The evening passed pleasantly. Frelaine escorted the girl home, the palms of his hands sticky with sweat. He had never found a woman he liked better. And yet she was his legitimate kill.
He didn’t know what he was going to do.
She invited him in and they sat together on the couch. The girl lighted a cigarette for herself with a large lighter, then settled back.
“Are you leaving soon?” she asked him.
“I suppose so,” Frelaine said. “The convention is only lasting another day.”
She was silent for a moment. “I’ll be sorry to see you go. Send roses to my funeral.”
They were quiet for a while. Then Janet went to fix him a drink. Frelaine eyed her retreating back. Now was the time. He placed his hand near the button.
But the moment had passed for him, irrevocably. He wasn’t going to kill her. You don’t kill the girl you love.
The realization that he loved her was shocking. He’d come to kill, not to find a wife.
She came back with the drink and sat down opposite him, staring at emptiness.
“Janet,” he said. “I love you.” She sat, just looking at him. There were tears in her eyes.
“You can’t,” she protester’ “I’m a Victim. I won’t live long enough to—”
“You won’t be killed. I’m your Hunter.”
She stared at him a moment, then laughed uncertainly.
“Are you going to kill me?” she asked.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “I’m going to marry you.”
Suddenly she was in his arms.
“Oh, Lord!” she gasped. “The waiting — I’ve been so frightened—”
“It’s all over,” he told her. “Think what a story it’ll make for our kids. How I came to murder you and left marrying you.”
She kissed him, then sat back and lighted another cigarette.
“Let’s start packing,” Frelaine said. “I want—”
“Wait,” Janet interrupted. “You haven’t asked if I love you.”
“What?”
She was still smiling, and the cigarette lighter was pointed at him. In the bottom of it was a black hole. A hole just large enough for a.38 caliber bullet.
“Don’t kid around,” he objected, getting to his feet.
“I’m not being funny, darling,” she said.
In a fraction of a second, Frelaine had time to wonder how he could ever have thought she was not much over twenty. Looking at her now—really looking at her—he knew she couldn’t be much less than thirty. Every minute of her strained, tense existence showed on her face.
“I don’t love you, Stanton,” she said very softly, the cigarette lighter poised.
Frelaine struggled for breath. One part of him was able to realize detachedly what a marvelous actress she really was. She must have known all along.
Frelaine pushed the button, and the gun was in his hand, cocked and ready.
The blow that struck him in the chest knocked him over a coffee table. The gun fell out of his hand. Gasping, half-conscious, he watched her take careful aim for the coup de grace.
“Now I can join the Tens,” he heard her say elatedly as she squeezed the trigger.