3
Prescott stood at the front door of the restaurant, then stepped to the side and stared in the window past the FOR LEASE sign. He raised his eyes a few degrees, and he could see the folding steel grate extended across the storefront two doors away. This was probably where the killer had been standing when he had noticed the lock.
The new padlock the owners had put on the grate stuck out a little. Prescott walked toward the store, looking at the pattern of cars on the street, listening for engines and counting, gauging speeds. There had probably been more cars parked at the curb on this side that night, because the restaurant had still been in business, but it wasn’t a street that had much foot traffic. He reached the padlock, then gave himself a few seconds to open it in his mind. The killer had probably carried a shim pick in his pocket. No, Prescott decided, it had been a small, all-purpose set, because the killer had been improvising.
Prescott walked back to the door, stopped for a couple of seconds to simulate putting the chain and padlock on the door and hanging the CLOSED sign on the knob, then went around the small building toward the rear. There was a little parking area in the alley where trucks could unload supplies, and spaces for five cars—the boss, the two cooks, the two waiters. He stopped and looked in one direction, then the other. There was nothing for the length of the alley that would have concerned the shooter: no big light fixtures, no other businesses that were open at night. Instead, there were dumpsters, piles of empty boxes, long dark stretches, and places where he could climb a fence or step between buildings and be on the next street in seconds. Prescott began to feel a faint echo of the killer’s sensation. This looked good to him—safe, almost—but the time was going by, and the opportunity was too good to pass up. He went to the back door and used the key to open it, then put the key away and propped the door open six inches with the doorstop.
Prescott stepped back into the dark alley again to clear his mind. The police had finished here a few days ago, and had returned the building to the possession of its owner. Prescott had presented himself as a potential tenant and gotten the keys for the night. Now he had to forget those details, and see this place as the killer had.
Within a few seconds, he had succeeded. He looked at the light falling from the open door onto the rough, pitted pavement at his feet. In his mind, the door was open because someone in the kitchen had opened it. The cook had done it to disperse the heat and steam and food smells. The last meals of the evening had been served. Soon the dishwasher would arrive to help with the cleanup in the kitchen while he waited for the last customers to leave the dining room. This way he wouldn’t have to bang on the door to get in.
Prescott stepped close to the door, looked inside, and listened. The killer’s ears would have been what told him where the cook was. He took the pistol he carried in his jacket and moved it to his belt at the small of his back, so he could reach it but it would not get in his way. He leaned into the doorway and waited until the sounds the cook was making moved away, then farther away, toward the sink at the end of the room.
He saw the knives where they used to hang on the rack. He scanned for the one: most were big, flat, and unwieldy. The serrated edge of the bread knife had a small attraction, but the blade was thin and flexible. The boning knife was the one. He took three deep breaths, and drifted in. He did not tiptoe slowly in but floated quickly to the rack, his hand already feeling the handle so it came into his grip smoothly, without pause. There was still a space of about twenty feet to cross, and he moved even more swiftly. Then his left arm came up to hook around under the man’s head and jerk it back, and his right brought the blade across the throat in a single cut. He stepped back quickly to avoid the blood and the falling body, preparing to strike again not because it would be needed but because that was the correct way to complete the motion. He remained poised to thrust for two seconds, then dropped the knife into the hot, soapy water in the sink and took two steps toward the door.
The polished wooden surface abruptly swung inward at him, and a waiter nearly collided with him. There was no time for decisions. The killer’s body did what it had practiced so many times: the legs pushed off to dodge aside and pivot, ending behind the waiter. The hands shot up, one beside the waiter’s jaw and the other to the opposite side of the head, and they pushed hard to turn the head against the body’s momentum and break the neck. The killer let the body drop on its back beside the other one.
Prescott moved to the swinging door. He stopped at the hinged side and reached to the small of his back for the pistol, pulled the slide to cycle it and put a round in the chamber. He felt the need to proceed quickly, but he used one second to visualize the dining room he had seen through the front window: where the nine customers had been seated, where the waiter and the boss had stood, and the places where they might have moved. He stepped through the door smoothly, his gun already aimed at the table where Robert Cushner sat. Bang!—through the forehead. Bring the gun to the right ten degrees, the arm still extended. The boss and the waiter both at the front of the room, the boss at the little podium where there used to be a reservation book and a telephone, and the waiter leaning against the wall near him. Two shots for them, one in the waiter’s chest because he was young and already on his feet, and one through the boss’s neck because he was near the phone—probably a head shot that was a bit low, but maybe a slip of the mind and not the hand, because the killer was aware he might try to use the phone. Then there were the two who dashed to the door—the young guys. They had been sitting in the booth by the window, and getting out the door had looked easy to them. By then the killing had seemed intended to be a clean sweep. He pictured them tugging on the door handle, and sensed a small, amused chuckle. Why was that? They looked funny: pulling on the door, pulling harder, their eyes widening with the bad news. BAM BAM BAM. Their bodies collapsing.
He moved his arm to the left, and found the parents with the two little girls. The husband popped up, probably with a vague intention of protecting the others, but making his chest an easier shot. Then the wife, clinging to him as he went down, a shot through the head. The two ten-year-old girls taking a step to run, two shots placed identically between the shoulder blades.
That left the young couple under the front window. The man had pushed over a table and lay on top of the woman to shield her from the bullets. Prescott saw the table in his mind, felt the impulse to fire through it ten inches from the floor, so the man would die on top of her, then to fire through it again to kill her. But he did not allow himself to be that sloppy. He took four steps around the fallen table, stopped at their feet, and fired through the man’s head, then his back, down into the woman’s chest. Both dead.
Incredibly quiet. Listen for noises from the street: cars stopping? People rattling the door? Nothing. He looked around him. There was nothing more to do but pick up the spent brass casings. First the two that had ejected to his right while he was shooting the couple. Then the bunch to the right of the kitchen door: three for the men at the locked door, two for the waiter and the boss, one for Robert Cushner. Eight. Then four for the parents and two children. Twelve.