blinded with pain, went into a full-roll and came halfway to his feet to see Versallo staggering into the corner, all arms and legs and angles, looking desperately for the gun. He was still squawking and cackling but these were the sounds of his breath, Versallo was not the kind of man who would waste his time with cries of pain. Pain would have to be wrung out of him.
He had the gun almost in his hand when Wulff got over there, shambling, crawling and took it away from him by breaking Versallo’s left wrist in two places. He could hear it go, double-break,
one, two,
and now the squawks were no longer breaths but real cries of despair. The man was fighting and bucking against him, the heaves of his body then going suddenly gelatinous and Versallo folded underneath him like a sheet, all of the angles of his body disappearing into that gelatinous huddle, still he was going desperately for the gun, grinning in a rictus of pain and revulsion when Wulff levelled the gun and shot him. He levelled death into the man’s temple and heart, two shots, both of them mortal, compounding death to ease the man’s passage and when that was done Versallo was still, like a dismembered frog, thrashing around on the floor as if on wire.
Wulff threw the gun into the corner with all the force that he could muster, and then, wandering behind the desk in little circles like a pained animal, vomited there, heaves of pain and hatred forcing a mixture of fluid and blood out of him. Weeping he vomited into the carpet, a spreading stain of vomit running through the room and puddling around the corpse’s head and finally he was done. He took out a handkerchief and wiped off his mouth and lips slowly, trying through the deliberate slow inhalation of breath to bring himself back to normal. But the effort was still beyond him; he found himself vomiting again, although this time not so much in wrenching heaves as in gentle sobs and outputs which steadied him, slowly.
After a little while he was able to think once again.
He went over to the place near the wall where the gun had fallen and slowly picked it up. It was warm, still stinking of its discharge and he shook it out carefully, then split the chamber and took out the remaining rounds. A point forty-five, a police revolver, a killer, the best professional weapon, and all oiled up for death. Versallo had planned to kill him; there was no doubt about that. He would have said what he intended, gotten out of Wulff what he could and then he would have disposed of him as casually and definitively as he would have ordered a group of trucks dispatched or put in a requisition for a hundred kilos.
Versallo had been a methodical man. Even dying, the blood still storming from him, he was methodical; going about the business of dying as wholeheartedly and with as much energy as he had with the question of drug distribution. Wulff looked at him, looked away then, revolted. No kill had ever shaken him as much as this; no kill had been dirtier and yet somehow as purifying.
He had called Marie a cunt.
Was that some trigger within Wulff of which he was himself unconscious? He had no memory of leaping. He had made no decision whatsoever to attack the man. It had simply happened and now Versallo, against all of his planning and intention was dead. It must be a great surprise to him. Versallo, in one form or the next, would never get over it.
The question was, what the hell was he going to do now?
He had to get out of here, the sooner the better, but Versallo, no fool he, had been operating on his own terrain and surely every conceivable exit, every aspect of flight had been covered. He had no more chance of walking out of this place alive than Versallo now did. Sooner or later, probably sooner, they would come checking around here, see why the boss had not reported in and that would be the end of Wulff. He had one gun and there were probably a few clips in the desk that he could locate but how was he going to hold
He had the gun almost in his hand when Wulff got over there, shambling, crawling and took it away from him by breaking Versallo’s left wrist in two places. He could hear it go, double-break,
one, two,
and now the squawks were no longer breaths but real cries of despair. The man was fighting and bucking against him, the heaves of his body then going suddenly gelatinous and Versallo folded underneath him like a sheet, all of the angles of his body disappearing into that gelatinous huddle, still he was going desperately for the gun, grinning in a rictus of pain and revulsion when Wulff levelled the gun and shot him. He levelled death into the man’s temple and heart, two shots, both of them mortal, compounding death to ease the man’s passage and when that was done Versallo was still, like a dismembered frog, thrashing around on the floor as if on wire.
Wulff threw the gun into the corner with all the force that he could muster, and then, wandering behind the desk in little circles like a pained animal, vomited there, heaves of pain and hatred forcing a mixture of fluid and blood out of him. Weeping he vomited into the carpet, a spreading stain of vomit running through the room and puddling around the corpse’s head and finally he was done. He took out a handkerchief and wiped off his mouth and lips slowly, trying through the deliberate slow inhalation of breath to bring himself back to normal. But the effort was still beyond him; he found himself vomiting again, although this time not so much in wrenching heaves as in gentle sobs and outputs which steadied him, slowly.
After a little while he was able to think once again.
He went over to the place near the wall where the gun had fallen and slowly picked it up. It was warm, still stinking of its discharge and he shook it out carefully, then split the chamber and took out the remaining rounds. A point forty-five, a police revolver, a killer, the best professional weapon, and all oiled up for death. Versallo had planned to kill him; there was no doubt about that. He would have said what he intended, gotten out of Wulff what he could and then he would have disposed of him as casually and definitively as he would have ordered a group of trucks dispatched or put in a requisition for a hundred kilos.
Versallo had been a methodical man. Even dying, the blood still storming from him, he was methodical; going about the business of dying as wholeheartedly and with as much energy as he had with the question of drug distribution. Wulff looked at him, looked away then, revolted. No kill had ever shaken him as much as this; no kill had been dirtier and yet somehow as purifying.
He had called Marie a cunt.
Was that some trigger within Wulff of which he was himself unconscious? He had no memory of leaping. He had made no decision whatsoever to attack the man. It had simply happened and now Versallo, against all of his planning and intention was dead. It must be a great surprise to him. Versallo, in one form or the next, would never get over it.
The question was, what the hell was he going to do now?
He had to get out of here, the sooner the better, but Versallo, no fool he, had been operating on his own terrain and surely every conceivable exit, every aspect of flight had been covered. He had no more chance of walking out of this place alive than Versallo now did. Sooner or later, probably sooner, they would come checking around here, see why the boss had not reported in and that would be the end of Wulff. He had one gun and there were probably a few clips in the desk that he could locate but how was he going to hold
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