Urge to Kill

As he stood looking at Beeker, Quinn became acutely aware of the compact revolver in his pocket. In an odd way it wasn’t at all like the gun he usually carried holstered, his old police special revolver. That gun was used to maintain order, to protect people, or to use in self-defense. This gun was for a separate and distinct purpose—for stalking and killing another human being. Quinn couldn’t help imagining Beeker in his black leather outfit, standing and holding a whip, with Zoe…

“Make this fast,” Beeker said.

I’d love to.

Beatrice took a large bite of cinnamon roll. It released a surge of sweet scent in the office.

Quinn nodded to Beeker, smiled and nodded to Beatrice, then turned and walked out the door.

He’d learned what he wanted to know. The doctor was in.

And not outside in the city streets, stalking him.

75

Quinn soon learned the rhythm of the hunt.

He moved along the sidewalk at the speed of pedestrian traffic. The knack was in being careful to stay near other people, but at the same time avoid becoming part of a crowd that might shield the killer’s approach. He knew that a larger crowd tended only to mean more confused and conflicting witnesses. After shooting him, the killer might even become part of the swarm of onlookers.

It was no good to think of yourself as only the prey. Quinn knew that to survive he’d sometimes have to become the hunter. He crossed streets often, and every half hour or so doubled back. Sometimes he’d find a concealing doorway, or some other quiet corner from which he could observe. There he would wait to see who was walking in his wake. He had no idea what his pursuer looked like. What he wanted was to see the same man twice, to judge his bearing and attitude. He was pretty sure he was being followed, and that he’d be able to spot the killer. At that point Quinn would become the stalker. Quinn figured he had a chance here. He was good at spotting tails, and at shaking them. Why not at arresting them?

Or, if necessary, at killing one of them?

In truth he was almost positive that was what he’d have to do, that this was a serious game played to the death.

But the morning wore on, and whoever was following Quinn—if there was someone following him—remained anonymous and all the more dangerous.

It was almost eleven o’clock when Quinn decided he should have lunch. He’d stop at a diner, someplace he’d never been before, where it couldn’t be predicted he would go. The noon lunch crowd was still an hour away, so the restaurants shouldn’t be crowded yet. He could get a table or booth where he’d be facing the door, away from a window through which he might be seen, or even shot.

It all seemed so incongruous at that moment. So unreal. The morning, the street, the city seemed so normal. Was he really taking part in some madman’s deadly game?

He knew that kind of thinking could be like an opiate, dulling alertness. He was in a game, all right. A hunt. And he’d damned well better remember it.

About a hundred feet ahead, a knot of pedestrians waited at an intersection. People were standing on and just off the curb, impatient for the light to change so they could cross. Quinn thought about hurrying to join them, then became aware that his right shoelace had come untied and was flopping around. He was passing a low stone wall running parallel to the office building on his right, and he didn’t want to catch up to the people at the corner too fast. It was a good time to tie the shoelace.

He stopped, braced his foot up on the low wall, and quickly retied the brown lace.

When he straightened up to continue walking, he saw that the light at the intersection had just changed to walk. The knot of pedestrians had surged forward and dispersed. Most of them were almost halfway across the street. All of them were gone from the corner and the curb.

All but one.

He was a medium-height, well-dressed man in a dark blue suit, coat open, tie flapping in the breeze. He had neatly trimmed dark hair combed straight back, and looked fit and handsome.

Quinn remembered the blue suit, the head of thick black hair. The man had been part of the knot of people at the corner, waiting to cross the intersection

Only he hadn’t crossed. He’d turned around and was now walking toward Quinn.

None of this might have seemed real a few minutes ago, but it was real. And coming at him. It was happening!

The man’s smooth, athletic stride didn’t slow or in any way change as he slipped a hand into his pocket. The movement hadn’t seemed fast, but it had been fast.

Faster than Quinn could reach his own pocket.

The man had stopped now and was standing in shooting position, his body turned sideways, his right arm extended and holding a small revolver pointed at Quinn. The dark eyes sighting over the barrel at Quinn were somber and intent and without fear.

Quinn was fumbling his own revolver out of his pocket, knowing even as he did so that it would be too late. He’d simply tied his shoe, briefly let down his guard, and he was dead.