A Time of Predators

He turned away without even seeing the note taped to the mirror, and went stiffly down the stairs again without any awareness of making bloody footprints in the hall and on the risers. In the living room, his hand closed over the phone receiver, blotting out the prints left by Rick while phoning Debbie in the booth across Linda Vista Road.

Curt dialed the operator to ask for the sheriff’s office.

Chapter 6

The room where the actual killing took place was slippery with blood. Flies buzzed everywhere, and the hot North African air seemed almost septic. The goats were sent crowding and bleating down a wooden ramp to the gate which was raised to let one animal through at a time. The goats had no other direction in which to go.

“Show one more time,” promised the head slaughterer. He was an Arab with a seamed, gentle, knowing face.

He seized the goat’s topknot with his left hand and twisted the hard bony head up and to the left. This presented the jugular to the view of the half-dozen uniformed men who were his audience. The goat returned their gaze with totally expressionless eyes.

“The throat... so,” he said. “Then the knife... so!”

The broad, double-edged knife flashed once, the animal gave a convulsive start; its hoofs drummed briefly on the floor. The Arab stepped hack with the slightest suggestion of a flourish, extending the knife handle-first to his audience. The goat’s eyes had not changed, yet somehow now they were dead eyes, unspeakably so.

No one moved to take the knife. The lieutenant, like the rest of them heavily sweat-splotched under the arms of his uniform jersey, cleared his throat. His voice was too high-pitched for effective command. “Cutting a man’s throat is the quickest way of finishing him. We’ve all been extremely, ah, efficient in practice; this is a good opportunity to... um... for the real thing, actually.”

The enlisted men remained silent; only the flies responded. Something gurgled dismally inside the dead goat. Curt, at seventeen the youngest of the lot, made a sudden impatient gesture. It couldn’t be all that bad; the effing wog did it for an effing living, didn’t he?

“Give me the knife.”

Another goat was led into the enclosure. Curt looked into its calmly omniscient eyes, and looked quickly away. He seized the rough top-knot, twisting up and to the left as the Arab had done.

“Good... good...” murmured the slaughterer in approval.

Curt slashed. The goat, its throat half severed, tore from Curt’s grasp to whirl about like the Rifiya dervishes they had seen in the meidan at Alexandria. Blood from the gushing jugular splashed over all of them, and a hot salty spray of it hit Curt in the mouth.

The goat stopped and stiffened, head lowered, legs braced against the unseen foe which sought to upset it. Then it began a burring noise, which seemed to issue from the gaping throat rather than its mouth...

Curt moaned and rolled over and scrubbed at his mouth with the back of his hand. He was soaked with sweat. His eyes opened and were staring at the old-fashioned beamed ceiling of his study.

The goat’s burring began again, only now it was the doorbell. Thank God. He hadn’t dreamed about the war in years. Why didn’t Paula answer the damned door? Why didn’t...

It all rushed back.

He swung his legs off the rumpled couch and sat up, gripping the edge fiercely with his hands until the urge to throw up had passed. His shoe skidded an empty wine bottle across the floor, bringing the rest of it back. Drinking steadily all day; must have passed out finally.

The doorbell burred again, patiently. Curt lurched to his feet, forked shaky fingers through his hair while the dizziness passed. Hadn’t undressed, hadn’t even removed his shoes. Passed out. Paula was dead.

Paula was dead. Goddamned doorbell again. Ought to...

He went unsteadily down the stairs and crossed to the front door. It opened to let spring into the house like the voice of a friend long absent. He stared at the man on the porch, a tall stranger.

“Maybe you remember me, Professor. Monty Worden. I was in charge of the men from the sheriff’s office on Friday night.”

“Of course.” Curt stood aside, searching impressions blurred by shock, by the interim drinking, by his incredibly pounding head. “That is, a... Detective-Sergeant Worden, isn’t it?”

Worden, he decided, must have stopped on his way home from Sunday services. The policeman’s suit was a dark blue with a wicked gray stripe in it, and his tie was tasteful enough to have been picked by his wife. He was a good four inches taller than Curt’s five-ten, with thick-fingered hands and the bull neck of a wrestler. By his presence in the middle of the living room, he made it a position he was defending. The busy gray eyes were a cop’s eyes, full of sadly won wisdom and totally observant. All of the exceptional combat officers Curt had known in the military had regarded life through similar hard and wary eyes.

“Sit down, Sergeant. I drank too much yesterday and last night...”