Chosen Prey

5

SHE 'D MADE SOME kind of cheese dish with garlic. Qatar liked garlic when he was eating it, but an hour later, after another rugged round of sex, he could smell it in his own sweat, and in Barstad's sweat mingled with his; he touched his stomach and found it cool and wet.

The sexual education of Ellen Barstad might not be the lark that he'd assumed it would be, Qatar thought. He was in her bathroom again, washing. His penis had gone past the tingling stage: It hurt. This was their fourth time together, if the first unsuccessful bedding was counted. He was beginning to feel the pressure.

The second time together, they had watched a pornographic movie and then tried some of the more modestly deviant practices. The third time, they had moved on. Nothing truly advanced, Qatar thought, though it was as advanced as he'd ever managed.

This time, Barstad's wrists were tied to the head of the bed with two of his old, too-wide neckties. "James," she called. She was waiting.

"Good God," he said under his breath. He knew the tone. His face seemed a little pale, a little drawn, in the bathroom mirror. He didn't have another one in him, he thought. He turned the water off and went back to the bedroom. Barstad lay flat on the bed, her legs spread slightly, her arms over her head; her eyes were half closed, her face slack. The woman seemed to have no limit.

"Could I get a drink of water before the next one?" she asked.

"My dear, I don't think there will be a next one, not today," he said. "I feel like I've been pushed through a wringer."

A wrinkle appeared on her forehead. "What's a wringer?"

"You know, for wet clothes."

"What?"

She'd never heard of a wringer, Qatar thought. Too young. He looked down along her body: It was perfect. Everything that he had always thought he'd wanted.

Except.

He was beginning to suspect that what he'd always wanted wasn't sex; that his particular streak of insanity-he called it that, was comfortable with the word-needed resistance, maybe even a little disgust. An hour earlier, he'd been looking down at the spinal groove in the back of her neck. His hands had ached for her neck. He'd almost done her then-would have, if he'd had the rope. The next time, he'd bring it.

Over the next couple of days, before they got together again, he would think about it, he would see if the killing passion returned. And maybe the thing with Aronson's body would blow over. She was long dead; there could be no clues-they hadn't found anything else…

ELLEN BARSTAD WATCHED him thinking about her. Maybe she was pushing too hard-but once she got into it, she found it hard to stop. There were so many… her girlfriend called them "pickles." Little interesting variations, like crazy quilting: You do this and then you do that. Qatar, on the other hand, was basically like all the men she'd known: He just wanted to bang away, and then nap until he could get up again, and then bang away some more. She wanted to try this and then that and then the other thing, to see how it all felt. Was there anything wrong with that? She thought not.

Qatar was being a prig about the whole thing. Maybe, she thought, it was time to find somebody younger. Actually, if she could find somebody completely unformed, maybe a seventeen-year-old, somebody who'd actually be grateful… After all, this wasn't that difficult, was it? All of it was in the books.

"So you're going home?" Barstad asked.

"Yes. I'm really busy. I've been here for two hours."

"I thought we were going to do the Ping-Pong paddles again today."

He had to laugh. "Slipped my mind," he said. Then: "It's all right to slow down, Ellen. We're not on a time clock."

"I suppose," she said, disappointment in her voice. She rubbed her feet together. "You sure you don't want a little suck?"

"Ellen…" He really did hurt; but how often do you get this kind of offer? Sometimes, he thought, you've got to go with common sense. "Okay. But you must take it easy."

WHEN HE GOT home two hours later, thoroughly used, he turned on the television and went into the kitchen for some Froot Loops. He was eating and reading a two-week-old copy of The New Yorker when he heard the television announcer talking about drawings and murder and that the images might not be appropriate to children.

He knew what they were, even without looking or listening. He didn't want to believe it; he pushed to his feet so abruptly that milk sloshed out of the bowl onto the magazine.

In the living room, he caught the sight of one of his drawings in the fraction of a second before the cameras cut away, like the quick flash of a queen of hearts in a riffled deck of cards. The reporter was saying something, but he couldn't seem to make out the words. Then the camera cut away from the reporter, and one after another, a set of his images flashed on the screen, finally ending with a drawing of Aronson.

"… police looking for the artist who drew these sexually charged images…"

He stood unbelieving, aghast. He'd never let Aronson take home any of the images. He'd shown her this one-it was sexy, but not pornographic-to impress her with his skills. He remembered throwing it aside in his office. He didn't remember seeing it again.

"She took it," he said aloud, to the television. "She stole it from me. It wasn't hers! It was mine!"

He would go to prison, he thought. Nobody would ever understand. He watched until the drawings went away, and the reporter-a slender blonde, he thought, who might be interesting-moved on to politics.

"Prison," he said. An announcement. His career in ruins. They'd lead him out of the building in chains: He could see it in his mind's eye, long rows of mocking former colleagues and their harridan wives, in a gantlet, and he'd walk down between them enduring their smirks and superior smiles. They would put him in denim shirts and jeans, with a number on his shirt, and he would be locked in a cell with some redneck who'd rape him.

He thought of suicide-really, the only way out. Jumping, he thought. The feeling of flying, and then nothing at all. But he was afraid of heights. He didn't even like to stand too close to a window.

A gun. Tighten the finger, and nothing… But that'd be really messy, and would destroy the side of his head. Too much. Hanging himself, that was out: He'd suffer. He could imagine the pain, clawing at the rope at the last minute, trying to pull himself up… No.

Pills. Pills were a possibility if he had time to accumulate some. He could go to Randy. Randy could get as much as he needed, barbiturates. That'd be the way to go. Simply sleep, never to awake.

A tear rolled down his cheek as he thought about his mother's distress when his body was found. He dropped into the easy chair by the TV and closed his eyes, imagining it. And was suddenly touched by anger: The bitch wouldn't miss him. She'd sell all his furniture, and the wine, and the carpets. She'd cash his life insurance, pathetic as it was, and she'd keep it all. He could see it plainly, as a vision: the inventory of his belonging, the clothes going into the trash-into the trash!-the furniture carried away on trucks and even pickups.

Anger swelled in his heart, and he pushed himself out of the chair and paced back to the kitchen, sobbed. Pounded a fist into the other palm, then stuffed his knuckles into his mouth and bit until he felt the skin break. She'd take it as a victory: She'd outlasted him.

Well, fuck her. Fuck her. He shouted it at the walls: "FUCK HER."

So what to do? He sat down again, stared at the box of Froot Loops. He'd enjoyed making his drawings and he'd known right from the start that he'd be in trouble if he were found out. So he'd been secretive. He still had some of the images stored on the computer at school, but he could get rid of them.

He sighed, and calmed himself. Things weren't completely out of control. Not yet. He'd have to get busy, get cleaned up, just in case.

His mind skipped back to his mother: bitch. He couldn't believe her pleasure at his suicide. Couldn't believe it. There wasn't any doubt about it: The clarity of his vision carried the unmistakable scent of the truth. They hadn't had much to say to each other for five years, but she could show him enough loyalty to regret his passing.

More tears gathered at the corners of his eyes. Nobody loved him. Not even Barstad-she just wanted the sex.

"I'm alone," he said. His hand hurt, and he looked down at his knuckles. They were bleeding, badly; how had that happened? He was bewildered by the blood and pain, but he could also feel the anger gathering. "I'm all alone."