Free The Eye: A Novel of Suspense by Bill Pronzini, John Lutz Page A

(though not so far as they choose to believe) from the primal state, they do not listen to the cells of their own bodies, the ancient silent voices hinting of eternity. They do not really know. And they will not, until the pale horse appears before them, and his name that sits on him shall be Death.

PART 2
    SATURDAY
    SEPTEMBER 21

9:00 A.M.
    WALLY SINGER
    When Marion announced that she was going to Brooklyn to spend the day with her sister, Singer barely managed to hide his elation. It surprised him. She didn’t get along with her sister; hell, she didn’t get along with anybody, the fat cow. But she was upset about the shootings, she said, and she wanted to get out of the neighborhood for the day. She couldn’t talk to him; all he cared to do was argue and pick on her. Ellen, at least, was family and would offer a sympathetic ear.
    Singer told her he didn’t care what she did, and she was gone at 8:45. He waited fifteen minutes, spending the time in the bathroom trimming his sparse beard and daubing himself liberally with English Leather cologne. Then he locked the apartment, rode the elevator downstairs, and went out to the street.
    There was an unmarked police car parked at the curb. He’d seen it before, so he knew it belonged to the detectives from the Twenty-fourth Precinct. He didn’t like the police much, particularly the sandy-haired cop named Oxman; Oxman’s shrewd eyes and probing questions, boring at him as if he were guilty of something, had left him with a bad case of nerves yesterday. Still, there was a certain comfort in knowing the law was around. Nothing else was going to happen with the police crawling all over the block.
    Singer crossed the street, went up the steps of 1279, and pressed the button alongside the smudged white card that read 2-C Cindy Wilson . It took a full minute for Cindy’s voice to say scratchily from the intercom box, “Yes, who is it?”
    “It’s Wally. Buzz me in.”
    “Wally! Yes, just a second …”
    The lock on the entrance door made a burring sound. Singer pushed inside, climbed the stairs to the second floor. Cindy had the door open and was peering out when he came down the hall. She was wearing a dressing gown over a baby-doll nightgown; her dark hair was tousled and she looked sleepy. Singer’s eyes moved over her body as he approached. She wasn’t much to look at, really, but she had a damned good body, slender, well filled out. God, it was nice to have a slim woman after all the years with Marian.
    As soon as he was inside, she shut the door and threw the dead-bolt locks. Then she turned, put her arms around him, and kissed him lingeringly. Singer let his hands slide over the silky roundness of her buttocks, cupping them, pulling her tight against him. But she wasn’t ready for fun and games yet; she broke the kiss, eased away from him. Her eyes, he saw, had purplish half-moons under them, as if she hadn’t slept much during the night.
    “It’s so early,” she said. “How did you get out?”
    “Marian’s gone for the day, visiting her sister in Brooklyn.”
    He reached for her again, but she placed her hand against his chest. “Wait, Wally. I’m still half-asleep; I need some coffee.”
    “We can have coffee later,” he said.
    “No, I need some now. It won’t take a minute. I didn’t sleep very well and I’m still a little groggy.”
    She started away to the kitchen. Singer curbed his impatience and followed her, watching the roll and sway of her hips, the outline of her thighs under the thin gown. He could feel heat stirring in his groin. It had been four days since he’d last been to bed with her and he was damned horny. After he’d finally got rid of the detective, Oxman, and come over to see her yesterday, she’d been too upset to do any screwing. He had tried to talk her into it without success, so he’d gone home frustrated. And picked another fight with Marian as soon as she came back, because by then he’d been in a lousy mood and