“Look at eleven down,” she said.

He looked.

“They can weigh heavy,” he read. “Sixteen letters.”

“Responsibilities,” she said.

MARILYN AND CHESTER Stone were huddled together on the left-hand sofa in front of the desk, because Hobie was in the bathroom, alone with the two cops. The thickset man in the dark suit sat on the opposite sofa with the shotgun resting in his lap. Tony was sprawled out next to him with his feet on the coffee table. Chester was inert, just staring into the gloom. Marilyn was cold and hungry, and terrified. Her eyes were darting all around the room. There was total silence from the bathroom.

“What’s he doing in there with them?” she whispered.

Tony shrugged. “Probably just talking to them right now.”

“About what?”

“Well, asking them questions about what they like and what they don’t. In terms of physical pain, you understand. He likes to do that.”

“God, why?”

Tony smiled. “He feels it’s more democratic, you know, letting the victims decide their own fate.”

Marilyn shuddered. “Oh God, can’t he just let them go? They thought Sheryl was a battered wife, that’s all. They didn’t know anything about him.”

“Well, they’ll know something about him soon,” Tony said. “He makes them pick a number. They never know whether to pick high or low, because they don’t know what it’s for. They think they might please him, you know, if they pick right. They spend forever trying to figure it out.”

“Can’t he just let them go? Maybe later?”

Tony shook his head.

“No,” he said. “He’s very tense right now. This will relax him. Like therapy.”

Marilyn was silent for a long moment. But then she had to ask.

“What is the number for?” she whispered.

“How many hours it takes them to die,” Tony said. “The ones who pick high get real pissed when they find that out.”

“You bastards.”

“Some guy once picked a hundred, but we let him off with ten.”

“You bastards.”

“But he won’t make you pick a number. He’s got other plans for you.”

Total silence from the bathroom.

“He’s insane,” Marilyn whispered.

Tony shrugged. “A little, maybe. But I like him. He’s had a lot of pain in his life. I think that’s why he’s so interested in it.”

Marilyn stared on at him in horror. Then the buzzer sounded at the oak door out to the elevator lobby. Very loud in the awful silence. Tony and the thickset man with the shotgun spun around and stared in that direction.

“Check it out,” Tony said.

He went into his jacket and came out with his gun. He held it steady on Chester and Marilyn. His partner with the shotgun jacked himself up out of the low sofa and stepped around the table to the door. He closed it behind him and the office went quiet again. Tony stood up and walked to the bathroom door. Knocked on it with the butt of his gun and opened it a fraction and ducked his head inside.

“Visitors,” he whispered.

Marilyn glanced left and right. Tony was twenty feet from her, and he was the nearest. She jumped to her feet and snatched a deep breath. Hurdled the coffee table and scrambled around the opposite sofa and made it all the way to the office door. She wrenched it open. The thickset man in the dark suit was on the far side of the reception area, talking to a short man framed in the doorway out to the elevator lobby.

“Help us!” she screamed to him.

The man stared over at her. He was dressed in dark blue pants and a blue shirt, with a short jacket open over it, the same blue as the pants. Some kind of uniform. There was a small design on the jacket, left side of the chest. He was carrying a brown grocery sack cradled in his arms.

“Help us!” she screamed again.

Two things happened. The thickset man in the dark suit darted forward and bundled the visitor all the way inside and slammed the door after him. And Tony grabbed Marilyn from behind with a strong arm around her waist. He dragged her backward into the office. She arched forward against the pressure of his arm. She was bending herself double and fighting.

“God’s sake, help us!”

Tony lifted her off her feet. His arm was bunching under her breasts. The short dress was riding up over her thighs. She was kicking and struggling. The short man in the blue uniform was staring. Her shoes came off. Then the short man was smiling. He walked forward into the office after her, stepping carefully over her abandoned shoes, carrying his grocery sack.

“Hey, I’d like to get me a piece of that,” he said.

“Forget it,” Tony gasped from behind her. “This one’s off limits, time being.”

“Pity,” the new guy said. “Not every day you see a thing like that.”

Tony struggled with her all the way back to the sofa. Dumped her down next to Chester. The new guy shrugged wistfully and emptied the grocery sack on the desk. Bricks of cash money thumped out on the wood. The bathroom door opened and Hobie stepped into the room. His jacket was off and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbow. On the left was a forearm. It was knotted with muscle and thick with dark hair. On the right was a heavy leather cup, dark brown, worn and shiny, with straps riveted to it running away up into the shirtsleeve. The bottom of the cup was narrowed to a neck, with the bright steel hook coming down out of it, running straight for six or eight inches and then curving around to the point.

“Count the money, Tony,” Hobie said.

Marilyn jerked upright. Turned to face the new guy.

“He’s got two cops in there,” she said urgently. “He’s going to kill them.”

The guy shrugged at her.

“Suits me,” he said. “Kill them all, is what I say.”

She stared at him blankly. Tony moved behind the desk and sorted through the bricks of money. He stacked them neatly and counted out loud, moving them from one end of the desk to the other.

“Forty thousand dollars.”

“So where are the keys?” the new guy asked.

Tony rolled open the desk drawer. “These are for the Benz.”

He tossed them to the guy and went into his pocket for another bunch.

“And these are for the Tahoe. It’s in the garage downstairs.”

“What about the BMW?” the guy asked.

“Still up in Pound Ridge,” Hobie called across the room.

“Keys?” the guy asked.

“In the house, I guess,” Hobie said. “She didn’t bring a pocketbook, and it doesn’t look like she’s concealing them about her person, does it?”

The guy stared at Marilyn’s dress and smiled an ugly smile, all lips and tongue.

“There’s something in there, that’s for damn sure. But it don’t look like keys.”

She looked at him in disgust. The design on his jacket read Mo’s Motors. It was embroidered in red silk. Hobie walked across the room and stood directly behind her. He leaned forward and brought the hook around into her line of vision. She stared at it, close up. She shuddered.

“Where are the keys?” he asked.

“The BMW is mine,” she said.

“Not anymore it isn’t.”

He moved the hook closer. She could smell the metal and the leather.

“I could search her,” the new guy called. “Maybe she is concealing them after all. I can think of a couple of interesting places to look.”

She shuddered.

“Keys,” Hobie said to her softly.

“Kitchen counter,” she whispered back.

Hobie took the hook away and walked around in front of her, smiling. The new guy looked disappointed. He nodded to confirm he’d heard the whisper and walked slowly to the door, jingling the Benz keys and the Tahoe keys in his hand.

“Pleasure doing business,” he said as he walked.

Then he paused at the door and looked back, straight at Marilyn.

“You completely sure that’s off limits, Hobie? Seeing as how we’re old friends and all? Done a lot of business together?”

Hobie shook his head like he meant it. “Forget about it. This one’s mine.”