your prey when it’s off guard. I climbed the stairs with my medical briefcase in hand, eased along the landing, and opened the first door. It was a child’s room. A low light in the corner revealed a young girl in bed, mouth open, the sigh of deep slumber passing her lips. I closed the door and opened the one next to it. That was the right one. Again, the low amber light, but this time it was shining on Kriefan Mack and his wife spooned together under the bedcovers.
I set my briefcase down at the end of the bed, opened it, selected a pair of latex gloves and a syringe, which I placed on the dressing table. I rolled the gloves onto my hands, flexing my fingers, checking for holes. “Get up, Kriefan.”
At first all they did was open their eyes and blink. Then he turned, sat upright, and thrust his back against the headboard as if an invisible hand had slammed him there. “Shit!”
She was still blinking, trying to work out where she was.
Kriefan stared. “Bloody
hell!”
His wife’s lips trembled when she realized this was reality. There really
was
a prowler in the bedroom tapping a syringe. She looked ready to yell, but I lifted a finger. “I wouldn’t. Your children are asleep. It might be best if they don’t see what’s about to happen, Mrs. Mack.”
She started to shake, and Kriefan turned his bed lamp on to full, panic scoring deep lines into his face. I could see a hundred different scenarios running through his head just by watching his eyes. He was wondering if he could take me.
“You! You’re the man that helped me out of my car,” he said, squinting. “What’s this about? How the
hell
did you get in?”
“The usual way,” I said, waggling the key.
“Oh, God!” Mrs. Mack screamed as though someone just showed her a plate with someone’s heart still beating on it.
“If your children see me they’ll die too,” I shouted, pressing my hand to the door in case they came running in.
Kriefan shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re doing in our house, but if you don’t get out right now we’ll … Kelly, where’s the mobile?”
It was on her bedside table. She was reaching for it.
The children started hammering on the door, yelling, crying.
Kriefan jumped out of bed, fists balling, jaw stiffening. He was about to attack.
No problem. I snatched his hand and bent it against his forearm before launching him at the door in case the children came in. His head cracked on the handle, and I stepped over him to get to his wife. The children were still shouting as I snatched the phone from her and slammed it into the wall. With a slap I sent her reeling across the bed and turned to Kriefan. He was already back up, distracted by the blood in the palm of his hand and the cry of his wife, his face a portrait of confusion, fear, rage, desperation.
“Bastard!” He came for me again, and I met him head-on. His knuckles struck my cheekbone, but my fist plunged into the soft spot beneath the rib cage, forcing the air from his lungs. He folded as though the floor had fallen through the ceiling, and the contents of my briefcase scattered across the carpet as he curled up into a groaning ball. Needles and pens danced across the carpet; documents fluttered through the air.
“Angus,” cried his wife to her children, “take Rachel. Get out of the house as fast as you can. Run!”
With Kriefan on the floor moaning in pain I faced her, put her down too with a crack across the jaw. Sobbing, she crawled into the corner, her head in her arms. I know people like her. She wouldn’t bother me again, and when the noise of the children had gone I knew I could indulge.
“You’re both going to die. You know that, don’t you?”
Kriefan looked up at me, sweat running from his brow. “Why?”
“Why doesn’t matter. What matters for you now is how.”
“Look, can’t we just … talk … about this? I don’t know what I’ve done but I …” He trailed off into tears. “Oh, God … my kids …