that killing in the nude is going to be the best thing ever.”
“I’m not going to dispute that.”
Step by step, as they moved through the rain, he envied Janet her freedom. She looked lithe and strong and healthy and
real
. She radiated power, confidence, and a thrilling animal ferocity that made his blood race.
By contrast, his clothes were heavy with rain, hanging on him like sacking, weighing him down, and his sodden shoes were binding the bridges of his feet. Even though he was losing his law education, he felt imprisoned by his creation-tank program, as much by what it required of him as by what it restricted him from doing. He had been given superhuman strength, almost supernatural durability, yet he remained condemned to a life of meekness and subservience, promised that his kind would one day rule the universe but at the same time assigned the tedious duty of pretending to be Bucky Guitreau, a political hack and uninspired prosecutor with a circle of friends as tiresomeas a ward full of bores who had received chemical lobotomies.
At the back of the house, light brightened two ground-floor windows, beyond both of which lay the Arceneauxs’ family room.
Boldly, shoulders back and head high, body glistening, Janet strode onto the veranda as if she were a Valkyrie that had just flown down out of the storm.
“Stay back,” Bucky murmured as he moved past her to the nearest of the lighted windows.
Antoine and Evangeline Arceneaux had two children. Neither son was a candidate for Young American of the Year.
According to Yancy and Helene Bennet, who were dead now but had been truthful when they were alive, sixteen-year-old Preston bullied younger kids in the neighborhood. And just a year ago, he tortured to death the cat belonging to the family across the street, after he had agreed to take care of it while they were away on a week’s vacation.
Twenty-year-old Charles still lived at home, though he neither worked nor attended college. This evening, Janet had started to find herself, but Charles Arceneaux was still looking. He thought that he wanted to be an Internet entrepreneur. He had a trust fund from his paternal grandfather, and he was using that money to research a few areas of online merchandising, seeking the most promising field in which to bring his innovative thinking to bear. According to Yancy, the field that Charles researched as much as ten hours a day was Internet pornography.
The curtains were not closed at the window, and Bucky had an unobstructed view of the family room. Charles was alone, slumped in an armchair, bare feet on a footstool, watching a DVD on a huge plasma-screen television.
The movie did not seem to be pornographic in the sexual sense. A guy in a curly orange wig and clown makeup, holding a chain saw, appeared to be threatening to cut open the face of a fully dressed young woman chained to a larger-than-life-size statue of General George S. Patton. Judging by the production values, in spite of the potential for an antiwar message, this film had not been a candidate for an Oscar, and Bucky was pretty sure that the guy in the clown makeup would carry through with his threat.
Rethinking his strategy, Bucky backed away from the window and returned to Janet. “It’s Charles alone, watching some movie. The rest of them must be in bed. I’m thinking maybe, after all, I’m the one who should stay out of sight. Don’t knock on the door. Tap on the window. Let him see … who you are.”
“You going to photograph this?” she asked.
“I think I’m over the camera.”
“Over it? Aren’t we going to have an album?” Janet asked.
“I don’t think we need an album. I think we’re going to be so busy living this, doing one house after another, that we won’t have time to
re
live anything.”
“So you’re ready to do one of them?”
“I am more than ready,” Bucky confirmed.
“How many do you think we can do together before morning?”
“I think twenty or
“I’m not going to dispute that.”
Step by step, as they moved through the rain, he envied Janet her freedom. She looked lithe and strong and healthy and
real
. She radiated power, confidence, and a thrilling animal ferocity that made his blood race.
By contrast, his clothes were heavy with rain, hanging on him like sacking, weighing him down, and his sodden shoes were binding the bridges of his feet. Even though he was losing his law education, he felt imprisoned by his creation-tank program, as much by what it required of him as by what it restricted him from doing. He had been given superhuman strength, almost supernatural durability, yet he remained condemned to a life of meekness and subservience, promised that his kind would one day rule the universe but at the same time assigned the tedious duty of pretending to be Bucky Guitreau, a political hack and uninspired prosecutor with a circle of friends as tiresomeas a ward full of bores who had received chemical lobotomies.
At the back of the house, light brightened two ground-floor windows, beyond both of which lay the Arceneauxs’ family room.
Boldly, shoulders back and head high, body glistening, Janet strode onto the veranda as if she were a Valkyrie that had just flown down out of the storm.
“Stay back,” Bucky murmured as he moved past her to the nearest of the lighted windows.
Antoine and Evangeline Arceneaux had two children. Neither son was a candidate for Young American of the Year.
According to Yancy and Helene Bennet, who were dead now but had been truthful when they were alive, sixteen-year-old Preston bullied younger kids in the neighborhood. And just a year ago, he tortured to death the cat belonging to the family across the street, after he had agreed to take care of it while they were away on a week’s vacation.
Twenty-year-old Charles still lived at home, though he neither worked nor attended college. This evening, Janet had started to find herself, but Charles Arceneaux was still looking. He thought that he wanted to be an Internet entrepreneur. He had a trust fund from his paternal grandfather, and he was using that money to research a few areas of online merchandising, seeking the most promising field in which to bring his innovative thinking to bear. According to Yancy, the field that Charles researched as much as ten hours a day was Internet pornography.
The curtains were not closed at the window, and Bucky had an unobstructed view of the family room. Charles was alone, slumped in an armchair, bare feet on a footstool, watching a DVD on a huge plasma-screen television.
The movie did not seem to be pornographic in the sexual sense. A guy in a curly orange wig and clown makeup, holding a chain saw, appeared to be threatening to cut open the face of a fully dressed young woman chained to a larger-than-life-size statue of General George S. Patton. Judging by the production values, in spite of the potential for an antiwar message, this film had not been a candidate for an Oscar, and Bucky was pretty sure that the guy in the clown makeup would carry through with his threat.
Rethinking his strategy, Bucky backed away from the window and returned to Janet. “It’s Charles alone, watching some movie. The rest of them must be in bed. I’m thinking maybe, after all, I’m the one who should stay out of sight. Don’t knock on the door. Tap on the window. Let him see … who you are.”
“You going to photograph this?” she asked.
“I think I’m over the camera.”
“Over it? Aren’t we going to have an album?” Janet asked.
“I don’t think we need an album. I think we’re going to be so busy living this, doing one house after another, that we won’t have time to
re
live anything.”
“So you’re ready to do one of them?”
“I am more than ready,” Bucky confirmed.
“How many do you think we can do together before morning?”
“I think twenty or
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