John Lutz - Urge to Kill

In the elevator going down, the three of them were alone.

Pearl said, “Sometimes you frighten me, Quinn.”

“Vernon Lake’s an asshole who killed his share of people,” Fedderman said. “He knew something that could help us save lives. Quinn didn’t actually lie to the man.”

“That’s what frightens me. And makes me a little queasy.”

“Grow up, Pearl.” Fedderman said.

“Yeah. Grow up, grow old, then die. Makes being born not seem worthwhile.”

“Every right thing you do,” Quinn said, “you don’t feel good about it afterward.”

Black Lake, Missouri, 1985

The bitter November air was sharp and full of scent. It froze the hair in Marty’s nostrils and caught like a blade in his throat.

Eleven-year-old Marty Hawk stayed well to the side and slightly behind his father as they trudged up the snow-crusted rise toward the ridge of trees lined like silhouetted Halloween shapes against the gray sky. When the wind blew, it rattled the ice in the branches. Marty’s breath fogged out ahead of him.

He held his rifle cradled in his arm, pointed at the ground as instructed. Marty had shot the rifle before, but not with the high-velocity rounds that were in its breach and magazine now.

The rifle was a Mossberg bolt-action 30–06 with Marty’s name artfully carved into its wooden stock. It had been his birthday present last year. He’d practiced with it for months.

Now, finally, his father had decided he was ready.

As they approached the frozen ridge, his father shifted his ancient Winchester rifle to his left hand, extended his right arm to the side, and made a downward motion with the flat of his palm. Man and boy slowed their pace and moved as silently as possible through the snow to the top of the ridge.

The trees and some bent and frozen underbrush lent them cover as they surveyed the lay of lightly wooded land beyond them. Through the trees they could see the wide flatness of the lake, not quite frozen but with sheets of ice in its dark water.

There was movement ahead, and Marty and his father hunkered lower. Marty almost slipped and slid back down the rise, but his father reached over to grab his wrist and steady him. His father raised his gloved hand to his face and held a forefinger in front of his mouth, in a signal for Marty to be silent. Marty watched the steam of his father’s hot breath swirl around the raised finger and nodded. The rifle was getting heavy. He hefted it slightly higher so the tip of its barrel wouldn’t touch the snow.

Marty’s father pointed toward a doe and a large buck with a fine stand of antlers less than a hundred yards away. The two animals had their heads down, feeding on some grass they’d managed to find beneath the layer of snow. The buck raised his head, as if to show off his antlers, sniffed the air, then resumed feeding.

Marty felt his father’s hand squeeze his shoulder, and his father pointed to him, then to the buck.

Marty’s head swam. He didn’t want to kill this beautiful animal, but he knew his father saw it as food as well as prey.

It was food.

And it was prey. And Marty was a hunter. At least he would be. He knew what his father expected of him. Marty would do almost anything not to disappoint his father.

His father squeezed his shoulder again, brushing his back as he removed his hand.

Marty raised the rifle and sighted down its barrel at the peacefully grazing buck. He centered the sights on the deer’s large chest, just above the left leg. A heart shot.

The steam of Marty’s own breath rose in the icy air, for a second obscuring his vision. His heart slammed against his ribs and his blood rushed hotly through his veins. The blackened gun sight before him trembled.

He drew a deep breath, as he’d been taught, then slowly and quietly exhaled. They were downwind of the deer, and he knew he could take his time. The animals couldn’t pick up their scent. If he and his father simply were still enough, the deer wouldn’t bolt.

The end of the barrel was now steady. Marty adjusted his aim ever so slightly to the left, allowing for the winter breeze, and ever so gently squeezed the trigger.

The rifle’s sharp report cracked through the still morning, and the stock kicked back hard against Marty’s shoulder. He had to catch himself again to keep from sliding downhill.

When he looked for the deer he saw it beginning to run and was sure he’d missed. He didn’t know whether to be sorry or glad.

Then the deer stumbled, struggled up again, took a few more leggy strides on limbs that refused to work, and collapsed.

“We won’t have to track after that one,” Marty’s father said beside him. Then he laughed and hugged Marty, who found himself laughing and crying simultaneously, and hugging back.

He saw that the Mossberg was lying in the snow and dutifully stooped to pick it up, brushing snow off its bolt action. Should he have worked the rifle’s bolt and readied it for a second or even third shot?

“You did good!” his father said beside him. “How do you feel?”

Marty thought about the question and decided. “Good.”

He looked about and saw that the doe was nowhere in sight. There were tracks in the snow, leading off toward the lake.

His father noticed that Marty had seen the doe’s tracks. He didn’t smile, but he nodded his approval.

Marty and his father topped the ridge and trudged downhill through the snow toward the dead deer, their weight back on their heels. There was no breeze now, and the air was like still crystal that shattered each time their boots broke through the crust of snow. Marty had forgotten to put his gloves back on and his hands were cold. Through the trees, he caught glimpses of brilliant red near the dead buck, like scattered jewels in the snow.

The buck lay on its side, its neck twisted so that its head was at a sharp angle. Its eyes were open and blank. When they were close enough, Marty stooped low and reached toward the animal and petted it.

“A fine shot,” his father said proudly. “Damned fine!”

Marty would never forget that morning. Not so much because of what had happened, but because of what was to follow.

New York, the present

Quinn reminded himself that June Galin had a bad heart. She stood squarely in the doorway of her house in Queens, as if braced to defend her home against invaders. A bee droned close by, abruptly changed direction, and passed within inches of her face. She ignored it.

“We need to look around the place,” Quinn told her.

“You mean search it,” she said.

“Yes. That’s what we’re asking you to let us do.”

“What do you think you’ll find?”

“We don’t know. That’s why we want to search.”

June’s gaze darted to Pearl and Fedderman, standing just behind Quinn, then to the radio car parked behind Quinn’s big Lincoln at the curb.

“You have a warrant,” she said, “or you wouldn’t have brought people with you to help search.”

“We do have a warrant, dear. We thought we’d ask and might not have to use it. We were hoping for your cooperation, considering it was your husband who was murdered.”

She flinched when she heard it so bluntly stated.

“You won’t have to serve the warrant,” she said, stepping back. “Come on in. Just try not to mess things up too much.”

Quinn waved for the two uniforms waiting in the radio car to join them, then led the way past June Galin into the house. Though she’d made room for them to enter, they still had to edge past her. It was as if she was putting up a token defense for her dead husband.

“We’ll try to be neat,” Pearl assured her as she squeezed past, the two uniforms at her heels. They were officers Nancy Weaver and Vern Shults. Shults was near retirement and could be sitting behind a desk, but he preferred to be out in the field. Weaver had worked her way up to detective rank, but had screwed up again somehow and was back in uniform. She was a talented detective, but she liked to sleep around, especially with other cops. It had been good for her libido, but bad for her career.