Urge to Kill

What Dunn liked was that Rhodes was carrying a black leather duffel bag slung from his shoulder by a thick strap. That meant he intended to run rather than try to turn the tables and become hunter rather than prey. Probably, Dunn thought, because Rhodes knew that if he couldn’t successfully go into hiding he’d continue to be hunted no matter how this particular joust with death turned out.

What Dunn didn’t like was that the duffel bag was only partly zipped, and Rhodes walked with one arm resting on the bag, his hand inside it. Dunn was sure the hand was curled around a .25-caliber revolver exactly like the one concealed in the fold of the morning Times he was carrying.

Rhodes was wearing brown slacks and a brownish tweed sport coat, warm for this kind of weather. Dunn figured that was so he could take all the useful clothing with him that wouldn’t fit into the bag. It also meant he might be heading for a cooler climate. Not once had Rhodes glanced behind him, but Dunn didn’t take for granted that his presence was unknown.

Suddenly Rhodes crossed Seventh Avenue in the middle of the block. At Fifty-first Street he jauntily descended the steps to a subway stop.

Dunn had to hurry. He followed down the concrete steps toward the platform, aware that his haste might cause carelessness. He might be entering a trap.

Ahead, beyond the turnstiles, he could see people coming up another flight of steps. Apparently a train had just arrived.

Dunn had a Metro card good for a week. He hurried through a turnstile, elbowing aside some of the crowd moving the opposite direction and pushing through the turnstiles to exit.

At the head of the steps he stopped.

He had a clear view down to a landing and a continuation of concrete steps, and saw no sign of Rhodes. Had he been tricked?

Damn it!

He glanced back toward the turnstiles and caught a glimpse of men’s brown pants, as someone who might have been Rhodes jogged up the steps beyond the turnstiles and ran toward the street.

Rhodes?

The color of the pants was perfect.

Dunn ran toward the turnstiles, pushed through to exit, and dashed up the steps, taking them three at a time.

Back in the sunshine at street level, he looked in all directions.

No Thomas Rhodes.

Calm down, Dunn told himself. Calm down!

He didn’t doubt Rhodes had known he was being tracked and had used the subway stop to slip away from his pursuer. He must have been waiting just to the side of the street steps so he could cut back the way he’d come after Dunn had hurried toward the turnstiles without a sideways glance. Now back up on the crowded sidewalks, Dunn had no chance of finding him again to resume tracking.

He moved back into a doorway and stood thinking, his eyes all the time moving, seeking another momentary glimpse of Rhodes.

Rhodes was wearing a heavy sport jacket and carrying a bag that could only be called luggage, so he was traveling. He might catch a cab and head for one of the airports, but his pursuer would figure him to travel by air, probably in first class.

Dunn knew he had to guess, and he went with the odds. What was the least likely way Rhodes would travel?

A bus.

Possibly a train, but less likely was a bus.

If that was the case, Dunn had a pretty good idea where Rhodes would hook up with his transportation. Where whoever was hunting him would have to make another choice. Port Authority Terminal on Forty-second Street, where a traveler could board either a bus or a subway train.

Rhodes wasn’t carrying the duffel bag for nothing.

Dunn got out in the street and hailed a cab. He told the driver he was pressed for time and there was a twenty in it for him if he drove fast for the Port Authority Terminal, that he needed to hook up with someone he did business with and it was critical to an important deal for him to get there before a bus left.

All true. In its fashion.

It had been almost a week since Hobbs had laid a hand on her. Temporarily at least, Lavern Neeson was unbruised.

Often he’d call her from work to keep tabs on her, so she’d faked a doctor’s appointment this time, knowing that since she was unmarked Hobbs wouldn’t be interested. And she’d told him she thought she was coming down with a summer cold, not only to keep him away from her, but to give her an excuse for her sham appointment.

Where she’d taken her unbruised self was to the lounge where she’d almost been picked up by the handsome guy with the hooded eyes and jet-black hair. It was about the same time of day she’d been there last time, so he might well be there, too. She could picture him sitting on the same stool as before, hunched over his drink, and then walking toward her, absently spinning bar stools as he came. Then the change in his expression as he saw the bruises on her face, bruises that makeup couldn’t quite conceal. She hadn’t been able to get the man out of her thoughts, out of her dreams.

It could be different this time.