Urge to Kill

“You are a hunter, Mr. Rhodes. On various safaris and expeditions, you’ve hunted the most dangerous animals on earth. Now you have the opportunity to hunt something even more dangerous than the tiger, the only animal that doubles back and lies in wait for its stalker. This tiger will be armed as you are—and also hunting you. Your, and his, expertise in the bush will be neutralized by the terrain, so you and your fellow hunter will start even, with identical weapons—small and untraceable twenty-five-caliber handguns. A condition of the hunt is that after you take your prey, you remove his weapon as your trophy and return it to Quest and Quarry, so there’ll be no evidence of our involvement or unconventional business arrangement.”

Rhodes sipped his scotch. “Well, that’s quite a bit to take in.”

Martin Hawk sat patiently and waited. At this point, a few clients had gotten up and walked out. Not that they knew anything they could prove. But their refusal to do business did necessitate changing hotels, being extra careful for a while. Hawk didn’t figure Thomas Rhodes for one of the walkers.

“I’ve been reading the papers,” Rhodes said, “watching the news.”

“Have you now?”

Neither man mentioned the .25-Caliber Killer.

Rhodes took another sip of the excellent scotch and said, “So far so good. Tell me more.”

“The terrain is Manhattan. You’ll be in separate hotels that you must leave and not return to between nine a.m. and midnight. This is important: within your respective hotels, each of you is out of season and safe.

“Your prey will be a predator like yourself, a tiger who yearns for the ultimate hunting experience and is willing to pay for it. Participants pay a hundred thousand dollars each. When the survivor presents his trophy gun as proof of his opponent’s death, returning it with his own weapon to Quest and Quarry, he receives a full refund plus fifty thousand dollars.”

“The money is inconsequential,” Rhodes said.

“Of course it is. Though not to some of our clients. But it isn’t about the money.”

“No, it isn’t. Not to a certain type of man.” Rhodes gently swirled the rich amber liquid in his glass, his gaze fixed on something outside the high window. Beyond the sun-touched buildings across the street was clear blue sky but for a few streaks of white cloud, like claw marks.

“I want you to think about this carefully, Mr. Rhodes, but I would like your answer before you leave this room. For both of us, I want you to be sure.”

Rhodes finished his scotch and stood up. Being sure was what he was about.

Martin Hawk regarded him with mild curiosity.

“Whom do I kill?” Rhodes asked.

PART II

Oh, write of me not “Died in bitter pains,” But “Emigrated to another star!”

—HELEN HUNT JACKSON,

Emigravit

32

Lavern Neeson made a halfhearted attempt to duck beneath her husband’s slap. The flat of his hand stung her forehead instead of her cheek with a solid whap!

She put her mind, herself, on hold.

Just as well. There wasn’t time to think about defending herself. The second slap was almost instantaneous, to her left cheek and ear, causing a thousand needles of pain, a ringing sound, and the salt taste of blood. The force of the blow whipped her head to the right. Blood escaped her mouth and splattered the dresser mirror. Alongside the blood was her own face staring back at her, a mask of horror that terrified her.

She didn’t even have time to look away. In the mirror she saw Hobbs’s hand clutch a fistful of her blond hair. The horror mask image flashed out of sight as Lavern was slung across the room and onto the bed.

The pillow again!

Bedsprings sang. Hobbs was on top of her, straddling her, pressing one of the pillows—her own—almost flat against her body with one hand. The other hand he balled into a fist, and he began pounding the pillow. Lavern almost cried out with pain, but she knew that would only make it worse. The pillow would prevent bruising while his fists caused agonizing internal injury. Her body, so damaged inside, would appear unmarked.

Not her face, though. Hobbs usually couldn’t resist beginning one of Lavern’s beatings by starting with a slap or two—“to get her attention,” he’d once told her—before concentrating his righteous wrath on her body.

She kept her teeth clenched, her lips clamped, emitting only whimpers, as she heard him breathing harder with each blow. It would stop soon, she was sure. She often counted the blows, and usually somewhere between fifteen and twenty he’d become exhausted in limb or rage and stop pounding the pillow.

Eighteen!

Nineteen!

Finally spent, he gave her a final punch, just below her breasts, and then shifted his weight off her. He’d left her breasts themselves undamaged this time, knowing she was soon due for a mammogram. No point in doing something that might show up on an X-ray and prompt questions.