Free Work Done for Hire by Joe Haldeman Page B

grew out of the interior. The front door was missing and there was no glass in the windows.
    Still, some indigent might have sought shelter there. He quietly shucked a shell into the 12-gauge and eased heavily out of the van, alert.
    His eyes adjusted to the gloom inside the cabin. Sound of a rat or squirrel scurrying away. No other signs of life except spiders and millipedes. Woodsy smell with a touch of mildew.
    The exposed beams under the part of the roof that was intact were strong enough to support his weight. He went back to the van and brought out the chains and hook and large cooler.
    When he returned for the woman, her eyes were open, unblinking. She didn’t resist when he handcuffed her wrists together, and then her ankles.
    Should he rape her? He had done that to the first two women, and one man, but there was no special joy in it, and it proved nothing; he already had total control over them, so sticking a protuberance into an opening was a trivial exercise. Besides, if he were interrupted and had to leave body parts behind, the fluid they found in her vagina would not be human in chemistry or biology.
    He hung her up by the heels and stooped to remove the duct tape. “Don’t scream. There’s no one around to hear you, and you’ll just annoy me.”
    She winced when he jerked the tape off, then worked her jaw and said, “This is the weirdest dream I’ve ever had.”
    â€œIt’s not a dream, Cooper.” He’d looked in her wallet. “It’s not even a nightmare.”
    â€œI refuse to believe that. You’ll kill me, and then I’ll wake up.”
    He almost smiled. “That’s a new way of coping. None of the others have said that.” He unrolled her Lycra shorts and left them bunched around her knees. “Most girls your age shave around the pubic region. The bathing suit part, at least.”
    â€œI’m sure you’re an expert.” Her voice was conversational but quaking. “You can say ‘cunt.’ Under the circumstances.”
    â€œHeavens, no. I don’t know you well enough.” He sliced her T-shirt from neck to waist and then cut both sleeves to remove it. She was wearing a red sports bra. He snapped the elastic but left it alone.
    â€œHow many . . . how many others?”
    â€œTwelve; you’ll be lucky thirteen. The newspapers call me Hunter. You haven’t heard of me?”
    â€œI—I never read the paper. Or watch the news.”
    â€œOh. Is it too depressing?” He made small nicks over each kneecap and watched the blood trickle down. “If you read the newspapers, you might have thought twice before bicycling alone out in the woods.”
    â€œMy boyfriend and parents know where—”
    â€œI’m sure they do. We’ll be in another state before they get around to calling the police. You’ll be in quite another state.” He wiped one stream of blood with his forefinger and tasted it. “Type O, I believe?”
    â€œLook. If this is a gag—”
    â€œThere may be gagging.” He stuck out his tongue and licked the trickle of blood from the other leg in one slow sweep. Then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You are delicious.”
    He went outside and came back with a large plastic bucket with a lid. He pried off the lid and put the bucket on the floor underneath her head. Then he sat down cross-legged, facing her eye to eye.
    â€œCarolyn Cooper. You must bike a lot.”
    â€œNo. Yes.” Tears were running down her forehead.
    â€œYour thighs and calves are very muscular. But not
too
lean. Do you go to school?”
    She shook her head no.
    â€œChurch? Do you go to church?”
    â€œYou . . . United Southern Baptist.”
    â€œSouthern Baptist. So you’ll be in heaven soon.”
    She cried harder and tried to wipe her nose on her shoulder. He held up a Kleenex and said, “Blow.” She