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In a wavering falsetto which was somehow chilling in its mockery, Tracey called, “Loverboyyyyyyy...” Rick cocked his head, straining to hear. There was an abrupt rustling noise; the sound clothes make when on the move. Frantically, Rick turned towards the sound, firing blindly. There was an angry whine as the bullet ricocheted off the door frame, splintering wood. Before the sound had completely receded, Kyle Tracey sprang out of the darkness like a deadly jack-in-the-box . Rick tried to duck, but the blade punched into his chest, just above his left armpit. A freezing bolt of pain ripped through him. He was drenched. The knife slid out with a moist whisper, and Rick tried to scream. A whistling wheeze was all he could manage. Rick Granite collapsed. The carpet was already soaked through with his blood. Without pause, Tracey placed one knee on the small of Rick’s back, and buried the knife between his shoulder blades up to the hilt. Rick’s whooping gasps for air abruptly halted. He shuddered once and lay still. “Well,” Tracey said, removing the knife and flicking blood off the blade. He groped his way to the bathroom, and turned on the light. His hands were streaked with crimson. It was all over his shoes, but Tracey didn’t care. Blood wiped off. He washed the knife first. Then he went to work on his hands, concentrating thoroughly on the fingernails and knuckles. When this task was completed, he yanked a wad of toilet paper off the spool and went to work on his shoes. Tracey took his time. Why not? Old Lucky and that marshmallow Granite were on ice, just like the boss wanted. Satisfied he would pass muster, he unzipped his fly and began to urinate. He was thinking about taking a ride out to Jersey, blowing a wad on some of the slots in the casinos down by the shore, when something brushed up against his leg. He jerked, stumbling back, and managed to piss on his leg. “Aww, for the love o’Mike!” he shouted, realizing he was actually quite terrified. For some odd reason (and he would never tell another living soul), he thought it was Granite’s pale white hand groping at his leg. He heard a curt meow, and looked down to see a furry white cat slinking back and forth between his legs. “Well now, lass. Ain’t you the friendly one?” The cat purred contentedly, sparing him a glance as it nuzzled his calf. Tracey thought it looked like a powder puff with legs. “I didn’t know Lucky had company,” he said as he stooped and picked up the cat gently in his massive arms. “Nice kitty...sure.” The cat stared indifferently at him; its golden eyes were sparkling. PurrrrPurrrrPurrrr... Tracey leaned closer. The cat lashed out lightning quick with its sharp claws. Tracey’s eye was punctured, dribbling yellowish white fluid down his flayed open cheek. The cat hissed. Tracey screamed, flinging the feline into the claw-footed bathtub with one hand. The other clapped over his gushing eye. “Jesus Christ!” he cried, groping for the sink. A crock of shaving soap fell to the floor and shattered. Tracey slammed his head against the mirrored medicine cabinet. His face resembled a cheap cut of butcher’s beef.
The cat uttered a shrill cry and dove onto his broad back, claws
thrashing, digging in.
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