John Lutz - Urge to Kill

Hobbs loomed over her, all six feet of him; he was almost forty now but was still burly and hard from playing college football until he’d blown out his right knee. Still had the buzz cut that made his angular features seem as cruel as a Roman emperor’s. That harshness of countenance was made even more extreme by the coldness in his eyes that were almost exactly the same shade of blue as his wife’s. But while Lavern’s eyes were soft and resigned, Hobbs’s eyes were as hard and reflecting as diamonds.

Lavern hadn’t known Hobbs in college, though she’d been aware of him. They’d met on First Avenue six years later when sharing a cab out of necessity during a downpour; they were two people unfortunate enough to be going the same way-though of course they’d both thought it lucky at the time. They had so much in common-or so she’d been led to believe-and at first the sex had been undeniably great.

The relationship had worked for a while. Long enough for them to marry with romantic feigned impetuousness, helped along by a night of hard drinking during a weekend in Las Vegas.

It was after the marriage that they came to know each other better. That was when the real Hobbs emerged. Or possibly he’d been there all along and Lavern had loved him too much to notice the signs.

He’d removed his shirt, but hadn’t taken off his pants. She noticed the empty belt loops and knew he’d removed his leather belt. There it was in his right hand, dangling and doubled and portending pain.

What have I done now?

His voice was level, but still carried a quiet menace. “The towels, Lavern.”

Her mind danced frantically. She had no idea what he was talking about. “What towels?”

“In the bathroom. I take a piss, wash my hands, and the goddamned towels are filthy. You didn’t even hang them up straight. Damned things were bunched under the towel rack so they’d stay damp. That’s how disease spreads, Lavern.”

She was bewildered. He actually seemed serious.

“I’ll go see,” she said, and slid sideways to get out of bed.

The belt caught her in the ribs, but she didn’t cry out. She knew better than to make noise. The neighbors mustn’t be disturbed. The neighbors mustn’t know.

She grunted with pain and bent low enough that her elbows rested on her knees.

“Stand up, Lavern. Take your medicine.”

She knew then it wasn’t really the towels that bothered Hobbs. It was his sickness, the thing inside his heart that made him hurt with a nameless rage that from time to time would be directed at her.

As she fought her agony and straightened her body, he surprised her by not using the belt. He used the flat of his hand instead, slapping her left cheek hard enough to spin her head so it felt as if it might snap from her spine. She tasted blood and saw a tiny red splatter on the dresser mirror all the way across the bedroom.

He gripped her by one arm and jerked her upright so she was standing straight again, as if teeing her up for another blow.

Violence came as easy to him as laughter. One of his friends had reminded Lavern that Hobbs had barely escaped being kicked out of college for almost killing another student with his fists in an argument over a movie. She vaguely remembered the incident, the talk on campus. He would have been expelled, only that was before he hurt his knee, and he could still bowl people over at football. Assault charges had been dropped, and the matter had been classified as an incident of boys being boys, when it should have been a clear warning.

Not that any of this was relevant to Lavern’s present circumstances. She knew she wouldn’t have heeded any warning. Not at that age. Not even when she was older. Just Hobbs being Hobbs, she had decided, along with the faculty. Like almost everyone else, she had excused him his youthful misbehavior. He was fun to watch on the football field. There was even talk of a possible pro contract. Lavern had wondered from time to time if there might be some way to meet him.

Then had come the knee injury, and soon thereafter she’d heard that he’d left school.

The mature Hobbs shoved her back into the bed and wrestled her almost inert body around so she lay on her back.

Then he was on her, straddling her, his weight mashing her slight form into the mattress. His breath hissed in the quiet bedroom.

He began to beat her, not as hard as he could, but methodically, slapping, slapping, slapping. She let herself go limp and closed her eyes to the onslaught, closed her mind.

Finally he stopped.

He’s going to kill me someday. He’s going to kill somebody.

She felt his weight shift and heard the rasp of his zipper being undone.

At least the beating was over.

He’s going to kill somebody.

Joseph Galin was conscious, but he wasn’t thinking or seeing clearly. It had become a world without time or meaning. He had no memory of how he’d gotten where he was, sitting slouched and apparently in a car.

His car?

He couldn’t move, and though there was no pain, there was an advancing numbness. It had begun with his feet, then his hands. Now he had no feeling at all in any of his extremities. He might as well have been floating like a balloon.

Galin could see out the windshield to the wide expanse of the car’s hood, where a bird of some kind was walking around, pecking, maybe damaging the paint. And it was night out. Evening. Dark and getting darker. Way past dusk.

Then darkness fell completely, as if he were in a sealed room and someone had pulled down a shade. Odd. Strange also that he wasn’t afraid. More curious. What the hell was happening?

Am I drunk?

He’d been on benders before and figured this wasn’t one of them.

Some kind of stroke?

If I could only remember who I am…

He could smell leather and something that reminded him of dirty coins…pennies.

A penny for my thoughts…

He might have smiled.

The darkness was heavy on him, keeping him from opening his eyes now. Not that it made any difference. He heard himself let out a long breath. Heard the bird pecking on the car hood, still working even though it was so dark. He heard a car passing way out in the street, beyond the mouth of the alley.

Alley?

He began to remember and was afraid. His mind searched for light and found none.

The fear remained. Held on to him like a lost lover dying along with him.

Dying?

Without meaning to, he said loudly and in a clear voice, “Hawk.”

The word meant nothing to him.

Then Galin saw nothing, became totally blind. He could no longer remember what he couldn’t see. Could no longer smell the leather and tarnished copper or anything else, could hear nothing, feel nothing…

Nothing.

The phone chirping by the bed pulled Quinn out of deep sleep. His mouth and throat were dry. There was grit beneath his eyelids. He glanced at his watch to see the time. It was…dark. Why the hell didn’t luminous hands work at the same brightness all the time?

He found the phone in the dark, lifted the receiver, and mashed it against his ear.

Damned chirping’s stopped, anyway. Like a nattering bird.

“Quinn?”

Renz’s voice. Great.

“Quinn,” he confirmed. He reached out and switched on the reading lamp on the table alongside the bed. Saw the face of his watch. A few minutes past five o’clock.

“You were sleeping, right?” Renz said, as if he’d been asked to answer some kind of riddle.

“You guessed it. That why you called? To wake me up?”

“Yeah, but there’s a deeper reason. Remember our conversation from a week ago?”

Quinn was almost all the way awake now. “I remember. We got another one?”

“’Fraid so. Remember Joe Galin?”