Urge to Kill

“Anything in particular you want us to do now?” Vitali asked.

“Stay on the case,” Quinn said. “And be careful.”

“Have a good one,” Pearl said, as the Vitali-Mishkin part of the team started toward the elevator.

Vitali gave a little wave. “Ciao.”

“Happy hunting,” Fedderman said.

“Shalom,” Mishkin said over his shoulder.

Au revoir, Quinn thought.

Jerry Dunn chewed absently on a gin-soaked olive. He was nervous, but didn’t know why. The man from Quest and Quarry had called and asked to meet him here, in Gillman’s Bar on West Forty-second Street. It was about business, he’d said. Maybe that was why Dunn was nervous; he knew the business of Quest and Quarry, had in fact been part of it.

He swallowed what was left of the olive and wondered if he should mention the newspaper piece he’d read about the guy who’d been shot in the Antonian Hotel and then dragged outside. The latest victim of the .25-Caliber Killer. It had to have something to do with Quest and Quarry, but it might be a sensitive subject,

Here came the guy now, medium height, compact, clean cut, and thoughtful looking in a way that made him seem like a youthful college professor who hadn’t yet burned out. But there was a grace and muscularity about him that attracted attention and suggested a lot of strength beneath that tailored blue suit. He gave his handsome smile and extended his hand to Jerry, who shook it and noticed how dry and strong it was.

Jerry had been drinking a Beefeater martini. The man from Quest and Quarry sat down opposite him in the wooden booth near the window and ordered a scotch rocks and a fresh drink for Jerry.

“I wanted to congratulate you on the fine hunt you conducted,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Joseph Galin was a formidable quarry.”

The drinks arrived, and both men were silent until the barmaid had left.

“I’m offering you another hunt,” the college professor (as Jerry thought of him) said. “Same terms.”

Jerry thought about it and sipped his fresh martini. “If I keep doing this I might wind up being a rich man.”

“But that’s not why you’re going to say yes.”

Jerry smiled. “We both know that.”

“Do we have an agreement?”

Jerry nodded.

“This hunt will be slightly different,” said the man from Quest and Quarry.

When he was finished explaining that difference, he said, “Your quarry will be a man named Thomas Rhodes.”

After leaving Gillman’s Bar, Martin Hawk took a cab to the block of Thomas Rhodes’s West Side brownstone and got out at the corner. He put on the plain blue baseball cap he’d had in his suit coat pocket and adjusted the bill at a slight angle. Everyone in a baseball cap looked like everyone else in a baseball cap. He walked down the street and, without being noticed left a small, tightly wrapped package in the brownstone’s mailbox.

He was smiling as he strode casually away. The package contained a small .25-caliber revolver. He knew that Rhodes would understand what it was for, and he knew how he’d react. Rhodes should never have discharged his weapon inside his opponent’s hotel. It had been carefully explained to him that both hunters’ hotels were safety zones. He’d broken the rules and the code of honor, and that was unforgivable, as well as dangerous.

Rhodes wouldn’t contact the police, but he might try to leave town with his life preserved, made silent by fear. Or he might feel that he had no choice but to take up the challenge.

Either way, Hawk had faith in Jerry Dunn. Also either way, Quest and Quarry would neutralize a former client who was a potential problem. This kind of pairing was Martin Hawk’s way of sweeping up after himself.

He glanced at his watch. It was still early enough to see a woman who very much interested him. A special woman.

The special ones were getting closer together, he knew, and it was beginning to worry him. But there was no way to deny the need or the urgency. He really had no choice. And this woman…she was unique, like all of them, and the same, like all of them.

In the end, alike.

Simple puzzles. All of them.

He’d know how to deal with her, how to figure her out. He’d observe her and learn her thought processes and habits, and then take advantage of them. It was all in knowing when to move in. It was much like hunting.

It was hunting.

He stepped off the curb into the oil-stained street and hailed another cab.

43

Black Lake, Missouri, 1986

The old Chevy pickup was dented and rusty, but it was all determination as it snarled and rattled over the rough and uneven dirt drive leading to the dilapidated farmhouse and outbuildings.

During the year since his initiation rite at the lake, Marty had become the hunter his father had anticipated, keen of eye and eager. He was twelve now, taller, still skinny but filling out.