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The Cat from Hell By STEPHEN KING Halston thought the old man in the wheelchair looked sick, terrified, and ready to die. He had experience in seeing such things. Death was Halston's business; he had brought it to eighteen men and six women in his career as an independent hitter. He knew the death look. The house - mansion, actually - was cold and quiet. The only sounds were the low snap of the fire on the big stone hearth and the low whine of the November wind outside. "I want you to make a kill," the old man said. His voice was quavery and high, peevish. "I understand that is what you do." "Who did you talk to?" Halston asked. "With a man named Saul Loggia. He says you know him." Halston nodded. If Loggia was the go-between, it was all right. And if there was a bug in the room, anything the old man - Drogan - said was entrapment. "Who do you want hit?" Drogan pressed a button on the console built into the arm of his wheelchair and it buzzed forward. Closeup, Halston could smell the yellow odors of |
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