Blood Music by Jessie Prichard Hunter

story.”
    â€œMs. Levy? You have no reason to trust me. But the same man that hurt you murdered my sister. And I need to talk to you about that.”
    â€œThe papers all said that I had ‘escaped unhurt.’ That I didn’t have any ‘serious injuries.’ ”
    â€œI need to talk to you, Ms. Levy. Maybe I can help you.”
    â€œHelp me? Oh, right. Like the press helped me. Like the police—”
    â€œI’m not the press, Ms. Levy, and I’m not the police. Listen, you can call information and get my number and call me back. I live in Bayside. I just want to talk to you.”
    â€œOh.” Madeleine Levy had run out of steam. “I guess that sounds reasonable—I don’t know. My father wants to talk to you.”
    Her father thought it was a good idea, too. He would call that night at nine o’clock. He sounded neither suspicious nor afraid. He sounded like he would kill John if John hurt his little girl. John liked him.
    After John hung up the phone he stared for a long time out the window; there was no view. Madeleine Levy was very, very angry. John liked that, too. If she hadn’t gotten angry she might be dead. If Cheryl had gotten angry earlier, years and years earlier—if she hadn’t been such a quiet girl, so careful never to worry or to hurt—if she hadn’t been such a “good” girl—she might still be alive.

15
    S he had been walking west on Bleecker Street, walking backward and calling something across the street to a group of people. She was wearing blue jeans and a black blazer. Cigarettes? Going to get a pack of cigarettes. Meet you—and an anonymous voice saying something—“Cheryl?”—but the words were tossed away by the wind and the traffic.
    Her hair hung heavy gold almost to her waist. She walked and he followed her. The van was parked two blocks away down on St. Luke’s Place and his wife was home putting the baby to bed. The streets were busy, with a festive air. The benign moon hung above a gabled roof. The girl walked with a gangly, unself-conscious stride, she almost bumped into somebody and giggled and apologized; she was tipsy. At the corner of St. Luke’s Place she stopped. Her foot stopped first and then the rest of her body, and she did an awkward, pretty little shuffle to keep from falling, and she giggled again.
    There was a black cat a few doors down St. Luke’s Place. It stretched, and rolled, voluptuously, on its back. The girl walked a few steps toward the cat, speaking softly; he couldn’t hear, across the street, what she was saying. He wanted to be ahead of her, waiting, but he couldn’t get past her without her seeing him. And there were too many people out to risk jumping her this close to Bleecker Street, anyway.
    The girl crouched down to touch the cat, and her hair swung down and touched the ground. When the cat ran away she remained crouching, unconcerned, and he watched her as he walked toward her. Somebody in a gray car honked at him, but she didn’t notice that. He stopped about ten feet behind her. When she stood she didn’t turn back toward Bleecker, she just stood uncertainly and he was sure she was smiling. When he came up alongside her she turned her smile toward him. It lit up her plain face.
    â€œExcuse me?” she said; she hadn’t heard him.
    â€œThe Midtown Tunnel,” he said. “I’m afraid I’ve gotten myself lost again.”
    â€œOh. I do that, too. You go—you’ve got to get up to Fourteenth Street and then east—it’s easier if you go up Bleecker, I mean east, until you get to—wait, I can’t remember if the park goes down that far.” She was pointing the wrong way; a minute ago she had been pointing the right way. Her voice was astonishing, young and honey-pure. It was the first time he had ever heard one of them talk—and he knew she would be one of them. And he