THE KILLER Read online

  THE KILLER

  Wade Miller

  This page copyright © 2003 Blackmask Online.

  http://www.blackmask.com

  Chapter One. THURSDAY, APRIL 26, 1:00 P.M.

  Chapter Two. SUNDAY, APRIL 29, 10:00 P.M.

  Chapter Three. SUNDAY, APRIL 29, 12:00 MIDNIGHT

  Chapter Four. TUESDAY, MAY 1, 9:00 P.M.

  Chapter Five. WEDNESDAY, MAY 2, 9:00 A.M.

  Chapter Six. THURSDAY, MAY 3, 2:00 P.M.

  Chapter Seven. THURSDAY, MAY 3, 4:00 P.M.

  Chapter Eight. SATURDAY, MAY 5, 8:00 A.M.

  Chapter Nine. SATURDAY, MAY 5, 7:00 P.M.

  Chapter Ten. SATURDAY, MAY 5, 10:00 P.M.

  Chapter Eleven. SATURDAY, MAY 5, 11:00 P.M.

  Chapter Twelve. SATURDAY, MAY 5, 12:00 MIDNIGHT

  Chapter Thirteen. SUNDAY, MAY 6, 6:00 A.M.

  Chapter Fourteen. SUNDAY, MAY 6, 9:00 P.M.

  Chapter Fifteen. TUESDAY, MAY 8, 9:00 A.M.

  Chapter Sixteen. WEDNESDAY, MAY 9, 8:00 A.M.

  Chapter Seventeen. THURSDAY, MAY 10, 8:00 A.M.

  Chapter Eighteen. MONDAY, MAY 14, 12:00 NOON

  Chapter Nineteen. MONDAY, MAY 14, 2:30 P.M.

  Chapter Twenty. MONDAY, MAY 14, TO THURSDAY, MAY 17

  Chapter Twenty-one. THURSDAY, MAY 17, 9:30 A.M.

  Chapter Twenty-two. FRIDAY, MAY 18, 2:00 P.M.

  Chapter One. THURSDAY, APRIL 26, 1:00 P.M.

  THE RIFLE IN HIS LAP WAS a .475 Jeffries. He had won it in a lion shoot in the Masai game preserve nearly thirteen years ago and it had his name and the date engraved on the heavy barrel. “Jacob Farrow, Kenya Colony, 1938.” It had been worth more than two hundred pounds then, and some men would have kept it under glass or mounted on the wall as a trophy. But he wasn't sentimental; a gun was for use, and he'd never found a rifle that suited him as well.

  He tossed aside the rag, finished with the daily cleaning. His big hand stroked along the butt, absently and sensuously. He thought fleetingly, Perhaps a woman is what I need, and then he shrugged. The Jeffries hadn't been fired since January, the longest rest the gun had ever had. The only one of his many rifles that had been fired in the last three months was the Mauser, and that only to frighten the hyenas, the “dust-bin patrol,” skulking past the airport fence to raid the chicken yards and garbage heaps on the outskirts of Nairobi.

  When he'd lovingly racked the Jeffries, he had nothing else he wanted to do and he was bored. He muttered, “Damn them,” about the men who had taken his license away. He poured another gin and carried it with him as he prowled the three Spartan rooms of his brick cottage. Then he stalked out on the shaded veranda and faced the gray African vista and drank his gin.

  “Perhaps a woman . . .” he said aloud. Perhaps he could lose himself in some stray wife around the Muthaiga Club, some thin-frocked, white-legged lady who'd become expert at deceiving her husband. There were several with moist dissatisfied mouths. Or—he hadn't remembered her for a year—in the Arab bazaar was a shopgirl, not even half Arab and surprisingly clean. She had regal breasts like sun-tipped dunes and plump thighs and a fiery talent of consummation. “Perhaps . . .” Then he damned his own stupidity, grinning angrily. A woman wasn't what he needed; he needed an excitement more lasting.

  Farrow was a man of controlled violence. That was his trade, and he couldn't get used to having nothing to do. He was tall with big bones, and his flesh was drawn tightly over them. His hair grew back from a straight line above his forehead, giving his craggy face the appearance of a block of dark grainy wood. His hair and his ragged mustache were brown. His body, clad only in khaki shorts and unlaced safari boots, was also brown, partly from weather and partly from malaria.

  But his eyes were gray, pale and flat and startling in their contrast to his general brownness. Today they sparkled restlessly because he was a little drunk. It showed only in his eyes and the taut grin. Normally his face was masklike, thus escaping ugliness or fierceness.

  He got the .475 Jeffries from its rack again and stood on the veranda, sighting it at emptiness. The rain had stopped for a while and the air was brisk on his bare skin. Through the open sights of the rifle he picked out individual white blossoms in the coffee fields across the road. Beyond that, to the west, he could see the Athi slope rising gradually toward the Mua forests and the blue mountain of Donyo Sabouk. Elephant country. He swung the gun barrel south, toward the hundred-mile width of the Masai plains, flatness broken only by the four-peaked Ngong Hills. Lion country. And to the north, the modern buildings of Nairobi, its skyline lorded over by the twin minarets and dome of the central mosque.

  The magnificently peaceful view didn't stir Farrow. But, as he gazed at the city, another vagrant idea did. He murmured to the rifle, “What if we didn't pay any attention to them? What if we simply left, had ourselves a good hunt?”

  The outlaw notion hung fire as he spotted a moving target. It was a car sloshing at high speed along the road, disappearing now and then behind the clumps of stately eucalyptus. He got the car in the sights, kept it there, pretending the front door handle would be a heart shot. These outlying roads were unpaved, and the winter rains made them treacherous bogs, but the car's driver knew his business.

  Farrow lowered the gun, apathetically curious, as the automobile came nearer his cottage. He recognized the car as one rentable at the agency in Nairobi, which meant the driver was a European, the generic term in the colony for any white. He guessed further that the driver had been looking for the Somali village and had taken the wrong turn. He waited.

  The car wheeled off onto his land and slithered up to the veranda steps. The driver's head poked out. Within the hood of a rain cape was a round white face with an embalmed look. Rimless spectacles glinted up at the veranda. The man's voice was crisp, faintly nasal. “Farrow? Jacob Farrow?”

  “Yes. Come in.” Farrow decided the visitor was American. His own voice was clipped and precise despite the gin, distinctly British. He went into the sitting room and was racking the Jeffries when the stranger halted inside the door to remove galoshes and rain cape.

  “Osher's my name. Paul Osher.” He wasn't very tall but he was erect, shoulders back and his large belly coming out to a point. His pale smooth skin appeared soft, but his handshake wasn't. Despite his fuzz of white hair he seemed ageless; despite his girth he didn't wheeze from climbing the veranda steps. He wore a black suit and tie as if in mourning. The starched collar constricted the roll of hard-looking fat that served as his neck, and his chin was little more than a dimple and his mouth was a small fish mouth. He inspected the sitting room.

  Farrow shoved forward a chair. “I have gin. Care for it watered?”

  “Don't bother, please.” Osher sat down. His rimless glasses and his steel-blue eyes briskly surveyed Farrow. He had the air of a cattle buyer, his mind totting up the hairy muscularity of Farrow's legs, the three parallel scars on his left bicep, claw marks.

  Osher said, “I'll state my business. You're a professional guide, what they call a white hunter. I'm told that you're the best there is.”

  “That was nice of somebody.” He poured a straight gin for himself.

  “The same source told me it wasn't wise to drink until sundown—and then go slow.”

  Farrow looked at him. The stranger was using Farrow's own words, a favorite aphorism. “You seem to have been told a good bit about me.”

  “We must have the best, no mistake about it. Do you smoke?” His hand darted forth with a case of cigarettes. Farrow said no and Osher screwed one into a holder. The holder filled up much of his mouth, but he spoke around it efficiently. “Mr. Farrow, are you available for a hunt?” He felt an instant's thrill before he remembered. “No,” Farrow muttered, “I'm not.”

  Osher ignored it. He droned, “The price will be five thousand dollars for you, plus expenses. Ten thousand if you make the kill. In pounds, that's—”

  “Yes, I know what it is in pounds.” Farrow leaned a bare shoulder against the brick fireplace. He felt a bit stunned. “Mr. Osher, at the risk of appearing to be a damned fool at business, let me tell you this: The most expensive safari I ever heard of cost only twenty-five hundred American dollars, including guide. It's still talked about in town. It was a high-water mark.”

  “Nevertheless, I've stated our price correctly.”

  “No hunter's worth it.”

  “You may be. If you're interested, Mr. Farrow.”

  “Certainly I'm interested. I'm—” He stopped suddenly, then grimaced. His face was a mask again as he poured himself another drink. “Gin is good for disappointment. I'm not doing any hunting, not presently.”

  “Not on British territory, not till December,” said Osher. “They've suspended your license for poaching.”

  “You're thorough,” Farrow said dryly. “If you've talked to the game office, why did you waste a trip out here?”

  “I don't make waste.”

  “Did the office gentleman tell you how it came about? I was out for a long time with a youngster who wanted a lion very badly. He had promised his family, I believe. But his luck was no better than his shooting, so I took him onto the Masai preserve.”

  “And got caught.”

  “And got caught,” Farrow agreed. “So I'm sorry we can't do business, Mr. Osher.”

  Osher's steel-bead eyes studied him. “Something was said about a woman involved.”

  Farrow snorted. “There've probably been wilder rumors. No, there was no woman concerned or even within two hundred miles. I very seldom consent to take women as me
mbers of a party, and I certainly wouldn't poach for one.”

  Osher looked at his watch. “We're losing time. This hunt will not be anywhere in British East Africa.”

  Farrow's heart turned over. He put down his glass and put the stopper in the gin decanter. He controlled his voice. “Where will it be, then?”

  “I'm not at liberty to tell you.”

  “How big a party? What kind of game?”

  Osher shook his head slightly. “I can assure you the party will be small. And the pay is large—-which should atone for a temporary lack of details.”

  Farrow said nothing, staring at him. His visitor's words were as good as a warning. Something was wrong with this hunt. A hunt was a matter between man and beast, and there should be no need for secrecy between men about it. Osher said, “Leaving Africa wouldn't bother you. You've done it before, on those trips to India and Malaya.”

  Farrow's eyes narrowed. He said softly. “You know all about me but I know nothing about you.”

  “I don't matter,” said Osher. “I merely represent another person.”

  “No use asking whom?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you've talked about a lot of money, Mr. Osher. But since I don't know the client ...”

  Osher said quickly, “I'm authorized to pay you a sizable advance.” The checkbook was already in his soft steady hand.

  Farrow shook his head. “I'd like something more certain than money. I'd like a reference.”

  It was supplied immediately. “Walter Stennis.”

  “Walt Stennis,” Farrow repeated thoughtfully. He guided the Stennis party regularly every two years. He always got along fine with Stennis, liked him as a friend, even respected him as a hunter.

  The name made a difference and Osher could sense it. He held out the check. It was for a thousand dollars and already made out to Jacob Farrow. Osher was terrifyingly sure of himself. “May I consider it settled?” he asked softly.

  Farrow still didn't like it. He hesitated, wanting to say no. But, hesitating, he was swept by a faint panicky feeling. If he didn't take this offer, he might sit around Nairobi and rot for the rest of the year. He thought angrily, Good God, he's only hiring me; he's not asking me to sell my soul.

  He said, “All right, I'll work for you,” and took the check.

  Osher smiled for the first time, a crippled half-smile around the cigarette holder. He handed over a long white envelope. “We're booked out of here at dusk. I'm sure you'll be ready.”

  Farrow examined the string of airline tickets in the envelope. BOAG through Khartoum, Tripoli, London, arriving New York on April 29. Sunday, three days away. He said, “I've never hunted any big game in North America.”

  “This will be a new experience for you, Mr. Farrow.” Osher's round body had relaxed noticeably, like a slug after a satisfactory meal. “I could have flown you myself in our own ship, but I've found British Overseas Airways most efficient for traveling in this part of the world. You British keep things moving.”

  Farrow smiled politely. The step taken, his suspicions had blown away. Now he felt exhilarated, having something to do. He was certain he'd done the right thing. He looked over at the big Jeffries rifle and winked at it.

  Osher was droning ”. . . no bother about visa. I checked their office this morning and they're expecting you sometime before five. You won't need much luggage. You can furnish yourself in the States.”

  “Weapons?”

  “Whatever you think you'll need.” Farrow said gently, “But I don't know the game.” He waited expectantly while the other man gave it a moment's thought.

  When Osher answered, his voice had an odd note behind the cool matter-of-fact words. “You had better be prepared for anything.”

  Chapter Two. SUNDAY, APRIL 29, 10:00 P.M.

  HE WAS USED to traveling on foot through open silent country. He was unaccustomed to speed and noise and confinement. For three days—nearly eight thousand air miles—Farrow wondered uncomfortably if he was as hardy as he had assumed. Osher, his older and fatter companion, seemed unaffected by their headlong journey. He showed signs of pride each time there was no delay in their connections, but he spoke no oftener than necessary. It was a dull exhausting trip and Farrow felt like a piece of baggage.

  Sunday evening they debarked at La Guardia Field, New York City. Here there was a short wait. Then Osher led the way up into another, smaller airliner. Farrow squinted his eyes wearily and trudged after. His tweed suit, two years old but almost never worn, was rumpled. Although it had been made by the best tailor in Nairobi, he had a constant suspicion that the other passengers, sleek and well pressed, were commenting on it. He glared at them until he finally dozed off, trapped by metal walls, smothered by engine roar.

  When he awoke, it was ten o'clock by his pocket watch. “We're here,” said Osher. “This is Albany.” They claimed their baggage and walked to the airport parking lot. Farrow carried his suitcase in his left hand and the heavier rifle case in his right. The rifle case contained the Jeffries, a .404 Mauser, and a light carbine. Osher unlocked a black Lincoln Continental sedan that was parked and waiting. Farrow laid his gear on the back seat and they were off again.

  Osher drove as efficiently as he did everything else. Farrow gazed grimly at the unfamiliar surroundings, wondering anew just where he was headed. The broad rushing highway followed the Hudson River and its flat black waters seemed to glower back at him. Then they drew nearer to the heart of the capital city and he watched the buildings grow around him, threaten to engulf him. Plate glass and traffic lights and upshooting rectangular masses, square-cut valleys of busy concrete, and it was all precisely ranged, as if awaiting a push, on a steep slope down to the river. Much of it was as modern as Nairobi, but even through the exhaust fumes and crowd scent Farrow thought he could smell the city's age, like the gentle dust on a museum exhibit.

  They turned up the hill and the lights of downtown fell behind and below them. The car slid through quiet streets of elm and maple trees where rested brownstone and brick homes and an occasional latter-day apartment building.

  “Pine Hills,” offered Osher suddenly. “The old mansions, the first families. Some of these houses were standing when Nairobi was just native huts, Mr. Farrow.”

  Farrow grunted, unimpressed. The car slowed and wheeled through iron gates onto a curved driveway. The house that sat behind its fence and hedges and lawns was one of the old mansions, well kept as a gigolo. Three stories of dull-red brick, white-trimmed doors and windows, a great gambrel roof pierced by dormers and square chimneys. The end of the journey, and Farrow began to feel less tired.

  They stopped by the front door. The brass porch lamps were on but no one came out to greet them. “Leave your things in the car for the time being,” Osher said. He had a key to the mansion's door too. As he swung it open, a black mourning wreath suspended from the shining knocker swayed slightly, making dry noises. Farrow felt a chill deeper than the spring night.

  He followed Osher through an octagonal vestibule, through a wide central hall where a mahogany staircase curved beautifully up to the second floor. All was lamplit; all was deserted. Osher looked into a vast living room. A fire danced in the fireplace but no persons warmed themselves there. Osher consulted his wrist watch and mused, “I wonder . . .” It made Farrow feel a little better somehow that the fat self-confident little machine was, momentarily at least, not certain of his next move.

  He heard a sound above and looked up to see an elderly lady in a black dress peering over the banister at them. She didn't speak and when she saw Farrow watching her she turned and went away.

  Osher hadn't seen her. He said, “Downstairs, I presume. This way, Mr. Farrow.” They went through the central hall to where another stairway led down. Their own footsteps on the thick carpeting made the only sounds. At the bottom of the steps was a sliding door and here Osher halted. He put out his hand. “It was a pleasant trip, Mr. Farrow. I probably won't see you again. Lots of luck to you.”

  Again the hard handshake from the pudgy soft-skinned hand. Farrow said something polite and then he watched Osher's round body climb the stairs again, _ leaving him alone before the door. From someplace near, he could hear a muffled boom-boom-boom in rhythmic repetition. He hesitated warily, then shrugged and slid the door aside.