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"Why kill them, Jim?"
"You think I need a reason?"
"I think you've got one."
"Why should I tell you?"
"I don't know," I said, "but I think you probably will."
He hated them from the start.
Bunch of self-satisfied bastards. Eating and drinking and ru
Crazy, too. Bunch of grown men sitting around and waiting to die. The whole idea of dying made him sick to his stomach. He didn't like to think about it. Everybody died, death was out there waiting for everyone, but did that mean he had to think about it?
He was shaking when he left Cu
But he went back the next year. He hadn't pla
It was just as bad. Most of the talk concerned the progress they'd made since the last di
Then Phil Kalish died and excitement went through him like an electrical charge. I beat you, he thought. You were smarter and taller and better-looking, you were making good money, you had a wife and a family, and where did it get you? Because you're dead and I'm alive, you son of a bitch.
And wasn't that the point of it, staying alive? Wasn't that what they got together to celebrate? That they were alive and the ones who weren't there were dead?
So he went to the di
That's when he started pla
The first thing to do was die. He thought of a lot of ways to do it, most of them involving killing somebody and planting his identification on the corpse. But Vietnam was starting to heat up, and that was easy. He called Homer Champney and explained that his reserve unit had been called up and he couldn't make it back to the city for the di
By the following year he'd died in combat. The night of the di
A lot they knew.
He took plenty of time setting up the first one. He took his time with each of them, wondering how many of them he could do before they started to get suspicious. Well, they were down to fourteen men before anybody suspected a thing. More than half of them gone, although not all of them were his doing, not by any means.
But most of them were. And each time, all through the pla
Once it was done, though, it was sort of sad.
Not that he mourned for them. Fuck 'em, they deserved what they got. And it was wonderfully satisfying, because each time it was one more down and he was still standing, and he'd beaten another of the bastards.
No, what was sad was that it was over. A cat probably felt the same way when the mouse she was playing with finally gave up the ghost and died. You got to eat your di
That's why he was stretching it out. That's why he'd taken so many years instead of knocking them off at the rate of one a month. He'd kept them from finding out for a long time, and now they knew, and in a way that made it even better, because what could they do about it? Gerard Billings had known, and what good did it do him?
They wore the best clothes, and they ate at the best restaurants, and they got their names in the paper. Expensive dentists kept their teeth white and expensive doctors kept them feeling fit, and they got their suntans on expensive beaches. And this was their game, not his, and he was beating them at it. Because someday they'd all be dead, and he'd be alive.
"Except I guess I lose," he said. "You're go
"No."
"Then someone else'll do it for you. What's the matter, you don't want to get your hands dirty? That's why they hired you, 'cause I know those fucks wouldn't get their hands dirty, but what's your problem that you got to pass the buck? I'm ashamed of you, Matt. I thought you had more to you than that."
"Nobody's going to kill you, Jim."
"You expect me to believe that?"
"Believe what you want," I said. "In an hour or so I'm getting back on the plane with the other fellows."
"And?"
"And you're staying here."
"What are you trying to say?"
"You haven't been arrested," I said, "and you haven't been charged, and there won't be a trial. But sentence has been passed, and it's a life sentence with no possibility of parole. I hope you like this room, Jim. You're going to spend the rest of your life in it."
"You're just going to leave me here?"
"That's right."
"Shackled like this? I'll fucking starve."
I shook my head. "You'll have food and water. Red Hawk Island is the property of Avery Davis. He comes here once a year to fish for smallmouth bass. The rest of the time there's nobody here except for the family of Cree Indians who live here and maintain the place. One of them will bring your meals to you."
"What about keeping myself clean? What about using the toilet, for Christ's sake?"
"Behind you," I said. "A toilet and a washbasin. I'm afraid you'll be limited to sponge baths, and you won't be changing your clothes much. There's another jumpsuit like the one you're wearing and that's the extent of your wardrobe. See the snaps along the inseam? That's so you can get the suit on and off without unfastening the ankle cuff."
"Great."
I watched his eyes. I said, "I don't think it'll work, Jim."
"What are you talking about?"
"You think you'll be able to get out. I don't think you will."
"Whatever you say, Matt."
"The Cree family has worked for Davis for twenty years. I don't think you're going to be able to bribe them or con them. You can't slip the shackle or open it, and you can't get the metal plate out of the concrete slab."
"Then I guess I'm stuck here."
"I guess you are. You can vandalize your cell, but it won't do you any good. If you break the glass out of the window, it won't be replaced- and it can get pretty cold here. If you wreck the toilet you'll get to smell your own waste. If you find a way to start a fire, well, Davis has instructed his employees to let the place burn down around you. No one's greatly concerned about saving your life."
"Why not kill me?"