like a garage door, but the ordinary entry door next to it. A man stepped out under the dusk-to-dawn light. He was wearing a tuxedo. One of the dinner guests, then, probably out sneaking a smoke. Cut drew in his breath slowly, tried to let it out slowly. He was only thirty feet from the man, who was looking down, rumbling in his pocket. Cut couldn’t make out his features clearly. A cigarette lighter flashed a tiny defiant flame. Then the man tilted his head back, the tip of the cigarette glowing brightly, inhaling deeply. The orange glow of the dusk-to-dawn light fell on his face.
It was Rheinhardt.
Cut hesitated, not quite believing his luck. Rheinhardt was alone and exquisitely vulnerable, puffing away, probably hoping no one would miss him inside the hotel while he sucked in a few puffs. Cut slipped the pair of throwing knives from his camera bag. They were eight inches long and double-edged, with a dull black finish so they wouldn’t catch the light. He hefted them in his left hand, admiring their weight and balance. It would be a shame to lose them.
He ran forward, light on his feet, and passed one knife from his left hand to his right as he darted toward Rheinhardt, coming in on the man’s left side. When he had closed the distance to ten feet, he saw Rheinhardt’s head swivel toward him; the man had picked up the motion. The blade flew from Cut’s hand, turning end over end, barely visible in the muggy night because of its nonreflective black surface. It caught Rheinhardt in the neck, burying itself half of its length, transfixing the man as he turned toward Cut, wide-eyed, cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. The second blade, not wanting its twin to have all the fun, tumbled silently through the space between the two men and landed with a muted thump to the left of the sternum.
Cut saw the man drop. He looked around; no witnesses. He approached the body to be certain of the killing. Bending over Rheinhardt, he pulled off his gloves and shoved them in his pockets. If the man had a faint pulse, Cut might not have been able to feel it through his gloves. He pressed a couple of fingers of his right hand against the bloody throat of the man lying on the ground. There was no pulse. Life had fled quickly. It was a clean easy death compared to what Cut’s son had endured, but setting up a homemade gas chamber and luring a victim was too elaborate and risky a thing to do every day. After the harsh statement delivered by the first target’s death, expediency ruled for the follow-ups.
He was tempted to retrieve his lovely and useful knives, but he knew that would create a disposal problem. Better to leave them in place. Cut wiped his bloody hand on his victim’s shirt, being careful to leave nothing but smears, no recognizable finger or palm prints. He moved away rapidly, relieved to be out of the revealing cone of brightness from the dusk-to-dawn light. Back out on the street, he strolled through Laclede’s Landing, his hands jammed into his pockets to conceal the slight bulge of the crumpled gloves that also rode within them. The sidewalk was busy with people barhopping, and none of them gave him a second glance.
He hadn’t needed the camera, after all. It had been a waste of money, and that was a small blot on an otherwise gratifying mission.
Eleven
S T. LOUIS AWOKE ON a steamy Wednesday, the fifth day of August, to news of the slaying the previous evening of a fixture in the city, the popular Prosecuting Attorney Victor Rheinhardt. He had held the elective office for almost twenty years. Although PJ hadn’t lived in the city that long herself, some of those in the law enforcement and judicial structures of the city wouldn’t remember a time in their careers when Rheinhardt hadn’t held the reins of the prosecutor’s office.
Most likely a few of the up-and-coming were secretly glad to see an opening at the top, although she thought that only the most hard-hearted of the law-abiding citizens of St.
It was Rheinhardt.
Cut hesitated, not quite believing his luck. Rheinhardt was alone and exquisitely vulnerable, puffing away, probably hoping no one would miss him inside the hotel while he sucked in a few puffs. Cut slipped the pair of throwing knives from his camera bag. They were eight inches long and double-edged, with a dull black finish so they wouldn’t catch the light. He hefted them in his left hand, admiring their weight and balance. It would be a shame to lose them.
He ran forward, light on his feet, and passed one knife from his left hand to his right as he darted toward Rheinhardt, coming in on the man’s left side. When he had closed the distance to ten feet, he saw Rheinhardt’s head swivel toward him; the man had picked up the motion. The blade flew from Cut’s hand, turning end over end, barely visible in the muggy night because of its nonreflective black surface. It caught Rheinhardt in the neck, burying itself half of its length, transfixing the man as he turned toward Cut, wide-eyed, cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. The second blade, not wanting its twin to have all the fun, tumbled silently through the space between the two men and landed with a muted thump to the left of the sternum.
Cut saw the man drop. He looked around; no witnesses. He approached the body to be certain of the killing. Bending over Rheinhardt, he pulled off his gloves and shoved them in his pockets. If the man had a faint pulse, Cut might not have been able to feel it through his gloves. He pressed a couple of fingers of his right hand against the bloody throat of the man lying on the ground. There was no pulse. Life had fled quickly. It was a clean easy death compared to what Cut’s son had endured, but setting up a homemade gas chamber and luring a victim was too elaborate and risky a thing to do every day. After the harsh statement delivered by the first target’s death, expediency ruled for the follow-ups.
He was tempted to retrieve his lovely and useful knives, but he knew that would create a disposal problem. Better to leave them in place. Cut wiped his bloody hand on his victim’s shirt, being careful to leave nothing but smears, no recognizable finger or palm prints. He moved away rapidly, relieved to be out of the revealing cone of brightness from the dusk-to-dawn light. Back out on the street, he strolled through Laclede’s Landing, his hands jammed into his pockets to conceal the slight bulge of the crumpled gloves that also rode within them. The sidewalk was busy with people barhopping, and none of them gave him a second glance.
He hadn’t needed the camera, after all. It had been a waste of money, and that was a small blot on an otherwise gratifying mission.
Eleven
S T. LOUIS AWOKE ON a steamy Wednesday, the fifth day of August, to news of the slaying the previous evening of a fixture in the city, the popular Prosecuting Attorney Victor Rheinhardt. He had held the elective office for almost twenty years. Although PJ hadn’t lived in the city that long herself, some of those in the law enforcement and judicial structures of the city wouldn’t remember a time in their careers when Rheinhardt hadn’t held the reins of the prosecutor’s office.
Most likely a few of the up-and-coming were secretly glad to see an opening at the top, although she thought that only the most hard-hearted of the law-abiding citizens of St.
Similar Books
