Silent Prey by John Sandford Read Free Book Online Page A

smile crept across his face.
    “You could have fooled me,” she said. “You look like you’re asleep.”
    “Resting between bouts of vigorous activity,” he said. He sat up, opened his eyes and looked down at her. She’d lost weight, he thought. Her face was narrower, with more bone. And she’d cut her hair: it had been full, to the shoulders. Now it was short, not punk, but asymmetrical, with the hair above her ears cut almost to the skin. Strangely sexy.
    Her hair had changed, but her smile had not: her teeth were white as pearls against her olive skin. “You’re absolutely gorgeous,” he said.
    “Don’t start, Lucas, I’m already up to my knees in bullshit,” she answered. But she smiled, and one of her upper incisors caught on her lower lip. His heart jumped. “This is a business trip.”
    “Mmmm.” Bekker. The papers were full of it. Six already dead. Bodies without eyelids. Cut up, in variousways—not mutilated. Bekker did very professional work, as befitted a certified pathologist. And he wrote papers on the killings: strange, contorted, quasiscientific ramblings about the dying subjects and their predeath experiences, which he sent off to scientific journals. “Are you running the case?”
    “No, but I’m . . . involved,” she said. She was peering up at him with the comic helplessness with which people on the ground regard people on roofs. “I’m getting a crick in my neck. Come down.”
    “Who’ll maintain my property?” he teased.
    “Fuck your property,” she said.
    He took his time coming down the ladder, aware of the special care: Five years ago, I’d of run down . . . hell, three years ago . . . getting older. Forty-five coming up. Fifty still below the horizon, but you could see the shadow of it . . .
    He’d been stretching, doing roadwork, hitting a heavy bag until he hurt. He worked on the Nautilus machines three nights a week at the Athletic Club, and tried to swim on the nights he didn’t do Nautilus. Forty-four, coming onto forty-five. Hair shot through with gray, and the vertical lines between his eyes weren’t gone in the mornings.
    He could see the two extra years in Lily as well. She looked tougher, as though she’d been through hard weather. And she looked hurt, her eyes wary.
    “Let’s go inside,” he said as he bent to let her kiss him on the cheek. He didn’t have to bend very far; she was nearly as tall as he was. Chanel No. 5, like a whiff of distant farm flowers. He caught her by the arm. “Jesus, you look good. Smell good. Why don’t you call?”
    “Why don’t you?”
    “Yeah, yeah . . .” He led the way through the front door to the kitchen. The kitchen had been scorched in agunfight and fire two years past, a case he’d worked with Lily. He’d repainted and put in a new floor.
    “You’ve lost some weight,” he said as they went, groping for something personal.
    “Twelve pounds, as of this morning,” she said. She dropped her purse on the breakfast bar, looked around, said, “Looks nice,” pulled out a stool and sat down. “I’m starving to death.”
    “I’ve got two cold beers,” Lucas said. He stuck his head in the refrigerator. “And I’m willing to split a deli roast beef sandwich, heavy on the salad, no mayonnaise.”
    “Just a minute,” Lily said, waving him off. He shut the refrigerator door and leaned against it as she took a small brown spiral notebook from her purse. She did a series of quick calculations, her lips moving. “Airline food can’t be much,” she said, more to herself than Lucas.
    “Not much,” he agreed.
    “Is it light beer?”
    “No . . . but hell, it’s a celebration.”
    “Right.” She was very serious, noting the calories in the brown notebook. Lucas tried not to laugh.
    “You’re trying not to laugh,” she said, looking up suddenly, catching him at it. She was wearing gold hoop earrings, and when she tipped her head to the side, the gold stroked her olive skin with a