Killer Move by Michael Marshall Page B

because she’s innocent, except for the adultery. Mainly I’m just not convinced you care about her. So it could be a waste of effort. And a waste of a pretty woman, and god knows there’s little enough beauty in this world. I just dropped by her house when she wasn’t home, picked up that robe to show you I’m serious.”
    The man in the chair says nothing.
    “But now, time’s moving on. I don’t have any experience in this so I don’t know exactly how long you can last. I Googled it, though, and it sounds like forty-eight to seventy-two hours is when the really bad stuff starts to kick in. You look like shit already, though, to be frank, and they’re saying tomorrow’s supposed to be real hot for this time of year. So why don’t you just tell me who else I need to talk to, and we’ll see where we can go from there?”
    The man in the chair remains silent. He can tell that Hunter is making an effort to keep his temper down but that he’s finding it increasingly difficult. Silence is a risk, but one he has to take. He looks up at Hunter and winks, for good measure.
    Hunter takes a couple of steps toward him. “You’re beginning to piss me off.”
    The man in the chair smiles.
    Hunter looks at the man’s right shin. He sighs, and gives it a kick. The man in the chair takes a sharp breath, grits his teeth, and waits for the stars of white pain to fade.
    “I don’t like doing this stuff,” Hunter says, sounding strangely sincere. “I stopped being that guy long before I ever even met you. But I’ve made it clear what I need, and you’re just not cooperating. You see how that makes things hard for me, right?”
    The man in the chair raises his head. “You know what you sound like? You sound like the kind of father who’s going to hit his kid, hit him hard, who knows he’s going to do it, and for no good reason except he’s hungover and an asshole, but wants the kid to take the blame.”
    Hunter opens his mouth, but shuts it again—so fast and hard you can hear a click.
    “Ring any bells?” the man in the chair asks. “Take you back at all?”
    Hunter cocks his head, and the man in the chair realizes he’s hit home a lot harder than he meant to, and possibly in the wrong direction.
    “You’re talking to me about kids?” Hunter says quietly. “Because of you, I don’t have kids. Because of you, I spent sixteen years in jail for the murder of the woman I wanted to have children with.”
    “Just as well. You’re a loser, and she was a whore. The world doesn’t need more of that in the genetic stew.”
    Hunter kicks out again, and this time he does it hard. Hard enough to cause the man in the chair to cry out, something halfway to a scream—and to make the chair rock back on the concrete promontory.
    “You want another?” Hunter asks, his voice thickening. “How many more kicks before a chair leg goes out over the edge, do you think?”
    Light-headed with pain, suddenly unsure if this is such a great idea after all, the man nonetheless looks up at him. “You’re not going to send me over, asshole. Do that, and you got nothing.”
    Hunter looks at him, breathing hard.
    “You’re smart,” he says finally, and his voice is calm again. “Course you are—else you wouldn’t be such a success in life, right? I really do not want to have to push you over yet, it’s true. But that leaves me in something of a pickle. It limits the range of the threats I can make—and you, smart boy that you are, have got right onto that. Hmm. Oh wait, though, I just thought of something.”
    He turns and walks back to the far wall, where he stoops and picks up the cinder block.
    “I found some comfort in repetition and ritual during the years I was in jail,” he says. “When time started to weigh on me, it was things happening in the same way and at the same time each day that helped. It turned it into a long dark dream, so that sometimes I could pretend it wasn’t happening to me at all, but was some