The Night Caller by John Lutz

with arched eyebrows, a broad jaw, and thin, slightly curled lips. Coop thought that if she were a man she’d be described as looking like a corrupt Roman emperor, maybe Nero.
    “I’ll take this,” he said to the bookshop woman.
    “You won’t like it if you like Hammett.”
    “You don’t seem eager to sell it.”
    “I suppose I’m not. I’m more interested in my customers believing my recommendations and coming back to buy more books. You want a cat mystery, there’s always Carole Nelson Douglas. Or Lilian Jackson Braun or Rita Mae Brown. They haven’t used up all nine of their lives.”
    “It doesn’t matter with me, I’m from out of town.”
    “You’re still a customer.”
    Coop studied the expression on her lean, pale face. “What was your impression of Deni Green when she was here?” he asked. “I mean, as a person?”
    The bookshop woman gave him a gentle smile. “I didn’t like her much. She seemed arrogant and insecure.”
    Coop went with her to the register at the front of the store and paid for the book. “I can’t wait to get into this,” he said.
    She looked at him as if he were about to start down a ski jump without skis.
     
    The Night Caller snapped on his latex gloves and explored. He saw that holistic medicine seemed to have caught Georgianna’s interest. There were various self-help medical books stacked in a bookshelf, and new wave posters on the walls espoused the benefits of various diets and exercise regimens. Some of the posters were political, about corporate greed and global warming. The posters, and the lineup of herbal food supplements in the medicine cabinet, left little doubt as to her newfound direction. She wanted to save herself and the world. Now, there was a tall order.
    The refrigerator and a check of her various Internet visits and bookmarks on her computer revealed that she’d become a vegetarian. Magazine clippings, stuck to the refrigerator with magnets, explained how such a diet could virtually guarantee a longer life. The Night Caller smiled. More than most people, he knew there were few reliable guarantees in this world. Fate was unpredictable and sometimes sadistic.
    Then the smile faded and was replaced by a thoughtful expression. Georgianna’s Internet lover was a worry and a risk. Something had gone slightly wrong and there were things she remembered even if only hazily—he was sure of it from their talks afterward. Things the soul searching of love and lovers’ talk might bring to the surface. The series of e-mails suggested that the cyberlover and Georgianna would soon meet face-to-face.
    Perhaps they’d have lattes at Starbucks, share a bed, then decide that would be the extent of their affair. The simple rutting of fools.
    But perhaps they would be delightfully compatible and their relationship would deepen, the way Internet romances were supposed to work in the second stage. True lovers had no secrets. Sin eating was one of the great benefits of passion, and one of the great dangers.
    Each time before, the Night Caller’s visit had terminated long before Georgianna returned home, and she had entered an unoccupied apartment.
    This time would be different. He wasn’t ready, didn’t have the terrible, wonderful need, but this time it was necessary in order to ensure his survival. That was his right. It was ordained out of darkness and insects.
    She would enter confidently, locking the door and thinking she was separating herself from the perilous outside world. The Night Caller knew what an illusion that was for everyone. Locks were simply distractions to lovers and demons, who were usually on both sides of them anyway. Georgianna remembered that from the time of reptiles but denied it, like everyone else. Almost everyone else. The Night Caller knew how they thought and how they didn’t, all of them. He listened to their secret voices and knew their muted screams. They heard none of it, confident they were someone else. Someone safe.
    Once