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It'd be gross but her bloody face wouldn't be a problem for Vincent; he preferred them on their bellies anyway.
They were walking deeper into the passageway now. Vincent looked around and saw the building, forty or fifty feet away.
Dance paused again, opened the notebook. She recited what she wrote: "The alley runs behind six, no, seven residential buildings. There are four Dumpsters here. The surface of the alley is asphalt. The perpetrator ran this way, going south." Gloves back on, over her quivering fingers, which ended in deliciously red nails.
The hunger was consuming Vincent. He felt himself withering away. He gripped the knife in a tense hand, breathing quickly.
She paused once more.
Now! Take her.
He started to pull the knife from his pocket.
But the bark of a siren cut through the air, coming from the other end of the alley. He glanced at it in shock.
And then he felt the gun muzzle touch the back of his head.
Agent Dance was shouting, "Raise your hands. Now!" Gripping his shoulder.
"But--"
"Now."
She shoved the gun harder into his skull.
No, no, no! He let go of the knife and lifted his arms.
What was going on?
The police car skidded to a stop in front of them, another right behind it. Four huge cops jumped out.
No . . . Oh, no . . .
"On your face," one of them ordered. "Do it!"
But he couldn't move, h
e was so shocked.
Then Dance was stepping back as police officers surrounded him, pulling him to the ground.
"I didn't do anything! I didn't!"
"You!" one of the men cried. "On your belly--now."
"But it's cold, it's dirty! And I haven't done anything!"
They flung him to the hard ground. He grunted as the breath was knocked from his body.
It was just like with Sally Anne, all over again.
You, fat boy, don't fucking move! Pervert! . . .
No, no, no!
Hands were all over him, grappling. He felt the pain as his arms were pulled taut behind him and cuffs were ratcheted on. He was searched, pockets turned inside out.
"Got an ID, got a knife."
