“No, he isn’t here, Marvin,” John said quickly, “but neither is anybody else. The guys who were questioning me lit out about fifteen minutes ago, when word came down from on high that someone broke into Jane Milburn’s apartment. I just talked to Kevin McQuaid, and now I have to talk to you. Do you remember Mike’s Eclectic Bar, on Christopher Street?”

Mike’s Eclectic Bar was John’s name for it. The name on the window suggested some place exotic, the customers called it “The Dungeon,” and it was John’s idea of a safe place for them to meet, because anyone seeing you there had to explain what he was doing in the place. “I’ll see you in fifteen minutes,” Devlin said.

He was early. Parked in a bus stop, he resumed reading.

I have been trying to make you want to hurt me. That “insistent curiosity” of mine—what’s your reaction? You’ve even yelled, screamed at me to shut up. I wanted to go further, to see how angry I could make you, but I was afraid you would quit on me completely. Now I am going to take you that final step. I’ve seen that you have it in you. You will find at the end of this letter exactly how I am going to torment you, and I will, and you will grow angry enough to do anything to make me stop.

And then you will hit me.

You will be out of control, and you will hit me again and again. You will use a belt so you don’t hurt yourself. You will hit me as hard as you can, and even though you will never have to go so far, proceed on the assumption that you are going to keep hitting me until your strength gives out. But, as I say, that will never happen. Why?

At the beginning of this I write that I was in an unbearable state of excitement. That was some hours ago. Since then I have had a couple of drinks and taken one of your Black Beauties. I am in more control now. So what will happen to keep you from spending all your strength?