jessica’s room. It had a small, neat card taped at eye level that read ariel goldman & jessica ortega.
Below that in smaller print it said intoxicants required for entry. Someone had underlined “Entry” and scrawled below it you think ?
Deborah raised an eyebrow at me. “Party girls,” she said.
“Somebody has to do it,” I said.
She snorted and knocked on the door. There was no answer, and Debs waited a full three seconds before knocking again, much harder.
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I heard a door open behind me and turned to see a reed-thin girl with short blond hair and glasses looking at us. “They’re not here,”
she said with clear disapproval. “For like a couple of days. First quiet I’ve had all semester.”
“Do you know where they went?” Deborah asked her.
The girl rolled her eyes. “Must be a major kegger somewhere,”
she said.
“When was the last time you saw them?” Deborah said.