Joe Haldeman - Work Done for Hire

A state police tow truck.

The cop came back with a friend, a very stern-looking woman with a Smokey-the-Bear hat and her left hand on the butt of the automatic pistol that rode too high on her hip. The other hand hovered over a spray can on the right side.

Her voice was a staccato chirp: “Sir, we have to ask you to come out of the car and keep your hands visible please.”

“Sure.” I opened the door slowly and eased my tired bones out. “What else can I help you with?”

“Are there any other weapons in the car?” he asked.

“No—yes! I mean, not in the car. In a suitcase in the trunk, there’s a gun.”

“Would you please open the suitcase and show us? We won’t confiscate it without reason.”

Even with reason, I wondered whether they were on shaky legal ground. Could they make you open a suitcase without a warrant? The rent-a-cops at airport security did it routinely, so maybe they were covered.

I opened up the suitcase and stepped away before she could order me to. “Take a look.”

The snub-nosed revolver was in sight on top of the clothes. She searched through them anyhow, and didn’t find anything else interesting.

“Have I broken a law here?” My half-formed plan was to get the police suspicious enough to follow me. Hopefully without throwing me in the slammer.

The male officer took off his sunglasses, revealing soft features in a big round face. “There is a law against creating an ‘attractive nuisance,’ sir. A nice rifle begging to be stolen qualifies, I think.”

“So I could be arrested for somebody else’s theoretical lack of moral fiber.”

“You’re not being arrested, sir,” the woman said. “Though I will issue a warning to you.” She reached for a notebook very slowly, I guess so as not to spook me in case I had yet another gun squirreled away. She asked the other officer what the code was for “attractive nuisance,” and he didn’t know either, so they settled on 999. They gave me the warning and abjured me to have a good day, and please put the weapons where they weren’t in plain sight.

The warning wasn’t a citation. It was somebody’s brilliant PR idea—a smiley face with “Friendly Warning” printed across the top. No name or license number involved, how friendly. I probably wasn’t in any state police computer for it.

The tow-truck door slammed and then there was a solenoid click down by my starter switch. So they could turn off this car’s engine by remote control, which I’d known was true in a couple of states. Another reason to stick to bicycles.

I did put the rifle in the trunk but also, perhaps unwisely, took the .38 from the suitcase and slipped it into the front door pocket, tucking a map over it for camouflage. Not that I was going to quick-draw it from the driver’s seat, with my left arm incapacitated.

It was right next to the plastic wallet with Grant Harrison’s identification. Maybe I should have used it. Remember this name, officers. It will be in the papers soon.

My fingers tingled and so did my toes, a not-completely-unpleasant feeling I remembered from combat. Like feeling a change in the weather: a shitstorm may be gathering, but at least it won’t take me by surprise.

I studied the parking lot, feeling a little sheepish, and didn’t spot any tanks or snipers. I touched the EST. TIME button on the map, and numbers appeared under route lines. I was five hours from Huntsville. Figure on stopping there for dinner and a rest.

As I pulled out of the parking area, I told the phone to recharge itself from the car’s system while I drove. It had one message, which had come in while I was being interrogated by the Smokies.

We will call you with instructions this evening at eight o’clock your time. You have to be checked into a motel or hotel by then. You might want to get some rest.

That was thoughtful of them. It would put me on the other side of Huntsville, but 8:00 was late to be looking for a room. I’d start looking well south of the city.

The phone buzzed, and I picked it up wearily. So soon. “Yeah?”

“Hey, babe. What’s up?”

The voice was only vaguely familiar. “I don’t know. What is up? Who are you?”

“Break my heart, babe—this is Ron ! Ron Duquest, the only guy between you and a million bucks.”

“Jesus! How on Earth did you get this number? I just got this phone.”

“What do you mean?” he said. “You e-mailed me the number this morning from… Missi-fucking-sippi? What the hell are you doin’ down south?”

What should I or could I tell him? Of course we were being overheard, at least my side of the conversation. I chose my words carefully. “Unlikely as it sounds,” I said, “I’m doing a little thing for the army. Secret.”

“The army ? I thought you hated them.”

“What can I say, Ron? Their money spends.”

“That’s great, babe. But what about me ? And my money? The army takes precedence over my monster?”

Jesus. “Didn’t I just send you a chapter?”

“Jack, yeah, you sent me a chapter, like a week ago.”

“Couple of days,” I said.

“The monster’s got the bikin’ guy,” he said. “He’s about to fuckin’ eat him, and the cops are closing in while he sharpens the fuckin’ knife, and you have to do a job for the fuckin’ army ? One of us is crazy, man, and I’m sure as hell it’s not fuckin’ me !”

I had to smile in spite of everything. “It’s me, Ron. I am totally fuckin’ bug-fuck.” I checked my watch. “Look, I’m about to knock off driving for the night. I’ll stop at a place with Wi-Fi and do you a couple of pages.”

“You got to, man! I gotta know, does he eat the guy—no, don’t tell me! I wanna agonize !”

“Okay, Ron. I’ll do as much as I can.”

“Do more ! I wanna know what happens to this fuckin’ freak!”

“Do what I can,” I repeated. “Talk to you tomorrow.” I clicked it off and tossed it on the seat. A big sigh surprised me, and then I had to laugh.

If you only knew, Ronald. There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy. Using the term loosely.

Hunter removed the tape from his victim’s mouth slowly but gently. This one was also athletic, but not as skinny as the girl last month, good.

Hunter had duct-taped his wrists and ankles. He pushed the bandana that had been covering his eyes up onto his forehead. “If you make any noise, I will blind and gag you again. But I will hurt you first.”

“Okay,” he said hoarsely. “I understand.”

“I do want you to understand,” Hunter said. “I want you to know that what’s happening to you is special.”

“Thank you.” His eyes tracked all around the trailer. A library of science fiction and popular science paperbacks in floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Large old medical books, anatomy and physiology. A too-large billiard table took up half the floor space.

Hunter crouched and lifted the table’s false top of green felt, not straining. Underneath, a metal surface with blood gutters. Its white enamel had been scrubbed, but stains persisted.

“This will not be an autopsy, despite appearances.” He opened a drawer and took out a plastic case of glittering scalpels and a pair of surgical saws. “Autopsies are for dead people. This will be more like a very thorough physical examination.”

“At the end of which I’ll be dead?” His voice quavered.

“We shall see.” He took large shears out of the drawer and advanced on his prisoner.

“What are you doing?”

“Preparation.” He started with the left arm of Steve’s T-shirt, scissoring it open to the neck. Then he did the other side, slowly, shearing it all the way to the waist. The ruined garment fell to the floor. Then he snipped open his biking shorts, leaving him clad only in a jock strap and incongruous running shoes.