Anatomy of a Killer by Peter Rabe Page B

arms and legs made contrary motions; Jordan kept worrying the thing like a bone, down the bank, through the weeds, feeling intent and all right about it because all the worry was in his hands. What he touched, how much he touched, where. And when he pushed it into the culvert, which took perhaps two minutes, he counted time by the number of times he pushed against bone instead of flesh.
    Done, back through the weeds which were pulling at him. He kept wiping his hands and then wiped them with the weeds. They were not wet but brittle and dry and Jordan, wiping over and over, cut himself. Up the bank, job over. And how quick and clever the whole thing. It had probably been spite to start with—Paul following him by the movie—but then it was the plan working. It was good to know about plans working. Going down Third, drawing Paul after. Stopping at Kemp’s place, getting Paul all riled up. Then the fast walk around to Fourth—Paul already there, having cut through a lot; then moving the suitcase to give him time and to mystify him, then the slow stunt with the car so he could follow on foot, and then driving off fast when Paul showed up again near Kemp’s building.
    Jordan worked up the incline to the highway, rehashing things this way, something he had never done. Job over.
    Though this was not yet the important one.
    Before the haste went out of him and left just nervous splinters, he rushed all the rest. He drove the dead one’s car a little ways down the next lane and from there up a path which went to a spent quarry. Jordan knew it was there, drove Paul’s car there, and left it. Jordan was not concerned with eliminating all trails but only with working for time. They would find the dead one and they would find the car. He worked for one day’s leeway, and the trail would lead nowhere.
    He ran back to the highway and his haste didn’t change into something else until he sat in his car and knew what he would do next. There was all this momentum but it now turned sharp and clean. Clean like routine. Kemp was next.
    Jordan drove back to town, sitting neat and still. He sat with his head on top of his neck like a stopper on top of a bottle. Fine. Everything fine now. Finish it….
    He went through Third and saw a light where Kemp’s room was. He drove past and turned through the square, doubling back to Fourth. To pick up his suitcase in the room and then finish. He parked and when he went across the street he went fast and kept his hand on his pocket. The Magnum was heavy and Jordan did not want it to swing. Then would come Magnum in suitcase, target pistol for job, suitcase in trunk, drive to Third, check target pistol in front seat, car on street pointed the right way, up Kemp’s building, finish it.
    Jordan opened the door to his room where the light was on and then everything became very slow. The brain, the movement of the door closing, the door
thunk
when it closed, even Kemp. He sat in Jordan’s chair, looking slow, and he held Jordan’s other gun.
    “Ever use one of these?” he asked.
    Jordan stayed by the door and the weight of the Magnum in his pocket was so great that he felt his right shoulder ache and thought Kemp must notice any moment.
    “You don’t look well, Smith. Why don’t you sit on the bed?”
    Jordan walked to the bed and wasn’t aware of any muscles moving in him. He was only aware of Kemp telling him to sit down.
    And this is the payoff for Paul, he thought. This is the payoff. Not for the job he had done, but for having done the job wrong. He had touched him afterwards.
    “Jeesis,” said Kemp. “You can smell pigeons all the way up here. You mind if I close the window?”
    “There’s a chicken coop down there,” said Jordan.
    “No. It’s a pigeon coop. Hear ‘em fluttering?”
    “I thought it was a chicken coop.”
    “No. Mind if I close the window?”
    “Go ahead,” said Jordan.
    Kemp smiled and closed the window behind without changing position. With one