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eBook Category: Suspense/Thriller
eBook Description: When Ryne Lanark and his Decoy Unit begin to see a series of killings and maimings in which the perpetrator has only taken his victims' hands, cutting them off cleanly and surely, Lanark embarks on the most mysterious and twisting case of his career. The investigation soon focuses on a down and out magician whose act has seen better days. Reminiscent of Magic, but a Magic on speed, Decoy: Hand-to-Hand will disturb readers to the core while dishing up a great read.

eBook Publisher: Fictionwise.com, Published: 1990
Fictionwise Release Date: June 2006

This eBook is part of the following series:

• Robert W. Walker's Decoy Series

2 Reader Ratings: Great Good OK Poor

Available eBook Formats [MultiFormat - What's this?]: Adobe Acrobat (PDF) [1.7 MB], eReader (PDB) [313 KB], Palm Doc (PDB) [307 KB], Rocket/REB1100 (RB) [272 KB], Microsoft Reader (LIT) [316 KB] - PocketPC 1.0+ Compatible, Franklin eBookMan (FUB) [309 KB], hiebook (KML) [775 KB], Sony Reader (LRF) [353 KB], iSilo (PDB) [251 KB], Mobipocket (PRC) [319 KB], Kindle Compatible (MOBI) [77 KB], OEBFF Format (IMP) [400 KB]
Words: 92320
Reading time: 263-369 min.
Microsoft Reader (LIT) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
Adobe Acrobat (PDF) Format:  Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud DISABLED
All Other formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED

"Hand-to-Hand is my favorite of all four of the Decoy series in Walker's arsenal, and it was so powerful it made my wrists hurt. I had to keep checking to make sure I had my hands..."--J.A. Konrath, author of Whiskey Sour, Bloody Mary, and Rusty Nail

He wasn't sure why he had cut off the other man's hands; wasn't sure of the perverse inner drive that had led him to carry through with the plan. He had rationalized much over the past hour, that he had done it to see if it were at all possible. Yes, maybe that was it after all: to test his own abilities and power over another human being. The hands were not necessarily the important thing after all. Of course, he couldn't very well have cut off the man's head; the brain must still be functioning for the experiment to work. Yet the hands were called the "visible" portion of the brain. Slicing them off like two large sausages, now that was a different story.

He liked hands.

He liked their comfortable shape and weight and size and function and all-around feel. He was, in the end, a feeling person. He liked the portability of the hands now that they were severed from the rest of the ponderous body. And he might carry them in his coat pocket if he liked, carry them to where he worked, to the café, down to the laundry room, over to the park, and take them out and gaze at the wondrous beauty in the creation of them. He could cart them about the city wherever he liked, and no one would be any wiser. Or he could do with them what he'd planned right along.

Felix would object at first, but he'd come to like the hands too, he was sure.

Felix could drive him insane at times. Sometimes, he thought Felix was insanely jealous of his hands, and this way ... this way, Felix might have a pair of his own. The surprise might be shocking at first; Felix would call him names, tell him he was insane to do such a thing. But they both knew better.

He was not insane.

At least not in the usual sense.

What's more, he knew this.

He was super-normal, super-intelligent, too much for this world, other men, women. He'd tasted of this world long enough to feel as though he had tried everything, and he'd come away feeling short-changed.

Why did he do it? Why did he cut the hands off a man? It was too complex to analyze; and if he stopped to do so, it would all be spoiled. Yet he knew why.

Severed hands were interesting objects. They made great ashtrays, for instance.

Where he had stored them, they made interesting everyday things. His collection was not kept under glass, or behind walls or baseboards, or buried in shoe boxes or books. His collection was all round him. In fact, the bed he lay on presently had a mattress fashioned from the hands of once-living men and women. Well, not quite, but it was so in the dreams he had--daydreams too. Perhaps, one day, his dream would become a reality. For now, just learning he could do it, well, it was like other men climbing Mount Everest, or a champion swimmer conquering the English Channel. It gave him a thrill, a high, a kick like nothing he'd ever felt before.

Damn, he was good, he told himself.

He had spent his entire life perfecting his craft, and now look what he was capable of. He'd peeled away his outer clothing and had placed the two severed hands on the bed with him. They were the hands of a man who'd soon be dead; the hands of a man who'd soon be allowed to bleed to death, but whose bleeding, for the moment, was held in check: a kind of suspended animation.

He got up from the bed and bounced the two beauties with his movement. They spewed forth their own little reservoirs of blood onto the cover he'd placed over the mattress. He put on a robe, as the hour was growing late.

He had to dispose of the body, which for the moment was more zombie than body. He opened the door to the kitchen, where he'd left a mess in the basin where the hands had first fallen, spitting forth under the sudden pressure of the hand-held guillotine he'd used, an instrument he had fashioned and built in his workshop. For a long time he had dreamed and planned of this.

The body stood before the sink, still breathing rhythmically, still very much of this world, yet soon to be a corpse. The killer vaguely remembered that he'd first seen the man in the company of a blonde. They'd been drinking heavily, and he'd caught the man's attention when he tried to make overtures to the woman. He'd thought a woman's gentle hands would be infinitely preferable, but who was arguing now? Now that he had the hands?

There were two ugly stubs where the man's hands and part of each forearm had been; the bone was sheared clean and precise, no jagged edges. The weight on the guillotine was right after all. Despite the fact that the man's hands were missing, and his horrid wounds remained unbandaged, they remained clean of blood. When the guillotine had fallen, and his hands with it, there was no outcry. There had been no feeling.

He had accomplished the impossible. He had made real the unreal. His success ought to be applauded. He wanted to shout it to the world, but he knew the world wasn't ready. His abilities were manifold. Medicine could benefit suffering millions, anyone in pain or trauma, he had told himself, if he could perfect the "trick" of the mind. At least, that's how it had begun, years ago, when he first encountered the idea on the fringes of his own mind. It had crawled to the center of his consciousness lately, taking over everything, becoming his obsession. It had also changed, metamorphosed. It was no longer for the good of mankind so much as it was for the fun.

If the human mind was powerful enough to control the flow of blood through the body, and ignore severed limbs, its power was truly enormous and great. Perhaps the human mind really was God.

He spoke to the man who would soon die. In a warm, glowing, and friendly voice he said, "Now, Oscar ... if that is really your name"--he had reason to believe otherwise since he had rifled the other man's wallet before returning it--"we're going to go for a nice drive. I want you to put your hands now deep into your coat pockets. Don't want anyone seeing anything they shouldn't." He helped tuck the loose ends and torn coat sleeves into the coat pockets. It looked a bit awkward, yet it must do.

"What's the matter, Oscar? Don't you want to go for a ride?"

The tall, middle-aged, somewhat handsome man nodded dumbly, following him into the other room. There he shed his robe and dressed quickly. He told Mr. Rhodes-who-didn't-want-to-be-known-as-Rhodes all about his plans for him. "You've made your contribution to science, Mr. Rho--Oscar. I'll lead you now to a nice place to die so that you won't disturb anyone, too much."

"Yes," replied the handless man, "yes."

"Really very nice of you not to bleed all over my place, Oscar."

"Yes, sir ... thank you."

"Come along now."

"Yes, sir..."

They went out into the lobby of the apartment complex and rode the elevator straight down into the underground parking lot and found the car. He had to open Oscar's side for him; the poor man couldn't manage the handle even if he could think to do so. "Inside, Oscar."

He looked around the lot, thinking he saw some movement at the far end, or heard a slight skittering noise. Spooky places, modern underground lots. He never felt quite comfortable in them. He always felt as if he were being watched. Funny thing. His whole life, he always felt as if someone was watching his every move. For a long time it was his father, and true enough, the old man watched him just as if he were a plant growing, and the old man wanted to see every millimeter that he grew. Even in an open lot with tall buildings all around, he had always believed someone up in some window somewhere was watching. He felt that way now in the parking lot; he had had the same feeling when he was alone with Oscar in the apartment.

Foolish feeling, and yet ... Oscar was there, after all. Maybe deep down inside his frozen state he knew what was happening to him, despite his outward acceptance. Maybe if he'd had more willpower he might've resisted more and he'd still have his hands.

Still, he knew how terribly alluring his voice, his eyes, and his manner could be. He knew he was extremely good, the best. Poor Oscar/Rhodes didn't know what hit him; didn't know before, and didn't know now.

He started the engine and wheeled out of the space he was in, starting for the ramp. In his rearview mirror he saw someone had gotten out of another car and was walking toward the elevators. It was the Burroughs woman from 11C, next door to his apartment. His mind raced. How much had she seen? Had she noticed him and Oscar/Rhodes at all? Why'd she remain so long in her car? Why hadn't she popped out with that usual giddy, post-college giggle of hers and said something witty like, "Keeping late hours, or are you just going out?"

The hour was either extremely late or extremely early: three-fifty a.m. What was she doing getting in at this hour? What was he doing going out at this hour? Perhaps she was fearful he would see her; perhaps she had reason to keep her mouth shut about this, and that'd be to their mutual benefit. Meanwhile, Oscar's missing hands hadn't been seen. Hell, they were up in the apartment.

He drove out into the night. His search for a place to leave Oscar would have to be quick; yet he wanted some distance between his place and where police would find the body. For as soon as Oscar's little ride came to an end, he would be a complete corpse. He would bleed to death from both severed limbs, if the hysteria didn't bring on a heart attack first. At the moment, Oscar had no idea of his condition.