There was always risk, and Corday loved it.
In Los Angeles, he had once been trapped in the hold of a ship with two drug dealers he'd been hired to kill. They each had automatic weapons: Corday had only a knife. They had some fun with him, chasing him across the hold, laughing when he tripped and fellbut they had not counted on his intelligence. When he fell, he pretended to bang his head, and become unconscious.
At first the dealers accused him of faking. 'Hey, man, get up, we ain't gonna fall for that old trick.' But after a few minutes, the mood in the hold suddenly turning tense, one of the dealers walked over to the fallen man and leaned down to see if he could hear breathing. Corday put the knife deep into the dealer's right eye, then pulled the dealer down on top of him, snatching the man's weapon. Even before the other dealer could figure out how to fire without hitting his buddy, Corday had killed them both, firing until the automatic pistol was empty and the hold an echo chamber of fired rounds.
There was risk tonight, and Corday loved it.
He rode up to the floor where Eric Brooks had his office and stepped off the elevator.
Plum and gray walls; plush plum carpeting. Nice. Not so nice was the lavish painting of Eric Brooks that made him resemble Clint Eastwood. That kind of bone-clean manliness. You'd think a guy would be embarrassed to parade his fantasies publicly like this. 'Hey, outside I'm this kind of nerdy jerkbut inside, I'm Clint Eastwood.'
Corday looked around.
Nobody in the hall.
Listened for cleaning people. Vacuum or toilets flushing as they were being cleaned. Heard nothing.
Tugged on his latex gloves.
Walked up to the massive wooden door with the name ERIC BROOKS engraved in it. Another touch of humility.
The gray and plum motif continued inside. Corday didn't know anything about interior decorating, but these sure were fancy digs. Eric Brooks might be a weenie but he was a successful weenie. Had to give him that.
Corday went deeper inside to where a group of furnishings were arranged in the center of a vast open area. The general reception was regaled with even more evidence of Eric Brooks' ego. Here were framed hunting photos of him. Corday smiled. God, the guy really was a weenie. Great white hunter. God.
From the reception area, Corday turned right, taking a hallway down several yards then turning left. Here was the reception area and inner sanctum of the King himself.
Corday stood still, listening again.
A voice. Inside Eric's office.
Corday moved swiftly, silently to the partially opened door.
Eric. Laughing. 'You treat ole Eric right, he'll treat you right.' Beat. 'Remember that afternoon I gave you a grand just to go blow on clothes? Well, that could happen again some time. I mean, if you're nice to old Eric.' Beat. 'Babe, I know you're trying to give your marriage a serious shot but just a quick lunch tomorrow is all I'm asking. You know, in my office.' Half beat. 'Right. Like the old days.' Half beat. Giggle. 'I'll introduce you to Mr Bill again. You can give him a nice big kiss. You remember Mr Bill, don't you?' Half beat. 'Good, because he sure remembers you.'
Eric made it so easy.
He was so caught up in laying out his plans for lunch tomorrow that he didn't hear Corday come up behind him.
Eric: 'Anything special you want for lunch? Besides Mr Bill, I mean?' Giggle. 'You want me to tell you what I want for lunch?' Giggle. 'He's pulling into the driveway? You better go, babe.' Beat. 'Around noon would be great. Bye, babe.'
Eric hung up without turning around.
Then he got up from his desk and walked to his window and looked out over the Chicago skyline.
Still unaware of Corday behind him.
Corday smiled.
Great white hunter.
Guy is standing just a few feet behind him with a deadly weapon and the sonofabitch doesn't even hear him.
Corday walked around the desk and perched himself on the edge of it. 'Evening, Eric,' he said.
Brooks turned, startled, stunned. 'Who the hell are you?'
'Death,' Corday said. 'At least for you, I am.'
'Is that supposed to be funny?'
'No. It's supposed to be the truth.'
'How the hell did you get in here?'
'You think I could get me one of those photos of you in your great white hunter outfitfor my own personal collection, I mean?' Corday smiled. He had a wondrously icy smile and knew it. 'How many native boys did it take to bring down that rhino?'
Eric hesitated a moment, looking left, looking right, then plunging for the phone.
Corday clamped an iron hand on Eric's wrist.
Eric glared at him a moment then lifted his hand from the receiver. When Corday let go, Eric started rubbing his wrist. Corday was one strong guy.
'Fifty bucks says your sphincter goes.'
'What the hell are you talking about?' Eric said. But he knew what Corday was talking about. Knew damned well.
'The medical examiner always told me that when the sphincter goes, it's just an autonomic response. Doesn't mean you're a coward or anything. Just as many brave guys have their sphincters go as cowardly guys. At least, that's what the medical guys tell me. But you know what? I don't believe them. I think a really brave guy could control it. Even when he's in so much pain he can't even feel anything anymore.' Corday paused. 'Fifty bucks says your sphincter goes.'
Eric's right hand had started to twitch. 'There isn't a lot of cash up here. I could maybe scrape up five, six hundred or so.'
'Didn't come for cash, Eric.'
He screamed then, a high piercing animal scream, a recognition of the final darkness closing in. 'Then what the hell are you doing here?'
Corday took the scissors from his pocket. 'I already told you that, Eric.'
Eric started running his hands through his thinning hair, pacing off little six-steps-and-back tattoos on the sweetly carpeted floor. He paused and said, 'This is my wife, right? Hiring some hit guy to take care of me? Right? Am I right?'
'Eric, a great white hunter like you should know that a ''hit guy" like me could never tell who hired him. Us "hit guys" just don't do things like that, Eric. Sorry.'
Now both of Eric's hands were twitching. His eyes were filling with tears.
'I don't want to die. Please. I know you think I don't have any guts, butbut I don't want to die. I'll do anything you want me to. I promise.' Beat. 'I have kids. And a wife. Think of what it'd do to them if I died.'
'You see them a lot, do you, Eric? Your wife and kids, I mean.'
'Every chance I get.'
'Sort of like Ozzie and Harriet, I'll bet.'
'What?'
'You know, good faithful wife, good faithful husband.'
'Oh. Right. Absolutely.'
He didn't even stand up, he was close enough sitting on the edge of the desk to stab the scissors deep into Eric's chest.
Eric didn't even come up with a very good scream.
He seemed so shocked he couldn't really do anything but stand there and cover the hole in his chest as blood began to spurt and spray through his fingers.
Corday angled away, so he wouldn't be sprayed.
'Please,' Eric muttered, 'please.'
Corday wasn't sure what Eric was 'pleasing' him about but at this point he didn't much care.
The kill was at hand.
The only thing Corday liked more than the risk was the kill itself.
Indeed indeed.
He eased himself from the edge of the desk and took two steps over to Eric so that he could put the scissors in at an angle this time. Right at the base of the skull.
This time Eric's scream was a little better but it was short-lived because paralysis was setting in. Corday knew the exact spot to effect that. And that's just where the scissors had gone.
By now, there were small puddles and pools of blood on the floor, and the fabric walls were getting blotchy from the spurting geyser escaping from between Eric's fingers.
'You ever kill a puma, Eric? I hear they're really tough. Some hunters tell me they're the toughest of all.'
This time he stabbed him in the stomach.
Had to look like a frenzy kill.
Lots and lots of wounds.
Hatred accumulated over a long period of time suddenly bursting forth.
Eric put up bloody hands so Corday could not cut him but by now Eric was too weak to do much of anything.
He slumped back against the wall.
'Eric, you'd make this a lot easier for both of us if you'd just stand still. You really would, babe.' Corday smiled. 'I heard you calling that woman on the phone "babe." You like being called "babe?" Huh? You like it, Eric?'
This was a good one.
Right in the old larynx.
For a milli-second, Eric looked like that famous painting The Scream; his eyes bulging in horror, his mouth open widebut no sound coming out.
Hard to make a sound when some nasty man has just plunged a pair of scissors deep into your throat.
Poor baby.
Eric slid to the floor.
He was dead by the time his haunches settled into the deep carpeting.
All was silence.
Corday knew better than to stay around.
He worked quickly.
From his pocket he took the Ziploc bag with the pair of scissors identical to the ones he'd used on Eric.
He held the new scissors between thumb and forefinger and carried them delicately to Eric.
He dipped the scissors in blood, then inserted the tips of the scissors into various wounds, collecting not only blood but cotton from the shirt and skin from the stomach, both things the medical examiner would expect to find on the murder weapon. He inserted the scissors into all the major wounds.
Then he placed the bloody scissors several feet from Eric.
This section of the office was a mess by now, especially the wall, blotched blood looking like Rorschach tests in some places.
Then it was time to go.
And go quickly.