Urge To Kill. John Lutz

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      Lavern Neeson lay as if asleep and listened to the apartment door open and close. The sounds were distinct, a faint grating noise as key meshed in lock, then the soft sigh of the door sweep crossing carpet, another sigh as the door closed, and the click of the latch. Last came the rattle of the chain lock as her husband Hobbs fastened it, locking them in together. Lavern shivered beneath the thin sheet.

      Hobbs clattered about in the bathroom for a few minutes. She heard the seemingly endless trickle as he relieved himself, the flush of the toilet, the pinging and rush of water in the building’s old pipes. He seemed steady in his movements; he wasn’t drunk tonight. He wasn’t drunk as often as she liked to think. Alcohol would at least provide some excuse for what he did, and for her allowing it.

      Not that she had any choice. Her options had been taken from her one by one over the seven years of their marriage.

      No, alcohol wasn’t the problem.

      Something she’d done? Had kept doing? There must be some solid reason for the guilt that weighed her down. Guilt needed at least some soil in which to grow.

      My fault.

      That wasn’t what she concluded whenever she carefully analyzed her dilemma, but it was always what she felt, and that was what made her powerless. She couldn’t let this continue, yet she couldn’t stop it. Every time it happened she was more helpless to prevent it. Hobbs used to discuss the problem with her, seeming to listen very carefully to what she was saying, but she knew now it had been a ruse while he manipulated her, neutralized her defenses one after another.

      What’s wrong with us?

      She’d asked the question more than once. Kept asking it. Now Hobbs no longer even pretended to listen politely or care and consider.

      Lavern knew now that he didn’t have the answer. Or maybe he was as fearful of the answer as she was. Perhaps he feared merely the question.

      Where is this taking us?

      The bedroom light winked on, blinding her at first, so she clenched her eyes tightly closed and pressed her face into the pillow. She kept her eyes shut and didn’t move.

      Hobbs knew she was awake. He knew all her evasive tricks.

      “Lavern?”

      She sighed, opened her eyes, and sat up blinking in the light. She was an attractive woman with honey-blond hair and blue eyes. Her slender figure was shapely but without much of a bust. (Years ago she’d considered breast implants, and was glad now she hadn’t gotten them. They’d be another vulnerability.) Her features were a bit too long to be beautiful, her lips full and not quite meeting because of a slight overbite Hobbs used to tell her was sexy. Her pink nightgown slid down one shoulder, almost exposing one breast that truly was the size of a teacup.

      Hobbs loomed over her, all six feet of him; he was almost forty now but was still burly and hard from playing college football until he’d blown out his right knee. Still had the buzz cut that made his angular features seem as cruel as a Roman emperor’s. That harshness of countenance was made even more extreme by the coldness in his eyes that were almost exactly the same shade of blue as his wife’s. But while Lavern’s eyes were soft and resigned, Hobbs’s eyes were as hard and reflecting as diamonds.

      Lavern hadn’t known Hobbs in college, though she’d been aware of him. They’d met on First Avenue six years later when sharing a cab out of necessity during a downpour; they were two people unfortunate enough to be going the same way—though of course they’d both thought it lucky at the time. They had so much in common—or so she’d been led to believe—and at first the sex had been undeniably great.

      The relationship had worked for a while. Long enough for them to marry with romantic feigned impetuousness, helped along by a night of hard drinking during a weekend in Las Vegas.

      It was after the marriage that they came to know each other better. That was when the real Hobbs emerged. Or possibly СКАЧАТЬ