Free The Animal Hour by Andrew Klavan Page B

teeth. “Get away from me, I’m telling you.”
    The beggar came toward her on stiff legs. He reached out for her. His eyes seemed completely white. His grin seemed slack. Drool ran from the sides of his mouth into the purple sores under his stubble.
    â€œDon’t forget. Don’t forget,” he kept repeating.
    Nancy felt the cold metal of the gun. She felt the rough grip. Her hand closed around it.
    Don’t do this!
    â€œI’m warning you,” she heard herself scream.
    â€œThe Animal Hour,” the beggar said. “You have to remember. You have to remember.”
    â€œAll right!” Nancy cried out. “All right! That’s it!” She yanked her hand out of the purse. She held the revolver up in front of her. The muzzle of it wavered wildly. “Get away from me,” she screamed. “Get away from me or I’ll shoot!”
    The beggar’s grin grew wider still. His jaws, his jowls, hung slack. His white eyes looked at nothing. He took another step in her direction. His hand reached for her.
    â€œHe dies at eight o’clock. That’s the time. That’s the Animal Hour.”
    â€œGet away!” Nancy screamed at him. She waved the revolver in his face. “Get away! Get away!”
    And then she pulled the trigger.

    Z achary Perkins awoke peacefully that morning. He had had no dreams. He lay in bed with his eyes closed, his mind a blank at first. Then, as the moments passed, he began to imagine a woman.
    A sparrow was singing morning songs in the maple tree at the window. There was a breeze three stories below in the garden of Lancer’s café. He could hear leaves tumbling lightly over the flagstones down there. He imagined a woman with sable hair, a mane of sable hair.
    She was a regal creature. He had imagined her before. She was nude, but armored in her nudity, arched in it, proud. She stood on a raised platform, glaring down at those below. Her flesh was as smooth as a page in a magazine, her skin was as gleaming. She had large breasts that stood erect. She had her hands on her hips. Her long legs were akimbo.
    Zachary stirred. He felt his naked body against the sheets. The cool—the somehow wistful—breeze blew in through the window now. It played over his face and made him long for the woman, ache to have her there with him in the flesh. He moved his hand under the sheets, down to his erection. His erection was very hard. He stroked it, imagining the woman’s imperious smile. He moved his hand faster. He threw off the bedsheet with his other hand. Breathing rapidly, he opened his eyes. He looked down at himself …
    â€œChrist!” he whispered. “Christ!” His erection shriveled. He stared, saucer-eyed, at the blood.
    There were streaks of it—dried blood—on his forearm and the back of his hand. There were brown cakes of it under his fingernails. He rolled his hand over, staring. There were more dried daubs of it on his palm. It looked like paint or chocolate, but he knew what it was. He knew what it was the minute he saw it.
    He sat up. His heart thudded in his chest. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t think of anything. He surveyed his genitals desperately to make sure they weren’t damaged. He looked on the floor by his bed and saw his clothes in a pile there. His T-shirt was on top of his jeans and it was soaked in blood, still damp with blood.
    â€œOh God,” he whispered. “What is this? Where am I?” He couldn’t think. His stomach was grinding over like a cement mixer.
    He gasped. Someone was at the door. There was a knock—three knocks—quickly—one-two-three.
    â€œMr. Perkins?” A man’s voice, but high and mild. No expression in it. The knocks again: one-two-three. “Mr. Perkins? Are you there?”
    Zach’s lips moved, but he couldn’t speak. He stared wildly around the room. White walls with gray gouges where the paint had