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SERIAL UNCUT

This eBook is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents

are either products of the authors’ imaginations or used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead,

is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication

may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means,

electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from

Joe Konrath and Blake Crouch.

Compilation copyright © 2009 by Blake Crouch & Joe Konrath

SERIAL UNCUT copyright © 2010 by Blake Crouch & Joe Konrath

Interview copyright © 2009 by Blake Crouch & Joe Konrath

Afraid copyright © 2009 by Joe Konrath, originally published by Grand Central

Snowbound copyright © 2010 by Blake Crouch, originally published by Minotaur Books

Shaken copyright © 2010 by Joe Konrath

Illustrations and graphic design copyright © 2010 by Jeroen ten Berge

For more information about the authors

and their publications, please visit

www.jakonrath.com

www.jackkilborn.com

www.blakecrouch.com

For more information about Jeroen ten Berge

and his work, please visit www.jeroentenberge.com

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UNCUT

AND EXTENDED

BLAkE CRoUCh, JACk kILBoRN & J.A.koNRATh

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INTRoDUCTIoN

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The original version of SERIAL, still available as a

free ebook, was a 7500-word horror short story written as an

experiment. In less than a year, that experiment was downloaded over 200,000 times, and has received over a hundred

scathingly negative reviews, with many people claiming it

was the most depraved, awful thing they’ve ever read.

SERIAL UNCUT is over 36,000 words, much of it brand

new. Along with the insertion of additional material too

extreme for the original version, it also has a vastly expanded

beginning and ending, including an extended section that

originally appeared in the novella TRUCK STOP.

If you can handle horrific thrills, proceed at your own

risk.

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But if you suffer from anxiety attacks, nervous disorders,

insomnia, nightmares or night terrors, heart palpitations,

stomach problems, or are of an overly sensitive nature, you

should read something else instead.

The authors are in no way responsible for any lost sleep,

missed work, failed relationships, or difficulty in coping

with life after you have read SERIAL UNCUT. They will not

pay for any therapy you may require as a result of reading

SERIAL UNCUT. They will not cradle you in their arms, rock

you back and forth, and speak in soothing tones while you

unsuccessfully try to forget SERIAL UNCUT.

You have been warned...

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PART oNE

TAMPA, 1978

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you about the dangers of hitchhiking?” the driver said. “You never know who’s going to pick

you up.”

Donaldson wiped sweat from his brow and eyed the

driver through the half-open passenger side window of the

Lincoln Continental. The driver was average-looking, roughly

Donaldson’s age, dressed in a dark suit that matched the

car’s paint job.

“I’m roasting out here, man,” Donaldson said. And it

wasn’t far from the truth. He’d been walking down this

desolate highway for damn near three hours in the abusive,

summer sun. “My car died. If you want to rob or kill me,

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that’s fine, as long as you have air conditioning.”

Donaldson forced a bright smile, hoping he looked both

pathetic and non-threatening. It must have worked, because

the man hit a switch on his armrest, and the door unlocked.

Must be nice being rich, Donaldson mused at the fancy

automatic locks. Then he opened the door and heaved his

bulk onto the leather seat.

“Thanks,” he said.

The car was cooler than outside, but not by much.

Donaldson wondered if the man’s air worked. He placed his

hand against the vent, felt a trickle of cold leaking out.

“Happy to help a fellow traveler. I’m Mr. K.”

“Donaldson.”

Neither made a move to shake hands. Mr. K checked his

mirror, then gunned the 8-cylinder engine, spraying gravel as

the luxury car fishtailed back onto the asphalt.

Donaldson adjusted his bulk, shifting the .38 he’d

crammed into the front pocket of his jeans. The pants were

loose enough, and Donaldson portly enough, that he doubted

Mr. K noticed.

“You’re sunburned,” Mr. K said.

“Sun’ll do that to you.”

Donaldson touched his bare forearm, lobster red, and

winced. Then he flipped down the visor mirror, saw how

bad his face was. It looked like his old man had slapped the

shit out of him, and hurt almost as much.

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“Your car a Pinto?” Mr. K asked.

“My car?”

“A Pinto. Saw one about five miles back.”

Donaldson contemplated the harm in admitting it. He

supposed it didn’t matter. Before he’d abandoned the car,

he’d wiped it clean of fingerprints.

“Yeah. Blew a rod, I think.”

“Why didn’t you wait for the police?”

Again, Donaldson deliberated before answering. “I don’t

like pigs,” he finally said.

Mr. K nodded. Donaldson doubted the man shared his

sentiment. His hair was short, he was well-dressed, and he

owned a fancy car. Cops wouldn’t hassle him. They were too

busy hassling people with long hair and beards and ripped

jeans.

People like me.

The highway stretched onward, wiggly heat waves rising

off the tarmac. There wasn’t much traffic. Only about twenty

cars had passed Donaldson during his long walk, and not one

had so much as slowed down. Bastards. Whatever happened

to human compassion?

“Did you kill the car’s owner before you stole it?” Mr. K

asked.

Alarm bells sounded in Donaldson’s head. He frantically

pawed at his .38, but Mr. K slammed on the brakes.

Donaldson bounced off the dashboard, smacking his

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sunburned nose hard. During the momentary disorientation,

he was aware of Mr. K throwing the car into park, unbuckling

his seatbelt, and pressing a thin-bladed knife under

Donaldson’s double chin with one hand, while digging the

.38 from Donaldson’s front pocket with the other.

“You should buckle up,” Mr. K said. “Seatbelts save

lives.”

Mr. K stuck the knife into his breast pocket, belted

himself back in, then hit the gas. The tires screamed and the

Continental shot forward.

“I’m bleeding,” Donaldson said, his hands cupped around

his nose. He knew it was a stupid, obvious thing to say, but he

was still dazed and trying to buy some time.

“Tissues in the glove compartment.”

Donaldson dug them out, feeling more ashamed than

hurt. This guy had gotten the better of him much too easily.

As he mopped the blood from his face, Mr. K pressed a button

to open the passenger side window.

“Throw the used ones outside, please.”

Donaldson went through ten tissues, tossing each one

onto the road whizzing by. Then he ripped one more into

pieces, balled them up, and shoved them into each nostril,

staunching the trickle. He kept an eye on Mr. K the entire time,

alternating between watching the man’s eyes, and watching

the .38 pointed at him.

This is a real bad situation.

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“I don’t enjoy repeating myself, but you hit that dashboard

pretty hard, so I’ll ask one more time. Did you kill the driver

before you stole the Pinto?”

Donaldson knew he was screwed, but he didn’t want to

get himself even more screwed.

“You a cop?” he asked, not sure if that would be a good

thing or a bad thing.

The barest flash of mirth crossed Mr. K’s face. “No. But

your biggest worry right now shouldn’t be getting arrested.

Your biggest worry should be the hole I’m going to put in

your head if you don’t answer me.”

The gears began to turn in Donaldson’s head. How the hell

do I get through this? Talk my way out?

“You won’t shoot me,” Donaldson said, surprised by how

calm he sounded.

“No?”

“You’d ruin your car.”

Again, a faint hint of a smile. “It’s not my car. And you

still haven’t answered my question.”

Mr. K thumbed back the hammer on the pistol.

Donaldson contemplated his own death—the first time

in his life he ever had—and decided dying would be a very

bad thing.

“I killed him,” Donaldson said quickly.

Mr. K seemed to think about this. He nodded slowly. “Was

it someone you knew?”

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“No. Jumped him in a parking lot in Sarasota. Wouldn’t

have wasted the bullet if I knew what a piece of crap his car

was.”

Donaldson watched Mr. K’s eyes. They betrayed nothing.

The two of them might as well have been talking about the

weather.

“How’d it feel?” Mr. K asked.

“How did what feel?”

“Killing that man.”

What kind of freaky talk is this? Donaldson thought, but all

he said was, “I dunno.”

“Sure you do. Did it feel good? Bad? Numb? Did it get you

excited? Did you feel guilty afterward?”

Donaldson thought back to the day before. To holding the

gun to the man’s ribs. Seeing the shock in his eyes when he

squeezed the trigger once, twice, three times. Watching him

flop to the ground in a way that had struck him as funny. The

holes in his chest had made sucking sounds, blowing tiny

blood bubbles.

“Excited,” Donaldson said.

“Did he die right away?”

“No.”

“Did you stay and watch him die?”

“Yeah.”

“How long did it take?”

It’s so strange that we’re both so calm about this.

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Donaldson shrugged. “Few minutes, I guess.”

“Did you do anything else to him?”

“Like what?”

“Did you hurt him first?” Mr. K raised an eyebrow. “Rape

him?”

Donaldson scowled. “Do I look like a queer to you?”

“What does being a homosexual have to do with it? You

had a human being at your mercy. That excited you. I’m

asking if you capitalized on that opportunity. If you made the

most of it.”

Donaldson thought about it. The guy had been at his

mercy. He’d begged for a while when Donaldson pulled the

gun, and that was kind of a turn-on.

“I didn’t rape him,” Donaldson said.

“Could you have raped him?”

Donaldson licked some dried blood off of his top lip, let the

salty, copper taste linger on his tongue. “Yeah. I could’ve.”

This answer seemed to satisfy Mr. K. He was quiet for over

a minute.

The road stretched out ahead of them like a giant black

snake.

Empty swampland and blue skies as far as Donaldson

could see.

I can’t believe I’m telling him this stuff. Is it because he’s

threatening to kill me?

Or because he understands?

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“How’d you know?” Donaldson asked.

“Know what?”

“That I stole that car?”

Mr. K offered a half-smile. “I saw the gun in your pocket

when you stopped, along with your clumsy attempt to hide

it. You should get an ankle holster, or stuff it in your belt at

the small of your back. You obviously aren’t a Florida native,

or you’d have a tan already. That means you flew in or drove

in. If you flew, you probably would’ve had a rental car, and

those are usually new. That Pinto was an old model. When

you first got in, I noticed the powder burns on your shirt,

and under your rather oppressive body odor, you smell like

gunpowder.”

Donaldson was impressed, but he refused to show it. He

knew a lot about being victimized. One way to stop being a

victim was to stop acting like a victim.

“I asked how you knew about the car, not my gun,”

Donaldson said, sticking out his lower jaw.

If Mr. K noticed Donaldson’s display of bravado, he didn’t

react. “Your loose jeans didn’t jingle when you sat down in

the car. When people abandon their vehicles, they take their

keys with them. So I assumed it wasn’t yours.”

Donaldson appraised Mr. K again. This was a smart guy.

“How about you?” Donaldson ventured. “Did you kill the

owner of this car?”

“Not yet.”

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“Not yet?”

“He’s tied up in the trunk. I’m taking him someplace

private.”

Donald worded his next question carefully. “Do you want

to kill me?”

Mr. K drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.

Donaldson counted his own heartbeats, trying to keep

cool until Mr. K finally replied.

“Haven’t decided yet.”

“Is there anything I can do to, uh, persuade you that I’m

worth keeping alive?”

“Maybe. The Pinto owner you killed. He wasn’t the first.”

Donaldson thought back to his father, to beating the old

man to death with a baseball bat. “No, he wasn’t.”

“But he was the first stranger.”

This guy is uncanny. “Yeah.”

“Who was it before that? Girlfriend? Family member?”

“My dad.”

“But you didn’t use a gun on him, did you? You made it

more personal.”

“Yeah.”

“What’d you use?”

“A Louisville Slugger.”

“How did it feel?”

Donaldson closed his eyes. He could still feel the sting of

the bat in his palms when he cracked it against his father’s

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head, still see the blood that spurted out of split skin like a

lawn sprinkler.

“I felt like Reggie Jackson hitting one out of Yankee

Stadium. Afterward, I even went out and bought a Reggie

Bar. ”

Mr. K gave him a sideways glance. “Why buy candy? Why

didn’t you eat part of your father? Just imagine the expression

on his face.”

Donaldson was about to protest, but he stopped himself.

When he broke Dad’s jaw with the bat, the old man had

looked more surprised than hurt. How would he have reacted

if Donaldson had cut off one of his fingers and eaten it in

front of him?

That would have shown the son of bitch. Bite the hand that

feeds you.

“I should have done that,” Donaldson said.

“He hurt you when you were a child.” Mr. K said it as a

statement, not a question.

“Yeah. He used to beat the shit out of me.”

“Did he sexually abuse you?”

“Naw. Nothing like that. But every time I got into trouble,

he’d take his belt to me. And he hit hard enough to draw blood.

What kind of asshole does that to a five-year-old kid?”

“Think hard, Donaldson. Do you believe your father beat

you, and that turned you into what you are? Or did he beat

you because of what you are?”

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Donaldson frowned. “What do you mean what you are?

What am I?”

Mr. K turned and stared deep into his soul, his eyes like

gun barrels. “You’re a killer, Donaldson.”

Donaldson considered the label. It didn’t take him long to

embrace it.

“So what was the question again?”

“Are you a killer because your father beat you, or did your

father beat you because you’re a killer?”

Donaldson could remember that first beating when he

was five. He’d taken his pet gerbil and put it in the blender.

Used the pulse button, grinding it up a little at a time, so it

didn’t die right away.

“I think my dad knew. Tried to beat the devil out of me.

Used to tell me that, when he was whipping my ass.”

“You don’t have the devil in you, Donaldson. You’re simply

unique. Exceptional. Unrestrained by morality or guilt.”

Exceptional? Donaldson had never felt like he was

exceptional at anything. He did badly in school. Dropped

out of college. Never had any friends, or a woman he didn’t

pay for. Bummed around the country, job to job, occasionally

ripping someone off. How is that exceptional?

But somehow, he felt that the description fit him.

Maybe that’s the problem. I’ve been trying to be normal all of

these years, but I’m not. I’m better than normal.

I’m exceptional.

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“How do you know this stuff ?” Donaldson asked.

“The more you understand death,” Mr. K said, “the more

you appreciate life.”

“Sounds like fortune cookie bullshit.”

“It was something I learned in the war.”

“Vietnam?” Donaldson had been exempt from the draft

because he didn’t pass the physical.

“A villager in Ca Lu said it to me, before I removed his

intestines with a bayonet.”

“Was he talking about himself ?” Donaldson asked. “Or

you?”

“You tell me. Did you feel alive when you killed your

father, Donaldson?”

Donaldson nodded.

“And when you killed the owner of the Pinto?” Mr. K

continued.

“Goddamn piece of crap car. I wish I could kill that guy

again.”

“How about someone else in his place?”

Donaldson squinted at Mr. K. “What do you mean?”

Another half smile. “The man in my trunk. If I gave you

the chance to kill him, would you?”

“What’d he do?”

“What did the Pinto owner do?” Mr. K countered.

“Nothing. But I wanted his car.”

“So you killed him for his car?”

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“Yeah.”

“Couldn’t you have just pointed the gun and told him to

give you his keys?”

“He would’ve called the cops.”

“You could’ve knocked him out. Or tied him up.”

“I guess.”

“But you didn’t.”

Donaldson folded his chubby arms across his chest. “No.

I didn’t.”

“This man in the trunk. I promised him it would take a

long time for him to die. Do you think you could do something like that? Draw out a man’s agony for a long time?”

Donaldson wasn’t sure what Mr. K’s angle was. “Sure.”

“Is that something you’d like to do?”

Donaldson shrugged. “I dunno. Never tried it before.”

“You know what the alternative is, don’t you?”

“You kill me.”

Mr. K nodded.

Donaldson made his decision in a nanosecond. “How do

you want me to do it?”

“You can use your imagination. I have plenty of tools you

can choose from.”

Donaldson stared off into the miles and miles of endless

marshland. Thought about this strange request. Found

himself becoming aroused.

“I’ll kill him,” he said. “And I’ll make it hurt.”

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Mr. K checked his rearview mirror, eased his foot off

the gas, and then drove onto the shoulder. He put on his

emergency lights, then ordered Donaldson out of the car.

Donaldson didn’t even attempt to run away. He walked

around to the rear of the car without being told and waited,

butterflies amassing in his stomach.

The man in the trunk was awake, completely naked, his

wrists and ankles tied with rope. He was older, late forties

maybe, and he squinted in the powerful sun. In his mouth

was a gag made out of a rubber ball.

He looks positively out of his mind with terror.

Donaldson licked his lips again.

“I prefer clothesline,” Mr. K said. “You can buy it everywhere, so it’s untraceable. And it won’t hold a fingerprint. Get

him out of the car. Hurry, before another car comes by.”

Donaldson muscled the man out. It wasn’t easy. The guy

squirmed and fought, and he was pretty heavy and tough to

lift. Donaldson quickly gave up trying. Instead, he dragged

him nude across the asphalt as the man moaned around

his gag.

That’s gotta hurt, Donaldson thought. But that’s nothing

compared to what I’m gonna do.

Mr. K took a tool case and a gas can out of the trunk, then

closed it. He instructed Donaldson to pull the man into the

marsh. It was wet, moss clinging to Donaldson’s shoes, muck

seeping through. High reeds seemed to reach out and tug at

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the bound man, making it even harder to pull him.

After fifty yards, Donaldson was exhausted.

After a hundred yards, Donaldson was seriously pissed

off. He hated being in the sun again, hated the throbbing in

his nose and muscles, and hated this heavy son of a bitch for

squirming so much and for being so goddamn heavy.

“That’s far enough,” Mr. K said. He set down the tool chest

and opened it up.

Donaldson stared inside at the contents like a kid ogling

presents under a Christmas tree.

“Can you give me my ball gag back?” Mr. K held out a rag.

“It’s my last one.”

Donaldson unbuckled the gag from the man’s mouth,

disgusted by the spit dripping from it. He handed it to Mr. K

and then kicked the naked man in the stomach for making

such a mess.

The man screamed. The first of many to come.

“I’ll pay!” he cried. “I’ll pay!”

“What should I use first?” Donaldson asked Mr. K.

“Try the ball peen hammer. Breaking before cutting or

burning always seems to work better.”

The next two hours blurred by for Donaldson, his entire

world reduced to hurting this unknown, screaming, naked

man in this deserted marsh. Even Mr. K seemed to vanish

to Donaldson, though he took pictures during the proceedings,

and occasionally interrupted to offer advice or encouragement:

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Don’t cut there too deep. He’ll bleed to death.

Try the pliers.

Tell him what you’re going to do next. It makes it worse.

That part’s particularly sensitive. Use the blowtorch.

He’s not looking at you. Make him look at you, or cut off his

eyelids.

He’s passed out again. Use the ammonia rag to wake him up.

There’s still a patch of skin there.

Now would be a good time for the salt and vinegar. Rub it in

good.

It doesn’t make you gay. Enjoy yourself. He’s at your mercy.

How does it taste? Different than that other part you tried?

Try feeding his eyelids to him.

Don’t worry, it’s not your fault. He had a heart attack. It

happens sometimes. You did well.

Donaldson sat nude next to the dead thing. The portly

killer was covered with blood and bits of tissue, and he

couldn’t think of any time in his twenty-something years of

life that he’d ever been happier.

Mr. K finished wiping off the cheese grater with a rag and

some bleach, and placed it back into his tool kit. Then he told

Donaldson to douse the corpse with gasoline.

“Fire will take care of any evidence you’ve left behind.

But wait until I’m gone. I don’t want you attracting any

attention.”

Donaldson emptied the can and stared up at Mr. K,

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who stood silhouetted against the setting sun. He looked

enormous.

Donaldson offered him the empty can, said, “Take me

with you.”

“You’re naked and covered in blood, Donaldson. You’d

ruin the interior of my car.”

“I thought you stole the car.”

“Stealing cars is for stupid children. The police have

radios. It’s too easy to get caught. If you manage to get out of

here, remember that. You’d be wise to remember everything

I’ve said to you.”

“You’re not going to kill me?”

“Why should I? Even if you remembered my license plate

number, which I don’t think you have, I just shot two rolls

of you torturing a man to death. I have nothing to fear from

you.”

Mr. K picked up his toolbox and turned to walk away.

“Can I get my gun back?” Donaldson asked.

Mr. K dropped the box, took out the .38, and wiped it off

with the rag. He emptied the bullets onto the ground and

tossed Donaldson the weapon, then reached into his breast

pocket and tossed something else at him.

Wet wipes, from a fast food chicken place.

“I’d recommend getting some of that blood off before you

try hitchhiking again.”

Donaldson nodded, picking a morsel of something out of

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his front teeth. “Next time I won’t get so much on me.”

“There’ll be a next time?”

“Yeah. Oh yeah.”

Mr. K stared at him for a moment, then lifted his toolkit.

“Goodbye, Donaldson. I wish you luck on your future

exploits.”

“You, too.”

Mr. K smiled. Not a hint of a smile. Or a half-smile. But a

full one, like he was genuinely happy.

“And you be careful hitching,” Mr. K said. “Never know

who’s going to pick you up.”

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PART TWo

INDIANAPoLIS, 1995

Lucy sat down at one of the few empty tables on the

perimeter of the hotel bar and hoped none of the waitresses

would notice her. She was fifteen years old, and even wearing

the makeup she’d taken from her mother’s vanity, she knew

her chances of getting served a drink were remote. Worse, she

was taking up real estate that legal customers willing to pay

ten dollars for a mediocre glass of wine could have inhabited.

And there were plenty of them about, the bar nearly full and

the hotel lobby bustling with well-dressed adults older than

her mom.

The convention didn’t technically begin until tomorrow

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morning, so none of them wore name badges. But she felt

sure her eyes were passing over famous mystery writers,

perhaps even people she’d read. The man she’d come to see,

Andrew Z. Thomas, the convention’s guest of honor, for

whom she’d stolen her mother’s car and driven six hundred

miles on a learner’s permit, had yet to make his appearance.

Just the thought of him being in the same building made her

knees feel weak.

“Hi there.”

Lucy turned and met eyes with a waitress now standing

at her table, a pretty girl, probably in college, her dirty blond

hair drawn back into a ponytail.

Lucy said, “Could I just get a water, please?”

“I’m afraid you can’t sit here, sweetie.”

“Why not?”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-two.”

The waitress laughed. “I’m twenty-three, sister. You ain’t

twenty-two.”

“Please don’t make me leave. I don’t—”

“I’ll get in trouble if the manager sees you sitting in my

section. I’m sorry.”

Lucy stared at the waitress, then lifted her handbag off

the table and climbed down from the chair. They’d already

refused her a room because of her age. Now this. What a

mean hotel.

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She was two inches shy of five feet, and she felt even

smaller threading her way through the groups of conversing

adults in the lobby.

“—got a two-book deal for mid-six figures, which just

strikes me as a crime considering his last didn’t even hit—”

“—switched agents—”

“—not sure if my editor’s coming or not. She was supposed

to have finished my manuscript by now—”

“—and every time I turn around, Darling’s right there,

like he’s stalking me or—”

The smell of cologne, perfume, wine breath, and cigarette

smoke overpowering.

She broke out of the crowd and found a cluster of

unoccupied chairs and plopped down in one. From this

distance, the din of conversations mixed together like the

static of a waterfall. She leaned back in the leather chair and

stared up the full height of the twenty-one story atrium,

the uncomfortable pang in her gut not all that dissimilar to

what she experienced every day in the high school cafeteria.

Invisibility. The people around her untouchable, unreachable, as characters in a movie while she watched them

onscreen from the darkness of an empty theater. This sense,

that had been with her for as long as she could remember,

even before her father had died, that she wasn’t a participant

in any of this. In anything really. Only an observer.

When Lucy straightened in her chair, she saw that a man

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now sat across from her. He looked old to her, though he

wasn’t even thirty. Sports jacket. Khacki slacks. Sending out

big wafts of cologne which she thought smelled pretty. He

seemed either angry or nervous, and he kept looking at his

watch like he was waiting for someone, but if he was, they

never came.

She watched him, and the third time their eyes met, the

man gave a thin smile and nodded.

He didn’t have a name badge either, but Lucy took a stab

anyway. “Are you a writer?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Are you a writer?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool.” The man looked at his watch again. “Are you here

for the convention?” she asked.

“Yep.”

“What books have you written?”

“Well, my first one just came out two months ago.”

“What’s it called?”

“A Death in the Family. ”

“I’ve never heard of it. What’s it about?”

“Um, it’s…well, it’s like, it’s about this big family in

Portland who has this reunion and one of the older brothers

is killed. Or rather he’s found dead, and the police come and

make everyone stay while they investigate. What you’d call a

locked-room mystery, I guess.”

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“Is it good?”

“I like to think so.”

“Will they have it in the book room?”

“I don’t know. I hope so.”

“Do you have a copy with you?”

“Not on me. Look, it was very nice meeting you, but I have

a, um…something to get to.”

“I’m Lucy.”

“Mark.”

Lucy watched Mark wander back toward the hotel bar

where he stood on the perimeter of the crowd. He looked

around and kept glancing at his watch. After awhile, he turned

away and started back through the lobby to the elevators.

Lucy stood up and grabbed her handbag and followed.

The middle elevator in a row of three lifted out of the

lobby, and through its glass, she could see Mark leaning

against the railing inside, looking out across the hotel.

She watched it climb. Counted the stories until it stopped

and then followed Mark’s progress onto the fourteenth floor,

counting doors to the room he disappeared inside.

Lucy rode alone, watching the lobby fall away beneath

her as the elevator car soared up the back wall of the atrium.

She walked the exposed hallway, the noise from the lobby

faint up here and no one else about. From the door beside

1428, she grabbed a “Do Not Disturb” sign and hooked it on

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the door to Mark’s room.

Then she put her ear to the door, couldn’t hear anything.

Knocked.

In a minute, it swung open, and Mark, now wearing only

a white oxford shirt and khaki pants, stood staring down at

her, looking both confused and vaguely annoyed.

He said, “Yes?”

“It’s Lucy.”

“I’m sorry, what do you want?”

“I just wanted to see your book. The one you told me

about.”

“You followed me to my room to see my book?”

“Yeah. It sounded good.”

“Look, maybe I’ll see you downstairs tomorrow, and if

you buy one of my books, I’ll even sign it for you. How would

that be?”

Lucy furrowed her brow and made what she hoped

resembled a wounded expression. “Why don’t you like me,

Mark?”

“I don’t…dislike you, I don’t even…”

She put her face into her hands and pretended to cry.

“Jesus.”

“You’re the first real author I’ve ever met. I don’t know

anyone here.”

“Where are your parents?”

“My mom’s in our room watching ‘Dr. Quinn, Medicine

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Woman.’”

He sighed. “If I invite you in—and only for a minute—will

you stop crying?”

“Yes.”

“All right, come on in, Lucy.”

Lucy wiped her face and followed Mark into the hotel

room. His suitcase lay on the bed, open but not yet unpacked,

and Mark was bending over a cardboard box and trying to tear

open the top.

“I brought twenty copies of A Death in the Family. ” He

pulled a trade paperback out of the box and handed it to her.

Lucy thumbed through the pages, skimmed the flap copy on

the back.

The cover was of a gravestone, the book’s title engraved

into the stone above the author’s name: Mark Darling.

“Is anybody else sharing the room with you?” Lucy

asked.

He tilted his head slightly, like he couldn’t comprehend

the question. “No, just me.”

“I need to use the bathroom.”

“Right through that door.”

“Would you sign this for me while I pee?”

“Um, sure.”

She gave back the book and walked into the bathroom

and closed the door.

“Write something good!” she called out from inside.

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She did have to pee actually, and when she’d finished, she

flushed the toilet and washed her hands and took all of her

clothes off. She folded them and stacked them on top of her

black Chuck Taylors on the toilet basin under a towel, then

turned her attention to her handbag.

The marble of the sink was cold against the soles of her

bare feet. She walked down to the end and crouched down

beside the door.

She’d been in the bathroom more than five minutes

already, and she crouched there another five, her legs

beginning to cramp, before Mark’s voice passed finally

through the door.

“Lucy?” he said.

She brought her hand to her mouth to suppress the

giggle. She’d imagined this a hundred times, and something

about the moment finally being here struck her as funny and

surreal. It was the strangest thing. Her body felt all tingly,

like whenever she had been around Bobby Cockrell, the first

boy in high school she’d had a major crush on.

“You’ve been in there awhile,” Mark said. “Everything

okay?”

She didn’t answer.

“Lucy, I need to get back down to the lobby.”

Silence, Lucy smiling.

“I’m opening the door, all right? Are you um…are you

decent?”

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She watched the doorknob turn and the door ease open.

Mark’s head appeared.

“Lucy?”

She was right beside him, well within reach, but he didn’t

see her. Kept looking at the toilet, and then the shower, as if

trying to piece together how this girl had vanished through

the walls.

Lucy reached out and pulled the blade of her dead

father’s Zwilling J.A. Henckels straight razor through his

windpipe in a quick, delicate swipe and the blood from his

carotid artery sprayed her face and she squealed with delight

as Mark clutched his throat and stared wild-eyed at her.

He staggered over to the sink and looked at himself in

the bathroom mirror and all of that blood pouring out of his

throat down the front of his white Oxford with a kind of

disbelief, Lucy giggling as Mark tried to physically squeeze

the opening in his neck back together but the blood kept

coming and he gave up and started toward Lucy with a

madness in his eyes but the floor was slicked with his

blood and his feet shot out from under him.

He slammed flat on his back and his head cracked against

the tile.

Lucy slid off the sink and stepped carefully across the

floor, dodging the bigger pools of blood and watching a

puddle widen around Mark’s head, his eyes already beginning to glaze and his hands at his side.

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She stood there watching him bleed out and when he

finally stopped twitching and blinking, she set the straight

razor on the sink. Lucy weighed eighty-three pounds at her

last physical, and she figured Mark had at least a hundred

on her, but the shower wasn’t far. She only had to drag him

over a two-inch lip and the blood on the floor provided decent

lubrication for the job.

When she’d crammed him into the shower, she closed the

glass door and looked at the bathroom.

Blood everywhere. Spots and spatters and streaks on the

mirror, the walls, even the ceiling.

What a mess.

What a beautiful mess.

She got down on her knees and flattened herself across

the tile and rolled through the pools of blood which were

sticky and cool and gave off a dank metallic smell like a

thunderstorm coming.

Lucy stood for a long time watching herself in the mirror,

kept thinking it looked like she had the most lovely body

art imaginable, how she wanted to walk naked through the

lobby just like this and soak in the stares. What would

Andrew Thomas think to see her like this? She suspected

he might love her.

The blood was growing cold and beginning to congeal

on her skin when she slid open the shower door and stepped

inside. Bending down, she pushed Mark up against the wall

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and curled up to him, her spine against his chest. She draped

his arm around her and closed her eyes and went to sleep.

Woke in the middle of the night, cold and shivering.

Turned the shower on full blast and let the hot water pound

the blood out of her hair and her face. She collected her

clothes from under the towel atop the basin—not a drop of

blood on them—and grabbed the robe off the back of the

door and slipped out of the bathroom.

Mark’s wallet sat on top of the television, and she went

through it and pocketed two key cards and two hundred in

cash. She dressed and left the room. Rode down to the lobby

which was mostly empty now save for a handful of die-hards

who’d persevered beyond last call to sing drunken show

tunes on a leather couch.

Outside, the autumn air was cool and scented with the

spice of a city she did not know.

Wind blew between the skyscrapers.

The sidewalks were empty.

The streets were empty.

It felt strange to be out here alone, no sound but her

footsteps on the pavement. Impossible that her father’s

funeral had happened today. She wondered if there were

people still at her house comforting her mother and brother,

or if they had all gone home.

The glow of a payphone caught her attention on the other

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side of the street.

She ran across to it and dug some change out of her wallet,

dialed the number.

Her mother answered on the fifth ring in a tired voice

gone hoarse from crying.

“Hello?”

Lucy said nothing, just listening, her eyes filling up.

“Hello? Lucy, is that you?”

“Hey, Mom.”

“Oh my God, where are you? Are you okay?”

“I just wanted to tell you something.” She was beginning

to tremble.

“What, honey? What?”

Lucy shouted into the phone, “HE LOVED ME, YOU

STUPID BITCH! HE LOVED ME! I WISH YOU HAD DIED!

HE’S THE ONLY THING I EVER FUCKING LOVED!”

She slammed the phone down on the hook and screamed

inside the booth until her throat burned.

She’d left her mother’s car in the only parking space she

could find—a three-hour meter four blocks from the hotel

that had long since expired. There were five orange envelopes

under the windshield wipers, and the right front tire had

been booted.

She unlocked the car and dragged the guitar case out of

the backseat, started back to the hotel.

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The keycard worked on the second try, and she slipped

into her room and locked the door after her. Stowed Mark’s

suitcase, his shoes, his wallet, and his sports jacket in the

closet.

She’d left home in a hurry, jamming her favorite books,

clothes, and a few toiletries into the first thing to cross her

path—her brother’s guitar case. Now she flipped open the

clasps, opened it on the bed, and dumped everything out. Set

to work choosing outfits for the convention and smoothing

out the wrinkles.

Before bed, she went back into the bathroom, sat on

the toilet seat just watching Mark lying motionless in the

shower. She got down on her knees and stroked his hair,

caressed her finger through the gash in his throat.

By four a.m., she was in bed in her nightgown, and already

dreaming of what tomorrow might bring.

The hotel was crawling with people in the morning and

Lucy had to wait five minutes to catch an elevator down to

the lobby. She picked up her name badge and book bag from

registration, bought a latte, and headed off to the first panel

of the morning.

“Walking on the Dark Side: What Makes a Bad Guy Bad?”

featured five mystery writers, only one of whom she’d heard

of. But they were all entertaining. After the panel and with

Mark’s money, she bought each of their books from a cranky

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Milwaukee bookseller named Katz.

Walking through the book room, where vendors had

many of the participating writers’ books for sale, she couldn’t

get over the thrill of being around so many people who loved

to read. She never saw anyone reading in school. At least

not for fun. And the few times she’d sat in the common area

by herself with a book, she’d been bullied and mocked. The

downside was that most of the people here were as old as her

grandfather and many of them looked just as mean.

She took a table in a café downstairs and studied the

schedule of events once more, looking for two panels to

attend in the afternoon, though nothing caught her interest.

Things didn’t really get interesting until the star of the whole

show arrived: the thriller/horror writer, Andrew Z. Thomas,

was going to be interviewed in the main ballroom tomorrow

at 11:00 a.m., with a signing to follow. She’d brought every

one of his books with her to be autographed.

She sat in the lobby all afternoon, her attention divided

between Mark’s book, which she was really enjoying, and

wanting to be with Mark in the shower again, and watching

for Andrew Thomas, figuring if he was here, he’d have to walk

past her at some point.

After the last panel of the day let out, the hotel emptied

for an hour, and then slowly refilled again, everyone dressed

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to the nines now, lots of sports jackets and evening dresses,

the book bags exchanged for stylish handbags.

She’d been sitting in the same chair for almost four hours,

and her legs felt wobbly and faint when she finally stood.

The hotel bar was packed. All the writers seemed to be

there.

She strolled over and wandered through the bar which

was becoming more crowded by the minute, searching the

faces for Andrew Thomas, but he wasn’t there.

Back upstairs, she ordered room service. Stayed in

watching television and eating a lavish meal on Darling’s tab.

A few minutes past midnight, she climbed out of bed and

dressed and wandered down to the lobby.

The bar was even more crowded than before, and she

scanned the faces in the smoky lowlight, eyes passing over

countless groups that constantly shifted and changed, the

occasional loner who spoke to no one, the softer, restrained

groups huddled on the perimeter.

At the furthest corner of the bar, she finally spotted the

man she’d come to meet, and her stomach fluttered.

He sat on a stool, surrounded by a dozen attentive,

smiling faces, all listening as he told some story whose words

she couldn’t begin to pick out from the impressive noise of all

those conversations.

She stumbled forward into the outskirts of the crowd,

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then elbowed and squeezed her way through the heart of

it, until she stood just outside the group of people orbiting

Andrew Thomas.

His face was fuller than the author photograph on his

latest book jacket, and he had a few days’ stubble shadowing

his face, but he was undeniably…Andrew.

She’d never heard his voice, and it didn’t sound anything

like she imagined. He was more soft-spoken, and he had

an accent. A southern accent. He was talking to a man

seated to the right of him, but there were countless people

eavesdropping.

“…so they show me the mock-up for the book cover, and

I say, ‘Guys, I know you’ve been really working on this thing,

and I appreciate that, but you’ve just put a penis on the cover

of my book.”

The hovering crowd broke into laughter.

“They said, ‘It’s not a penis, Andy, it’s a minaret.’ I said,

‘It’s flesh colored, it has a shaft, and a bulbous head that

appears to be ejaculating the title of my book! Could I please

have a new fucking cover without a cock on it?”

While everyone laughed, Andrew tossed back a shot of

something.

The man standing behind him said, “Another shot,

Andrew?”

“I buy you shots, Billy. Everyone in for a shot of tequila?

Bartender! We need…” Andy counted the people around him.

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“…thirteen shots of Patron Silver.”

Lucy stood watching him, mesmerized, trying to wrap

her brain around the idea that the man whose words and

stories she’d fallen in love with at twelve was sitting ten feet

away from her, under the same roof, breathing the same air.

She’d suspected it before, but last night with Mark Darling

confirmed it: Andrew could read her thoughts. She knew he

must have killed before because the way he described what it

felt like for the killers in his books had been her experience

exactly. She wanted to be closer to him, but his crowd had

effectively cloistered him off from the rest of the bar.

Something was coming apart inside of her, this dark, mad

need to connect with him, and for a moment the sound of

the crowd dropped away. She stared at him, willing his eyes

to meet hers, willing them to give her just a single slash of

attention as the bartender lined up thirteen shotglasses and

began to fill them from two bottles of Patron.

Andrew never looked at her. She watched the bartender

bring the tray of shots, watched Andrew pass them around,

heard the shotglasses clinking, heard the “cheers.”

And she was crying, invisible again.

She pushed her way back through the crowd into the

lobby, moving quickly toward the elevators at the other end

and telling herself there was still tomorrow. Andrew’s book

signing. Anything could happen.

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When she walked into her hotel room, she stopped,

lingering for a moment in the doorway, wondering if by some

chance her room service food could have spoiled so quickly.

No. It wasn’t that. Of course.

She opened the bathroom and the waft hit her. Mark did

not smell so pretty anymore.

She grabbed a towel off the rack and closed the door and

tucked it against the crack between the door and the carpet.

Lucy walked to the bed, kicked off her Chuck T’s, and crawled

under the covers. She hit the light. Closed her eyes. Opened

them. The stink was still there. Potent and getting stronger

every second. She turned on the light and sat up against the

headboard. This was bad. First of all, because she couldn’t

sleep with the smell, and it would only get worse. But more

importantly, when she brought Andrew Thomas up here

tomorrow, the smell would totally gross him out, make a bad

impression.

She hopped out of bed and walked into the bathroom.

Opened one of the mini-bottles of shampoo and squirted the

entire thing over Mark, who now looked purple and swollen.

She cranked up the shower. As the hot water beat down on the

corpse, she saw that it was leaking, and the heat only made

the smell more intense.

She turned off the shower, grabbed the trashbag out of

the waste basket beside the sink, and headed for the door.

Her bare feet tracked down the carpet toward the alcove

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where the vending machines hummed. Down in the lobby, a

hundred and fifty feet below, she could hear Irish drinking

songs lilting up out of the bar.

She held the plastic bag open while cubes of ice rattled

down out of the ice machine. Carried it back to 1428 and

into the bathroom, where she plugged the shower drain and

dumped the ice over Mark Darling. Her heart sank. The bag

of ice had barely covered him. She was going to need a lot

more.

After five trips, the ice was beginning to look substantial

piled on top of the dead writer’s chest.

After ten, she stepped into the shower and spread them

around, felt a glimmer of relief as they nearly covered him.

One more trip, maybe two, and she’d be done.

Lucy reached down and grabbed the bag off the floor.

As she started toward the bathroom door, it swung open.

She froze.

A man stood in the threshold, and for a fleeting second,

she thought it was Andrew Thomas, but he was wearing

different clothes—a white tee-shirt and blue jeans. And his

hair was messy, eyes still squinting like he’d just woken up.

He was staring at the blood spatters on the bathroom

floor, and at the trash bag in Lucy’s hand, and now at Lucy.

It seemed like an entire minute passed without either of

them speaking, Lucy thinking about the straight razor in the

bedside table drawer. Useless now. Her eyes moved around the

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bathroom, looking for something with heft, or with an edge.

It surprised her when the man smiled. He said, “Who you

got in there?”

She didn’t answer. She made fists to stop her hands from

shaking but all it did was give her shaking fists.

“Quite a mess,” he said. “You’ve been a naughty little girl,

haven’t you?”

He took a step forward, glanced in the shower.

Lucy’s eyes welled up. A sob escaped.

“No,” the man said. “No, no, no. Don’t cry.”

He knelt down in front of Lucy.

The eyes. She was going to have to blind him. Jam her

thumbs in as far as they would go and run like hell.

“You don’t have to be afraid. What’s your name?”

“Lucy.”

Her hands had been at her sides. Now, she slowly raised

them.

“Lucy, did that man in the shower hurt you?”

She nodded.

“What did he do?”

“He tried to rape me.”

She shot her thumbs at his eyes, but he parried right and

jumped back, laughing. Lucy ran for the open door. The man

grabbed her and pulled her into his chest.

“Shhh,” he whispered as she struggled. “Don’t scream,

Lucy.”

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She kicked her legs and tried to head-butt him as he

carried her out of the bathroom into the hotel room and

threw her onto the bed.

“Relax!” he said. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not going

to get you in trouble.”

Lucy glared at him.

“You should be more careful, you know. Ten trips with

an ice bucket in the middle of the night is bound to get

somebody’s attention. Particularly if their room is next to the

ice machine.”

“Mark was starting to smell.”

“Yeah, I noticed. But a few cubes of ice isn’t going to fix it.

You here by yourself ?”

She nodded.

“He didn’t try to rape you, did he?”

She just watched him, said nothing.

“That’s a nice piece of work in there,” he said. “That man

must be double your weight, at least. How’d you pull it off ?”

“I want you to leave.”

“Why?”

“Go!”

“Lucy, please. I know you don’t know me, but you can

trust me.”

She stuck her chin out and fought back the tremor in her

bottom lip.

“How’d you overpower that man?” he asked again.

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“Straight razor.” She said it proudly.

“He flailed around a bunch, didn’t he?”

Lucy couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah. It was funny. But

loud and messy, too.”

The man eased down onto the edge of the bed. “Why’d

you kill him?”

“They wouldn’t give me a room. I drove six hundred miles

to come to this conference, and then they wouldn’t even give

me a room.”

“’Cause of your age.”

“Yeah.”

“You ever done anything like this before, Lucy?”

She shook her head. “But I thought about it a lot.”

“Wait. This was your first time?” She nodded. The man

got a big grin on his face. “Well, how was it for you?”

“Amazing.”

“Yeah?”

“The blood was beautiful. So warm. I took my clothes off

and rolled around in it.”

The man’s eyes sparkled. “I remember mine like it was

yesterday. I’d give anything to go back and do it again for the

first time.” He reached his hand out. “I’m Orson.”

She shook it.

He looked around the room. “So our friend in the shower.

Who is he?”

“A writer.”

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“Oh, shit. What’s his name?”

“Mark Darling.”

“Never heard of him.”

She pointed to the box of books. “Those are his books over

there.”

Orson went over to the box and lifted a book, flipped

through it, glanced at the back. “This is his first novel. That’s

good.”

“Why?”

“No one here probably knows who he is, so he won’t be

missed. Come on, where’s your stuff ?”

“Over there. Why?”

“Pack it up. You’re coming with me.”

“No.”

“You can’t stay in here, Lucy.”

“I’m not leaving with you.”

“Listen. Did you have fun cutting Mark’s throat, rolling

around in his blood?”

“Yeah.”

“You want to have the opportunity to do it again?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you better listen to me. If you get caught in this

hotel room with that dead man, they’re going to lock you

up.”

“But I’m not even eighteen.”

Orson walked over to the side of the bed and sat down

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next to Lucy. “Look at me.” She stared up at him. “I’ve been

doing this a lot longer than you. If you were smart, you’d do

what I say, maybe even learn a little something.”

“How many people have you killed?”

“Enough to know we need to get out of this room right

now.”

She followed Orson down the hallway to the first room

past the ice machine.

“It’s a two-room suite,” he said as he opened the door and

let her in. “My friend’s next door sleeping, so let’s not disturb

him. I think this sofa folds out into a bed.”

She dropped her guitar case on the floor and helped

Orson unfold the sofa sleeper. Orson swiped a blanket from

his bed and tossed it to Lucy.

“Now I have to be honest,” he said. “I’m a little worried

you might want to cut my throat while I’m sleeping.”

“I won’t,” she said.

“Why don’t you give me your straight razor just to be on

the safe side.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“I don’t know you, Lucy.”

She lay awake for a long time thinking how tomorrow

was the last day of the conference, and in some ways, the first

day of the rest of her life. She wasn’t going home. She knew

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that. After Darling, how could she go back to geometry and

biology and being a teenage girl in a suburban home? She

could feel this stunning blackness flooding into her. It was

filling her up so fast she could barely sleep, barely keep her

eyes closed. She needed to see more blood. And soon.

She never slept. When the light began to push through

the curtains, she sat up on the sofa and looked over at Orson

on the bed, watching the man’s chest rise and fall, thinking

how he’d been smart to take the razor from her. Nothing

would’ve made her happier than to slide the blade across his

neck, maybe even taste his blood, let it run down her throat.

She should’ve tasted Darling’s. She imagined it would be so

rich and even better than the wine her mother sometimes let

her sip. Oh, well. Next time.

She rode down in the elevator with Orson and his friend,

Luther, a tall, pale-faced man with long, black hair who was

seriously creeping her out. He kept watching her with his

big black eyes that held such an intensity she wasn’t sure

she ever wanted to see them alone.

They ate breakfast downstairs, the three of them sitting

at a table in a corner, and the fourth time she caught him

staring at her, Lucy couldn’t help herself.

“Take a picture, dude. It’ll last longer.”

Orson looked up from his bacon and eggs. “What’s wrong?”

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“Why does your friend keep staring at me like that? It’s

weird.”

Orson grinned and glanced at Luther, then back at Lucy.

He leaned toward her and whispered. “He wants to kill you,

Lucy.”

She felt a coldness spill inside her gut.

“Why?”

“It’s what he does. He can’t help himself. He’s sitting there

imagining draining you in our bathtub. But don’t worry. I’ve

told him you’re off-limits. Told him you might even be one

of us.”

She glared at Luther. “You don’t scare me.”

He said. “You look like you’re scared, little girl.”

“Oh, you can read my thoughts? Well, if you could, you’d

know I’m thinking how pretty your dark blood would look

running out of your snow-white neck.”

Orson laughed out loud. “Isn’t she great?”

Lucy hadn’t averted her eyes from Luther, soaking in the

psychotic malevolence.

“All right, listen,” Orson said. “I think we’re all a little

hard-up for some fun. I had an idea while I was falling asleep

last night. Darling’s room is already a wreck. Why don’t we

all, together, find someone to take there this afternoon?”

Lucy’s eyes lit up. “Really?”

“Yeah, we’ll go right after Andrew Thomas’s speech.”

Orson smiled. “I wouldn’t want to miss that.” He looked at

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Luther. “What do you think? You brought your toolbox,

right?”

Luther smiled, and it was the scariest thing Lucy had ever

seen.

For some reason, Orson didn’t want to sit on the front row

for Andrew Thomas’s speech, so Lucy sat by herself, her heart

pumping as the man walked up onto the stage.

She stood with the rest of the crowd and applauded the

guest of honor, then sat with rapt attention as Andrew read

an excerpt from a work in progress, one of the most gruesome and awesome things Lucy had ever heard.

The book was called The Passenger, a horror novel about

an unnamed, psychopathic hitchhiker who travels around

the country getting free rides from people, then robbing and

killing them most horribly. In the section Andrew read, the

Passenger ties a man to the back of his own car and drags him

down the highway for five miles.

The signing line stretched all the way around the

bookroom. The eight books in Lucy’s arms were heavy, and

by the time she got close to the table, her muscles were

beginning to cramp.

She couldn’t take her eyes off of Andrew as he signed

books and made small talk with the fans. When it was finally

her turn, she set her stack of books on the table and smiled

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and reached out her hand.

“Mr. Thomas, I am your biggest fan. I’ve read everything

you ever wrote. I’m Lucy. I love what you read today. Will you

sign my books?”

He shook her hand and smiled. “Of course.”

“Um, I’m sorry, Mr. Thomas can only sign three books.”

Lucy looked at the woman standing behind the writer, a large

woman in a horrific dress who looked like a librarian.

“But I want all of them signed.”

The woman pursed her lips. “If everyone brought eight

books, we’d be here until Christmas.”

“But everyone didn’t bring eight books. Most only brought

one.”

“Pick three. You’re holding up the line.”

Lucy glanced down at Andrew, flashed her puppy dog

eyes.

“Margie, I think it’s okay to make one exception,” he said,

grabbing the top book on Lucy’s pile and opening it to the

cover page. As he looked down to sign, Lucy stuck her tongue

out at Margie.

“So are you in high school, Lucy?” he asked as he went

through the books.

“I’m in 10th grade.”

“Excellent. I think you might be the youngest person

here.”

“When is The Passenger coming out?” she asked.

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“Probably next year.”

“I can’t wait to read it.” As he signed the last book, she

said, “Look, would you maybe like to get a cup of coffee after

this? I’d just love to talk with you a little more.”

He smiled and pushed her stack of books toward her. “I’d

love to Lucy, but I’m actually flying back to North Carolina in

about two hours.”

“Oh.”

“It was great to meet you.”

Lucy lifted her stack of books and headed out of the book

room. She might have cried if she didn’t have something else

to look forward to.

“What about her?” Lucy said.

“No, I know who that is,” Orson said. “She’s a pretty wellknown cozy writer. She’d never go for it.”

Lucy was sitting between Orson and Luther on a sofa at the

edge of the hotel bar, the conference booklet open across her

lap. Every writer in attendance was pictured in the booklet,

along with a brief bio. It made the hunting so much easier.

“I see a possibility,” Luther said.

“Where?”

“Guy standing alone at the corner of the bar, looking

around, talking to nobody.”

“Gotcha. Can you read his nametag?”

“No. Too far.” Luther stood up and pushed his way through

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the crowd, passing within several feet of the mark. He circled

back around and sat down on the couch again, said, “Richard

Bryson.”

Lucy flipped through the booklet and found the man’s

picture and bio. She read it aloud: “Richard Bryson is not only

the author of Against the Law, a thriller about a corrupt police

force, but the publisher as well. He is currently working on

a new book.”

“Perfect,” Orson said. “Luther, head on up. We’ll be there

in ten.”

Orson sat with Lucy after Luther had left, watching

Bryson drink his beer alone.

“All right, Lucy, tell me how you’d get this man we’ve

never met up to our hotel room.”

“Um, I’d tell him we have a party going on and invite him

to come.”

“Okay. If some person you’d never met invited you up to

their hotel room, would you go?”

“I don’t know.”

“The answer is no. You wouldn’t. Listen, look at me.

You’re small and young, you have no physical strength, so if

you want to do this, over and over and over again, without

getting caught or killed, you have to be smart.”

She rolled her eyes. He was sounding a little like her

mother.

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“Oh, am I boring you? Get the fuck out of here then, you

little brat.”

“You’re not. I’m sorry.”

“I’m trying to help you. So tell me. How would you get

Bryson up to our hotel room?”

“I don’t know.”

“You ready to learn something?”

“Yes.”

“Vanity. Know what that is?”

She nodded. “When you’re in love with yourself.”

“Exactly. We’re all in love with ourselves. It’s our weakness.

Our main failing. If you can play on that, if you can appeal to

someone’s vanity without them knowing you’re doing it, you

can get them to do anything you want.”

“I don’t understand.”

Orson stood up. “Follow me. Keep your mouth shut. And

watch and learn.”

She followed Orson through the throng of people, stood

behind him as he leaned his elbows on the bar and waited for

the bartender to notice him.

After a minute, Orson began to look around, and when

his eyes fell upon Richard Bryson standing right beside him,

Lucy saw a huge smile break across Orson’s face.

He said, “Oh my God, you’re Richard Bryson!”

As the man glanced over at Orson, Lucy got her first

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decent look at him. He seemed old as shit to her, at least fifty.

His coarse blond hair was long and wavy and on the verge

of turning gray, and he had what she thought was a gross

mustache.

The man gave a skeptical smile that belied insecurity and

said, “Um, yeah, who are you?”

“Well, for starters, I’m a huge fan of Against the Law. I

thought it was the best book I’ve read this year.”

“Oh, well thank you. You know, I just made it available

as an ebook.”

“A what?”

“An electronic book. I put it up on my website as a free

download.”

“Oh, neat.”

Oh stupid, Lucy thought. Like people would ever want to read

books on an electronic screen.

“Ebooks are going to be the future of publishing. I’m sure

of it.”

“Are you working on a new book?” Orson asked.

“Yeah, I am actually.” Orson was right. Lucy saw Bryson

beginning to come alive as he talked about himself.

“Can you tell me anything about it?” Orson asked.

“Well, it’s a sequel to Against the Law. ”

“Oh, fantastic.”

“You know how Rodriguez died at the end?”

“Yeah, sure. That was so heartbreaking.”

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“Well, he’s not really dead.”

“No kidding?”

“And he’s back and pissed off and looking for revenge.”

“I can’t wait to read it. Look, Mr. Bryson—”

“Please, Richard.”

“Richard, my name’s Vincent Carmichael, and I’m a

freelance reviewer. I do stuff for Kirkus, Booklist, Publishers

Weekly. I would love to do an interview with you and pitch it

to PW or Kirkus. I think they’d be all over it.”

“That’d be great.”

“Do you have some time right now?”

“Um, sure.”

“What do you say we go up to my room? My recorder is

up there and we can see what happens. By the way, this is my

niece, Michelle.”

“Hi, Michelle.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Bryson,” Lucy said.

Bryson pulled out his wallet. “Let me just pay for my

beer.”

“Get out of here.” Orson pulled a five dollar bill from his

pocket and tossed it on the bar. “It is so good to finally meet

you, Rich.”

He patted the man on the shoulder and pulled him away

from the bar.

As they rode up in the elevator, Lucy marveled at the

persona Orson had adopted: an attentive, personable book

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reviewer who was utterly fascinated with the life and work

of Richard Bryson. She didn’t know how he controlled himself, because as the doors opened and they walked off the car

onto the fourteenth floor, her body was beginning to buzz

with anticipation.

At last, they reached the door to 1428, and Lucy pulled the

keycard out of her pocket, her hands trembling.

She swiped the card as Bryson said, “You should ask me

about my publishing company, too. I hate the big New York

publishers, so I’ve decided to…” He stopped talking as Lucy

pushed the door open, and she knew exactly why. A subdued

but foul odor seeped out of the room into the hallway.

“After you, Rich,” Orson said. He was glancing up and

down the hallway, which for the moment, was empty.

Bryson hesitantly entered the hotel room and Lucy and

Orson followed after him. Lucy heard the subtle click of

Orson locking the door.

“My goodness,” Bryson said. “Smells like something died

in here.”

“You can smell that?” Orson said. They had all passed the

closed bathroom door and now stood in the dark bedroom.

“It must be that sandwich half I threw away last night. It

sure went bad quickly.”

Bryson took off his sports jacket. “Do you mind if I use

your restroom before we get started? That beer is moving

right through me.”

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“Of course. Right through that door.”

Lucy stood next to Orson, watching Bryson disappear

into the bathroom.

“Where’s Luther?” she asked.

“About to have some Luther fun.”

She could see the light come on under the door, the

sounds of Bryson shuffling around inside.

“Orson?”

“Shhh,” he whispered. “Let’s just enjoy this moment

together.”

Bryson said, “Oh God!”

Something crashed to the floor, and through the door

came the sound of a desperate struggle, something banging

into cabinets and walls, and then the meaty thud of hard

punches.

Bryson went quiet, but there was still movement inside

the bathroom. After a minute, the door opened, and Luther

walked out smiling.

“Come see,” he said.

Lucy hurried over to the open door.

Bryson lay unconscious on the floor, hog-tied with zipties, and a ball-gag in his mouth.

“Nice work, Luther,” she said.

“You should’ve seen his face. He sat down on the toilet

to take a dump, and just as he was starting to notice all

the blood, I swept the shower curtain back and had Mark

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Darling waving to him. Good thing he was on the toilet, ’cause

he shit.”

“Can I have my straight razor back?” Lucy said.

Orson glanced down at her. “Of course. But you know we

aren’t just going to kill him right away.”

“Why not?”

He smiled. “Sweet, Lucy. So much to learn.”

Richard opened his eyes fifteen minutes later, naked and

shivering. The balls of his feet just barely touched the dead

man sprawled beneath him across the shower tile. His wrists

were stretched far above his head, the zip-tie between them

hanging from an anchor bolt that had been screwed into the

ceiling. A giant ball had been wedged into his mouth.

Orson sat across from him on the toilet. Lucy stood beside

him, and Luther sat on the surface of the sink.

“I just want to thank you again, Richard, for taking the

time out of your busy schedule to sit for this interview.” Orson

smiled and looked at Luther. “I think we should let Lucy go

first. Okay with you?”

“As long as we get to stay in here and watch. Lucy?”

“What?”

Luther patted a red Craftsman toolbox. “I know you have

a straight razor, but if you’d like to borrow anything in here,

you’re welcome to it.”

“Look at you,” Orson said. “Sharing.”

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Lucy saw Richard’s eyes bug out when Luther opened the

box. Hers did too. “What in the world?”

“I collect ancient surgical tools.”

She lifted out a long cylinder with six tiny blades at the

end. “What is this?”

“It’s called an artificial leech. It tears a superficial wound

in the skin and creates a vacuum to suck up the blood.”

“It looks fun.”

“Oh, it is.”

She set it on the countertop and pulled out another tool.

Richard’s bladder let loose.

“That’s in my top three,” Luther said. The metal of

the instrument was dark brown with rust and looked to be

several hundred years old. It had handles at the end, that

when pulled apart, made the other end open wide. “It’s called

a cervical dilator,” Luther said, “but it works beautifully on

gentlemen as well. It fell out of use, because it typically just

tore the insides apart, as you’ll see.”

She pulled out a strange-looking knife.

“For circumcisions.”

What looked like a pair of pliers, but instead of metal

grippers, had a needle at the end.

“That’s called a hernia tool. I know it looks cool, but it’s

kind of hard to use. Here, let me show you my favorite.”

Luther reached into the toolbox and withdrew a long metal

tool with a gently curving shaft. “This is called a lithotome.

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Shaft goes up the anus and then you squeeze the handle and

a blade comes out on a spring release.”

“What was it used for?”

“To cut the bladder to release kidney stones.”

“Oh, this looks wicked.” She pulled out a hollow metal

cylinder with circular blades at one end.”

“That’s a scarificator. Used for bloodletting.” He grabbed

another tool. “This is a tonsil guillotine.” And another. “This

is a trephine for skull drilling. Here’s a vaginal speculum, and

these are hemorrhoid forceps.”

The toolbox was empty now, a veritable horrowshow on

display on the bathroom sink.

“I dream of coming back as a Victorian doctor,” Luther

said.

Orson laughed.

“Decisions, decisions,” Lucy said, reaching for the

lithotome.

“It’s sad how he keep passing out,” Lucy said.

Luther was holding a bottle of smelling salts under

Bryson’s nose.

“Yeah, you’ve got to be careful,” Orson said. “The biggest

buzz-kill is when they lose too much blood. They just go into

shock and die, and that’s it. Superficial cuts are key.”

Richard jerked back into consciousness and started to

scream again through the ball-gag.

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“These aren’t ideal conditions,” Orson said. “Of course,

no matter what, we can’t take the ball-gag out of his mouth.

What I’m afraid is going to happen is he’s going to throw up

and choke to death.”

“I wish I could hear him scream.”

“Me, too. It adds so much more.”

Six hours later, they washed Luther’s surgical tools, left

the remains of Bryson hanging in the shower, and walked out

of 1428 for the last time.

It was almost nine o’clock and many of the conference

attendees had already left, the lobby much quieter now.

Orson bought Luther and Lucy dinner in the restaurant

downstairs, everyone happy for the moment, a quiet contentment settling over the meal.

“When do you guys leave?” Lucy asked.

“First thing tomorrow.”

“Can I come with you?”

“No.”

Lucy felt a lump swelling in her throat. “Don’t you like

me?”

“Of course,” Orson said. “But I can’t take you with me, I’m

sorry.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“That’s for you to figure out. Are you going home?”

“No. And my car’s booted. I only have a hundred and fifty

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dollars and my guitar case.”

Orson reached into his pocket, opened his wallet, pulled

out a roll of bills. “Here,” he said. “This should get you

started.”

Lucy thumbed through the money. Almost five hundred

dollars.

“Thank you,” she said, but the sadness was still there.

“How am I supposed to get anywhere? I don’t have a car.”

“You could hitchhike,” Luther said.

“That’s dangerous.”

“You’ll have to be careful,” Orson said. “Although, I have

a feeling, it’s the poor people who pick you up that we should

be more concerned for.”

Luther laughed. “You need to get your hands on some

painkillers. Oxycodone. Something hard-hitting that you

can drug people with. That’s the only way you’ll be able to

overpower someone bigger than yourself. And let’s face it.

Everyone’s bigger than you.”

“Seriously.” Orson reached across the table and touched

Lucy’s hand. “You have to be careful. You have to learn to

read people. One day, you’re going to meet someone out there

like me and Luther, only they may not be so hot to take

you under their wing. They might rather hang you up in a

shower.”

“I’ll be careful.”

“How?”

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“I won’t trust anybody.”

“Good.”

Lucy squeezed his hand. “Thank you, Orson,” she said.

“I’m glad I met you. You too, Luther.”

Luther smiled. It was still scary, but for the first time, he

didn’t look like he was thinking about killing her.

They walked Lucy through the lobby and out the

revolving doors of the hotel. Bellhops were stacking suitcases

on luggage carts and hailing cabs.

“You could stay one more night,” Orson said.

“Thanks, but I’m ready to go.” She wrapped her arms

around Orson and squeezed him. “I’ll never forget you.”

He knelt down in front of her. “You’re a special girl, Lucy.

You know what you are, and you’re not afraid of it, and I

admire that. I admire the hell out of it.”

She turned to Luther and shook his hand, then lifted her

guitar case and walked away from the hotel, out onto the

sidewalk into the night.

Lucy had walked ten blocks before the first pair of

headlights appeared in the distance.

She dropped her guitar case on the pavement, a small pit

of nerves tightening in her stomach.

The car was getting closer.

She could hear its engine, and for the first time in her life,

but certainly not the last, she stuck out her thumb.

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A minivan pulled over to the curb and the front passenger

window rolled down, a thirty-something woman smiling

under the dome light.

“You need a ride, sweetie?” she asked.

Lucy conjured up a smile. “If it’s not too much trouble.

It’s really cold out here.”

“I’ve got groceries in the front seat, but you’re welcome to

climb in the back.”

Lucy pulled open the side door and stepped into the

minivan, stowing her guitar case on the floor and sitting

down beside a car seat, where an infant slept.

The woman looked back between the seats at Lucy.

“Just try to keep it down, if you don’t mind,” she said

quietly. “As you can see, my little angel is sleeping.”

“No problem,” Lucy whispered, staring down at the baby,

thinking, No Luther, not everyone’s bigger than me.

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PART ThREE WISCoNSIN, 2007

1

Taylor liked toes.

He wasn’t a pervert. At least, not that kind of pervert.

Taylor didn’t derive sexual gratification from feet. Women

had other parts much better suited for that type of activity.

But he was a sucker for a tiny foot in open-toed high heels,

especially when the toenails were painted.

Painted toes were yummy.

The truck stop whore wore sandals, the cork wedge heels

so high her toes were bent. She had small feet—they looked

like a size five—and her nails matched her red mini skirt.

Taylor spotted her through the windshield as she walked over

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to his Peterbilt, wiggling her hips and wobbling a bit. Taylor

guessed she was drunk or stoned. Perhaps both.

He climbed out of his cab. When his cowboy boots

touched the pavement he reached his hands up over his head

and stretched, his vertebrae cracking. The night air was hot

and sticky with humidity, and he could smell his own sweat.

The whore blew smoke from the corner of her mouth.

“Hiya, stranger. My name’s Candi. With an i.”

“I’m Taylor. With a T.”

He smiled. She giggled, then hiccupped.

Even in the dim parking lot light, Candi with an i was

nothing to look at. Mid-thirties. Cellulite. Twenty pounds

too heavy for her skirt and halter top. She wore sloppy makeup, her lipstick smeared, making Taylor wonder how many

truckers she’d already blown on this midnight shift.

But she did have very cute toes. She dropped her cigarette

and crushed it into the pavement, and Taylor licked his lower

lip.

“Been on the road a long time, Taylor?”

“Twelve hours in from Cinci. My ass is flatter than roadkill

armadillo.”

She eyed his rig. He was hauling four bulldozers on his

flatbed trailer. They were heavy, and his mileage hadn’t been

good, making this run much less profitable than it should

have been.

But Taylor didn’t become a trucker to get rich. He did it

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for other reasons.

“You feeling lonely, Taylor? You looking for a little

company?”

Taylor knew he could use a little company right now. He

could also use a meal, a hot shower, and eight hours of sleep.

It was just a question of which need he’d cater to first.

He looked around the truck stop lot. Pretty full for late

night in Bumblefuck, Wisconsin. Over a dozen rigs and just

as many cars. The 24 hour gas station had a line for the

pumps, and Murray’s Eats, the all-night diner, appeared full.

On either side of the cloverleaf there were a few other

restaurants and gas stations, but Murray’s was always busy

because they boasted more than food and diesel. Besides

the no-hassle companionship the management and local

authorities tolerated, Murray’s had a full-size truck wash, a

mechanic on duty, and free showers.

After twelve hours of caffeine sweating in this muggy

Midwestern August, Taylor needed some quality time with

a bar of soap just as badly as he needed quality time with

a parking lot hooker.

But it didn’t make sense to shower first, when he was only

going to get messy again.

“How much?” he asked.

“That depends on—”

“Half and half,” he cut her off, not needing to hear the

daily menu specials.

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“Twenty-five bucks.”

She didn’t look worth twenty-five bucks, but he wasn’t

planning on paying her anyway, so he agreed.

“Great, sugar. I just need to make a quick stop at the little

girls’ room and I’ll be right back.”

She spun on her wedges to leave, but Taylor caught her

thin wrist. He knew she wasn’t going to the washroom.

She was going to her pimp to give him the four Ps: Price,

preferences, plate number, parking location. Taylor didn’t

see any single men hanging around; only other whores, and

none of them were paying attention. Her pimp was probably

in the restaurant, unaware of this particular transaction, and

Taylor wanted to keep it that way.

“I’m sorta anxious to get right to it, Candi.” He smiled

wide. Women loved his smile. He’d been told, many times,

that he was good-looking enough to model. “If you leave me

now, I might just find some other pretty girl to spend my

money on.”

Candi smiled back. “Well, we wouldn’t want that. But I’m

short on protection right now, honey.”

“I’ve got rubbers in the cab.” Taylor switched to his

brooding, hurt-puppy dog look. “I need it bad, right now,

Candi. So bad I’ll throw in another ten spot. That’s thirtyfive bucks for something we both know will only take a few

minutes.”

Taylor watched Candi work it out in her head. This

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john was hot to trot, offering more than the going rate, and

he’d probably be really quick. Plus, he was cute. She could

probably do him fast, and pocket the whole fee without

having to share it with her pimp.

“You got yourself a date, sugar.”

Taylor took another quick look around the lot, made

sure no one was watching, and hustled Candi into his cab,

climbing up behind her and locking the door.

The truck’s windows were lightly tinted—making it

difficult for anyone on the street to see inside. Not that Candi

bothered to notice, or care. As soon as Taylor faced her she

was pawing at his fly.

“The bedroom is upstairs.” Taylor pointed to the

stepladder in the rear of the extended cab, leading to his

overhead sleeping compartment.

“Is there enough room up there? Some of those spaces are

tight.”

“Plenty. I customized it myself. It’s to die for.”

Taylor smiled, knowing he was being coy, knowing it

didn’t matter at this point. His heart rate was up, his palms

itchy, and he had that excited/sick feeling that junkies got

right before they jabbed the needle in. If Candi suddenly

had a change of heart, there wasn’t anything she could

do about it. She was past the point of no return.

But Candi didn’t resist. She went up first, pushing the

trap door on the cab’s ceiling, climbing into the darkness

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above. Taylor hit the light switch on his dashboard and

followed her.

“What is this? Padding?”

She was on her hands and knees, running her palm across

the floor of the sleeper, testing its springiness with her

fingers.

“Judo mats. Extra thick. Very easy to clean up.”

“You got mats on the walls too?” She got on her knees

and reached overhead, touching the spongy material on the

arced ceiling, her exposed belly jiggling.

“Those are baffles. Keeps the sound out.” He smiled,

closing the trap door behind him. “And in.”

The lighting was subdued, just a simple overhead fixture

next to the smoke alarm. The soundproofing was black

foam, the mats a deep beige, and there was no furniture in

the enclosure except for an inflatable rubber mattress and a

medium-sized metal trunk.

“This is kind of kinky. Are you kinky, Taylor?”

“You might say that.”

Taylor crawled over to the trunk at the far end of the

enclosure. After dialing the combination lock, he opened

the lid. Then he moved his Tupperware container aside and

took out a fresh roll of paper towels, a disposable paper nose

and mouth mask, and an aerosol spray can. He ripped off

three paper towels, then slipped the mask on over his face,

adjusting the rubber band so it didn’t catch in his hair.

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“What is that, sugar?” Candi asked. Her flirty, playful

demeanor was slipping a bit.

“Starter fluid. You squirt it into your carburetor, it helps

the engine turn over. Its main ingredient is diethyl ether.”

He held the paper towels at arm’s length, then sprayed

them until they were soaked.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Candi looked panicked

now. And she had good reason to be.

“This will knock you out so I can tie you up. You’re not

the prettiest flower in the bouquet, Candi with an i. But you

have the cutest little toes.”

He grinned again. But this wasn’t one of his attractive

grins. The whore shrunk away from him.

“Don’t hurt me, man! Please! I got kids!”

“They must be so proud.”

Taylor approached her, on his knees, savoring her fear.

She tried to crawl to the right and get around him, get to the

trap door. But that was closed and now concealed by matting,

and Taylor knew she had no idea where it was.

He watched her realize escape wasn’t an option, and

then she dug into her little purse for a weapon or a cell

phone or a bribe or something else that she thought might

help but wouldn’t. Taylor hit her square in the nose, then

tossed the purse aside. A small canister of pepper spray

spilled out, along with a cell phone, make-up, Tic-Tacs, and

several condoms.

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“You lied to me,” Taylor said, slapping her again. “You’ve

got rubbers.”

“Please…”

“You lying little slut. Were you going to pepper spray

me?”

“No… I…”

“Liar.” Another slap. “I think you need to be taught a

lesson. And I don’t think you’ll like it. But I will.”

Candi’s hands covered her bleeding nose and she moaned

something that sounded like, “Please… My kids…”

“Does your pimp offer life insurance?”

She whimpered.

“No? That’s a shame. Well, I’m sure he’ll take care of your

children for you. He’ll probably have them turning tricks by

next week.”

Taylor knocked her hands away and pressed the cold,

wet paper towels to her face. Not hard enough to cut off air,

but hard enough that she had to breathe through them. Even

though he wore a paper face mask, some of the pungent,

bitter odor got into Taylor’s nostrils, making his hairs curl.

It took the ether less than a minute to do its job on the

whore. When she finally went limp, Taylor placed the damp

towels in a plastic zip-top bag. Then he took several bungee

cords out of the trunk and bound Candi’s hands and arms

to her torso. Unlike rope, the elastic bands didn’t require

knots, and were reusable. Taylor wrapped them around Candi

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tight enough for her to lose circulation, but that didn’t matter.

Candi wouldn’t be needing circulation for very much

longer.

While the majority of his murder kit was readily available

at any truck stop, his last piece of equipment was specially

made.

It looked like a large board with two four-inch wide holes

cut in the middle. Taylor flipped the catch on the side and

it opened up on hinges, like one of those old-fashion jail

stocks that prisoners stuck their heads and hands into.

Except this one was made for something else.

Taylor grabbed Candi’s left foot and gingerly removed her

wedge. Then he placed her ankle in the half-circle cut into the

wood. He repeated the action with her right foot, and closed

the stock.

Now Candi’s bare feet protruded through the boards,

effectively trapped.

He locked the catch with a padlock, and then set the stock

in between the floor mats, where it fit snuggly into a brace,

secured by two more padlocks.

Play time.

Taylor lay on his stomach, taking Candi’s right foot in

his hands. He cupped her heel, running a finger up along her

sole, bringing his lips up to her toes.

He licked them once, tasting sweat, grime, smelling a

slight foot odor and a faint residue of nail polish. His pulse

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went up even higher, and time seemed to slow down.

Her little toe came off surprisingly easy, no harder than

nibbling the cartilage top off a fried chicken leg.

Taylor watched the blood seep out as he chewed on the

severed digit—a blood and gristle-flavored piece of gum—

and then swallowed.

This little piggy went to market.

He opened up his mouth to accommodate the second

little piggy, the one who stayed home, when he realized

something was missing.

Where was the screaming? Where was the begging?

Where was the thrashing around in agony?

He crawled around the stock, alongside Candi’s head.

Ether was a pain in the ass to get the dose right, and he’d

lost more than one girl by giving her too big a whiff. Luckily,

Candi was still breathing. But she was too deeply sedated to

let some playful toe-munching wake her up.

Taylor frowned. Like sex, murder was best with two active

participants. He gathered up the whore’s belongings, then

rolled away from her, over to the trap door.

He’d get a bite to eat, maybe enjoy one of Murray’s famous

free showers. Hopefully, when he got back, Sleeping Homely

would be awake.

Taylor used one of the ether-soaked paper towels to wipe

the blood off his chin and fingers, stuffed them back into the

bag, then headed for the diner.

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2

“Where are you?”

“I have no idea.” My cell was tucked between my shoulder

and my ear as I drove. “I think I’m still in Wisconsin. Wouldn’t

there be some kind of sign if I entered another state?”

“Don’t you have the map I gave you?” Latham asked. “The

directions?”

“Yeah. But they aren’t helping.”

“Are you looking at the map right now?”

“Yes.”

The map might have done me some good if I’d been able to

see what was on it. But the highway was dark, and the interior

light in my 1989 Nova had burned out last month.

“You can’t see it, can you?”

“Define see.”

I heard my fiancée sigh. “I just bought you a replacement

bulb for that overhead lamp. I saw you put it in your purse.

It’s still in your purse, isn’t it?”

“Maybe.”

“And you can’t replace the bulb now, because it’s too

dark.”

“That’s a good deduction. You should become a cop.”

“One cop in this relationship is enough. Why didn’t you

take my GPS when I insisted?”

“Because I didn’t want you to get lost.”

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A billboard was coming up on my right. MURRAY’S -

NEXT EXIT. That was nice to know, but I had no idea what

Murray’s was, or how far the exit was. Not a very effective

advertisement.

“My interior light works, Jackie. I could have used

Mapquest.”

“Mapquest lies. And don’t call me Jackie. You know I hate

it when people call me Jackie.”

“And I hate it when you say you’d be here three hours ago,

and you’re still not here. You could have left at a reasonable

hour, Jack.”

He had a point. This was my first real vacation—and

by that I mean one that involved actually travelling somewhere—in a few years. Latham had rented a cabin on Rice

Lake, and he had driven there yesterday from Chicago to

meet the rental owners and get the keys. I was supposed to

go with him, and we’d been planning this for weeks, but

the murder trial I’d been testifying at had gone longer

than expected, and since I was the arresting officer I needed

to be there. As much as I loved Latham, and as much as

I needed some time away from work, my duty to put

criminals away ranked slightly higher.

“Your told-you-so tone isn’t going to get you laid later,”

I said. “Just help me figure out where I am.”

Another sigh. I shrugged it off. My long-suffering

boyfriend had suffered a lot worse than this in order to be

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with me. I figured he had to be incredibly desperate, or a

closet masochist. Either way, he was a cutie, and I loved him.

“Do you see the mile markers alongside the road?”

I didn’t see any such thing. The highway was dark, and

I hadn’t noticed any signs, off-ramps, exits, or mile markers

since I’d left Illinois. But I hadn’t exactly been paying much

attention, either. I was pretty damn tired, and had been

zoning out to AM radio for the last hour. FM didn’t work.

Sometimes I wish someone would shoot my car, put it out of

my misery.

“No. There’s nothing out here, Latham. Except Murray’s. ”

“What’s Murray’s?”

“I have no idea. I just saw the sign. Could be a gas station.

Could be a waterpark.”

“I don’t remember passing anything called Murray’s. Did

the sign have the exit number?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

I made a face. “The defense attorney never asked me if

I was sure. The defense attorney took me at my word.”

“He should have also made you take my GPS. You see those

posts alongside the road with the reflectors on them?”

“Yeah.”

“Keep watching them.”

“Why should—” The next reflector had a number on top.

“Oh. Okay, I’m at mile marker 231.”

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“I don’t have Internet access here at the cabin. I’ll call you

back when I find out where you are. You’re okay, right? Not

going to fall asleep while driving?”

I yawned. “I’m fine, hon. Just a little hungry.”

“Stop for something if it will keep you awake.”

“Sure. I’ll just pull over and grab the nearest cow.”

“If you do, bring me a tenderloin.”

“Really? Is your appetite back?” Latham was still

recovering from a bad case of food poisoning.

“It’s getting there.”

“Aren’t you tired? You should rest, honey.”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. I’ll call soon with your location.”

My human GPS unit hung up. I yawned again, and gave

my head a little shake.

On the plus side, my testimony had gone well, and all

signs pointed to a conviction.

On the minus side, I’d been driving for six straight hours,

and I was hungry, tired, and needed to pee. I also needed gas,

according to my gauge.

Maybe Murray could take care of all my needs. Assuming

I could find Murray’s before falling asleep, running out of

fuel, starving to death, and wetting my pants.

The road stretched onward into the never-ending

darkness. I hadn’t seen another car in a while. Even though

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this was a major highway (as far as I knew), traffic was pretty

light. Who would have thought that Northern Wisconsin at

two in the morning on a Wednesday night was so deserted?

I heard my cell phone ring. My hero, to the rescue.

“You’re not on I-94,” he said. “You’re on 39.”

“You sound annoyed.”

“You went the wrong way when the Interstate split.”

“Which means?”

“You drove three hours out of the way.”

Shit.

I yawned. “So where do I go to get to you?”

“You need some sleep, Jack. You can get here in the

morning.”

“Three hours is nothing. I can be there in time for an

early breakfast.”

“You sound exhausted.”

“I’ll be fine. Lemme just close my eyes for a second.”

“That’s not even funny.”

I smiled. The poor sap really did care about me.

“I love you, Latham.”

“I love you, too. That’s why I want you to find a room

somewhere and get some rest.”

“Just tell me how to get to you. I don’t want to sleep alone

in some cheap hotel with threadbare sheets and a mattress

with questionable stains. I want to sleep next to you in that

cabin with the big stone fireplace. But first I want to rip off

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those cute boxer-briefs you wear and… hello? Latham?”

I squinted at my cell. No signal.

Welcome to Wisconsin.

I yawned again. Another billboard appeared.

MURRAY’S FAMOUS TRUCK STOP. FOOD. DIESEL.

LODGING. TRUCK WASH. SHOWERS. MECHANIC ON

DUTY. TEN MILES.

Ten miles? I could make ten miles. And maybe some food

and coffee would wake me up.

I pressed the accelerator, taking the Nova up to eighty.

Murray’s here I come.

3

Taylor paused at the diner entrance, taking everything

in. The restaurant was busy, the tables all full. He spotted

three waitresses, plus two cooks in the kitchen. Seated were

various truckers, two with hooker companions. Taylor knew

the owners encouraged it, and wondered what kind of cut

they got.

He saw what must have been Candi’s pimp, holding

court at a corner table. Rattleskin cowboy boots, a gold

belt buckle in the shape of Wisconsin, fake bling on

his baseball cap. He was having a serious discussion

with one of his whores. The rest of the tables were

occupied by truckers. Taylor didn’t see any cops; a pimp

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in plain sight meant they were being paid off.

The place smelled terrific, like bacon gravy and apple

pie. Taylor’s stomach grumbled. He located the emergency

exit in the northeast corner, and knew there was also a back

door that led into the kitchen; Taylor had walked the perimeter of the building before entering.

With no tables available, he approached the counter and

took a seat there, between the storefront window and a pudgy,

older guy nursing a cup of coffee. It was a good spot. He could

see his rig, and also see anyone approaching it or him.

Taylor hadn’t been to Murray’s in over a year, but the

printed card sticking in the laminated menu said their

specialty was meatloaf.

“Meatloaf is good,” the old guy leaned over and said.

“I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

“You were looking at the card. Thought I’d be helpful.”

He examined the man, a grandfatherly type with

thinning gray hair and red cheeks. Taylor wasn’t in the best

of moods—one toe was barely an appetizer for him—and

he was ready to tell Grandpa off. But starting a scene meant

being remembered, and that wasn’t wise.

“Thank you,” Taylor managed.

“You’re welcome.”

A waitress came by, wearing ugly scuffed-up gym shoes.

Taylor ordered coffee and the meatloaf. The coffee was strong,

bitter. Taylor added two sugars.

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“Showers are good here too,” his fat companion said.

Taylor gave him another look.

Is this guy trying to pick me up?

The man sipped his coffee and didn’t meet Taylor’s stare.

“Look, buddy. I just want to eat in peace. No offense. I’ve

been on the road for a long time.”

“No offense taken,” the fat man said. He finished his

coffee, then signaled the waitress for a refill. “Just telling you

the showers are good. Be sure to get some quarters. They’ve

got a machine, sells soap. Useful for washing off blood.”

All of Taylor’s senses went on high alert, and he felt

himself flush. This guy didn’t look like a cop—Taylor

could usually spot cops. He wore baggy jeans, a plaid

shirt, a Timex. On the counter next to his empty cup was a

baseball cap without any logo. A few days’ worth of beard

graced his double chin.

No, he wasn’t law. And he wasn’t cruising him, either.

So what the hell does he want?

“What do you mean?” Taylor asked, keeping his tone

neutral.

“Drop of blood on your shirt. Another spot on your collar.

Some under your fingernails as well. You wiped them with

ether, but it didn’t completely dissolve. Did you know that

ether was first used as a surgical anesthetic back in 1842?

Before that, taking a knife to a person meant screaming and

thrashing around.” The man held a beefy hand to his mouth

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and belched. “‘Course, some people might like the screaming

and thrashing around part.”

Taylor bunched his fists, then forced himself to relax.

Had this guy seen him somehow? Did he know about Candi

in the sleeper?

No. He couldn’t have. Tinted windows on his cab. No

windows at all in the sleeping compartment.

He took a casual glance around, trying to spot anyone

else watching. No one seemed to be paying either of them

any attention.

Taylor dropped his hand, slowly reaching for the folding

knife clipped to his belt. He considered sliding it between

this guy’s ribs right there and getting the hell out. But first

Taylor needed to know what Grandpa knew. Maybe he could

lead him to the bathroom, get him into a stall…

Taylor froze. His knife was missing.

“Take it easy, my friend,” said the old, fat man. “I’ll give

you your knife back when we’re through.”

Taylor wasn’t sure what to say, but he believed everyone

had an angle. This guy knew more than he should have. But

what was he going to do with his information?

“Who are you?” Taylor asked.

“Name’s Donaldson. And you probably meant to ask

What are you? You’ve probably figured out I’m not a cop, not

a Fed. Thanks, Donna.” He nodded at the waitress as she

refilled his coffee. “Actually, I’m just a fellow traveler. Enjoy88

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ing the country. The sites. The people. ” Donaldson winked at

him. “Same as you are.”

“Same as me, huh?”

Donaldson nodded. “A bit older and wiser, perhaps.

At least wise enough to not use that awful ether anymore.

Where do you even get that these days? I thought ether and

chloroform were controlled substances.”

“Starter fluid,” Taylor said. This conversation was getting

surreal.

“Clever.”

“So what is it exactly you do, Donaldson?”

“For work? Or do you mean with the people I encounter?

I’m a courier, that’s my job. I travel all around, delivering

things to people who need them faster than overnight. As

for the other—well, that’s sort of personal, don’t you think?

We just met, and you want me to reveal intimate details of

my antisocial activities? Shouldn’t we work up to that?”

So far, Donaldson had been the embodiment of calm. He

didn’t seem threatening in the least. They might have been

talking about sports.

“And you spotted me because of the blood and the ether

smell?”

“Initially. But the give-away was the look in your eyes.”

“And what sort of look do my eyes have, Donaldson?”

“This one.” Donaldson turned and looked at Taylor. “The

eyes of a predator. No pity. No remorse. No humanity.”

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Taylor stared hard, then grinned. “I don’t see anything

but regular old eyes.”

Donaldson held the intense gaze a moment longer, then

chuckled. “Okay. You caught me. The eyes don’t tell anything.

But I caught you casing the place before you walked in.

Looking for cops, for trouble, for exits. A man that careful

should have noticed some spots of blood on his shirt.”

“Maybe I cut myself shaving.”

“And the ether smell?”

“Maybe the rig was giving me some trouble, so I cleaned

out the carburetor.”

“No grease or oil under your nails. Just dried blood.”

Taylor leaned in close, speaking just above a whisper.

“Give me one good reason I shouldn’t kill you,

Donaldson.”

“Other than the fact I have your knife? Because you

should consider this a golden opportunity, my friend. You

and I, we’re solitary creatures. We don’t ever talk about our

secret lives. We never share stories of our exploits with

anyone. I’ve been doing this for over thirty years, and I’ve

only met one other person like us. I’ve run across a few

wannabes. More than a few crazies. But never another hunter.

Like we are. Don’t you think this is a unique chance?”

The meatloaf came, steaming hot. But Taylor wasn’t

hungry anymore. He was intrigued. If Donaldson was what

he claimed to be, the fat man was one hundred percent

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correct. Taylor had never talked about his lifestyle with

anyone, other than his victims. And then, it was only to

terrify them even more.

Sometimes, Taylor had fantasies of getting caught. Not

because he harbored any guilt, and not because he wanted

to be locked up. But because it would be nice, just once, to

be open and honest about his habits with the whole world.

To let a fellow human being know how clever he’d been all

these years. Maybe have some shrink interview him and write

a bestselling book.

How interesting it would be to talk shop with someone as

exceptional as he was.

“So you want to swap stories? Trade tactics? Is that it,

Donaldson?”

“I can think of duller ways to kill some time at a truck

stop.”

Taylor cut the meatloaf with his fork, shoved some into

his mouth. It was good.

“Fine. You go first. You said you don’t like ether. So how

do you make your—” Taylor reached for the right words

“— guests compliant.”

“Blunt force trauma.”

“Using what?”

“Trade secret.”

“And what if you’re too… aggressive… with your use of

blunt force?”

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“An unfortunate side-effect. Just happened to me, in fact.

I recently picked up a tasty little morsel, but her lights went

out before I could have any fun with her.”

“Picked up? Hitcher?”

Donaldson sipped more coffee and grinned. “Didn’t you

know about the dangers of hitchhiking, son? Lots of psychos

out there.”

Taylor shoved more meatloaf into his mouth, and

followed it up with some mashed potatoes. “Hitchers might

be missed.”

“So could truck stop snatch.”

Taylor paused in mid-bite.

“Your fly is open. And I saw how you were measuring

the resident pimp.” Donaldson raised an eyebrow. “Have you

relieved him of one of his steady sources of income?”

Now it was Taylor’s turn to grin. “Not yet. She’ll be dessert

when I’m done with this meatloaf.”

“And once you’re finished with her?”

Taylor zipped up his fly. “I like rivers. Water takes care of

any trace evidence, and it’s tough for the law to pinpoint the

location where they were dumped in. You?”

“Gas and a match. First a nice spritz with bleach. Bleach

destroys DNA, you know.”

“I do. Got a few bottles in the truck.”

Taylor still couldn’t assess what sort of threat Donaldson

posed. But he had to admit, this was fun.

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“Who was your first?” Donaldson asked.

“Dad. Fucker had it coming.”

“How’d you do it?”

Taylor ate more potatoes. “Ran him over. He fucked up

one of my shocks, too. Bones caught up under the suspension,

did a real number on a tie rod end.”

The older man chuckled. “That’s not something you can

take to your local mechanic.”

“Hell, no. Fixed it myself. Took three car washes and a

rainstorm before that car stopped dripping blood. How about

you?”

Donaldson tipped his coffee cup. “Dad.”

“No shit?”

“I guess exceptional people like us think alike.”

Exceptional. Taylor liked that term.

“So how did dear old Dad meet his unfortunate end?”

“Baseball bat.”

“Never tried it. Fun?”

“Yeah. But too hard to clean. Even the aluminum models.

Not even bleach can get those stains out. And not east to

ditch in an emergency.”

Taylor finished up the last bite of meatloaf. It was good.

A loose grind, so you could taste all the little parts that went

into it. Taylor loved texture. Mouth-feel was even better than

taste.

“Had many emergencies?” he asked Donaldson.

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“A few close calls. Once I was even pulled in for a line up.

But no arrests. You?”

Taylor grinned. “I’m a law-abiding citizen. Worst thing

on my record is a speeding ticket.”

Donaldson slurped more coffee. “Never got a speeding

ticket. Was pulled over for a broken taillight once. Had a guest

in the trunk, and the little bitch kicked it out.”

“She was in there when the cop stopped you?”

“Indeed. And let me tell you, that will get your heart

pumping.”

Taylor had no doubt. “What’d you do?”

“I turned around, shot her three times through the back

seat, hoping it didn’t go through the trunk or that the cop

saw me. Then I cranked open the windows to get the

gunpowder smell out, pulled onto the shoulder, and hoped

he didn’t notice the bullet holes in my upholstery. He didn’t.

Let me off with a warning.”

“Would you have killed the pig or let him take you in?”

“I would have killed him,” Donaldson said. “I don’t like

pigs.”

“You and me both, brother.”

“So, here’s the ten-thousand dollar question,” Donaldson

asked. “How many are you up to?”

Taylor wiped some gravy off his mouth with a paper

napkin. “So that’s where we stand? Whipping out our dicks

and seeing whose is bigger?”

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“I’ve been at this a very long time.” Donaldson belched

again. “Probably since before you were born. I’ve a lot read

about others like us; I love those true crime audiobooks. They

help pass the time on long trips. I collect regular books, too.

Movies. Newspaper articles. If you’ve done the same research

I have, then you know none of our American peers can prove

more than forty-eight. That’s the key. Prove. Some boast high

numbers, but there isn’t proof to back it up.”

“So are you asking me how many I’ve done, or how many

I can prove?”

“Both.”

Taylor shrugged. “I lost count after forty-eight. Once

I had one in every state, it became less about quantity and

more about quality.”

“You’re lying,” Donaldson said. “You’re too young for

that many.”

“One in every state in the lower forty-eight, old man.”

“Can you prove it?”

“I kept driver’s licenses, those that had them. Probably

don’t have more than twenty, though. Not many whores carry

ID.”

“No pictures? Trophies? Souvenirs?”

Taylor wasn’t going to share something that personal

with a stranger. He pretended to sneer. “Taking a trophy is

like asking to get caught. I don’t plan on getting caught.”

“True. But it is nice to relive the moment. Traveling

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is lonely, and memories unfortunately fade. If it wasn’t so

dangerous, I’d love to videotape a few.”

That would be nice, Taylor thought, finishing the last bit of

meatloaf. But my trophy box will have to suffice.

“So how many are you up to, Grandpa?”

“A hundred twenty-seven.”

Taylor snorted. “Bullshit.”

“I agree with you about the danger of keeping souvenirs,

but I have Polaroids from a lot of my early ones.”

“Dangerous to carry those around with you.”

“I’ve got them well hidden.” Donaldson stared at him, his

eyes twinkling. “Would you be interested in seeing them?”

“What do you mean? One of those I’ll show you mine if you

show me yours deals? ”

“No. Well, not exactly. I’m not interested in seeing your

driver’s license collection. But I would be interested in paying

a little visit to your current guest.”

Taylor frowned. “I’m not big on sharing. Or sloppy

seconds.”

Donaldson slowly spread out his hands. “I understand.

It’s just that… you know how it is, when you get all worked

up, and then they quit on you.”

Taylor nodded. Having a victim die too soon felt like

having something precious stolen from him.

“You don’t seem like the shy type,” Donaldson continued.

“I thought, perhaps, you wouldn’t mind doing your thing

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when someone else was there to watch.”

Taylor smiled. “Aren’t you the dirty old man.”

Donaldson smiled back. “A dirty old man who doesn’t

have the same distaste of sloppy seconds as you apparently

have. I see no problem in going second. As long as there’s

something left for me to enjoy myself with.”

“I leave all the major parts intact.”

“Then perhaps we can come to some sort of

arrangement.”

“Perhaps we can.”

Donaldson’s smile suddenly slipped off his face. He’d

noticed the same thing Taylor had.

A cop had walked into the restaurant.

Woman, forties, well built, a gold star clipped to her hip.

But even without the badge, she had that swagger, had that

look, that Taylor had spent a lifetime learning to spot.

“Here comes trouble,” Donaldson said.

And, as luck would have it, trouble sat down right next

to them.

4

After filling my gas tank and emptying my bladder, I went

in search of food.

The diner was surprisingly full this late at night. Truckers

mostly. And though I hadn’t worked Vice in well over a decade,

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I was pretty sure the only women in the place were earning

their living illegally.

Not that I judged, or even cared. One of the reasons

I switched from Vice to Homicide was because I had no

problems with what consenting adults did to themselves or

each other. I’d done a few drugs in my day, and as a woman

I felt I should be able to do whatever I wanted with my

body. So the scene in the diner was nothing more to me

than local color. I just wanted some coffee and a hot meal,

which I believed would wake me up enough to get

me through the rest of my road trip and into the very

patient arms of my fiancée.

I expected at least one or two catcalls or wolf whistles

when I entered, but didn’t hear any. Sort of disappointing.

I was wearing what I wore to court, a brown Ann Klein

pantsuit, clingy in all the right places, and a pair of three

inch Kate Spade strappy sandals. The shoes were perhaps a

bit frivolous, but the jury couldn’t see my feet when I took

the stand. I left for Wisconsin directly from court, and

wore the shoes because Latham loved them. I had even

painted my toenails to celebrate our vacation.

Maybe the current diners were too preoccupied with

the hired help to know another woman had entered the

place. Or maybe it was me. Latham said I gave off a “cop

vibe” that people could sense, but he assured me I was still

sexy. Still, a Wisconsin truck stop at two in the morning

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filled with lonely, single men, and I didn’t even get a lecherous

glance. Maybe I needed to work-out more.

Then I realized I still had my badge clipped to my belt.

Duh.

I quickly scoped out the joint, finding the emergency exit,

counting the number of patrons and employees, identifying

potential trouble. An absurdly dressed man in expensive

boots and a diamond studded John Deere cap stared hard at

me. He gave me a look that said he hated cops, and I gave him

a look that said I hated his kind even more. While I tolerated

prostitutes, I loathed pimps. Someone taking the money you

earned just because they were bigger than you wasn’t fair.

But I didn’t come here to start trouble. I just wanted some

food and caffeine.

I walked the room slowly, feeling the cold stares, and

found counter space next to a portly man. I eased myself onto

the stool.

“Coffee, officer?”

I nodded at the waitress. She overturned my mug and

filled it up. I glanced at the menu, wondering if they had

cheese curds—those little fried nuggets of cheddar exclusive

to Wisconsin.

“The meatloaf is good.”

I glanced at the man on my left. Big and tall, maybe fifteen

years older than I was. He had a kind-looking face, but his

smile appeared forced.

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“Thanks,” I replied.

I sipped some coffee. Nice and strong. If I got two cups

and a burger in me, I’d be good to go. The waitress returned, I

ordered a cheeseburger with bacon, and a side of cheese curds.

“Never seen you here before.”

The voice, reeking of alpha male, came from behind me.

I could guess who it belonged to.

“Passing through,” I said, not bothering to turn around.

“Well, maybe you can hurry it along, little lady. Your kind

isn’t good for business.”

I carefully set down my mug of coffee, then slowly

swiveled around on my stool.

The pimp was sticking his chest out like he was being

fitted for a bra, a few stray curly hairs peeking through his

collar. One of his women, strung out on something, clung

unenthusiastically to his side. Her concealer didn’t quite

cover up her black eye.

“I’m off duty, and just stopped in for coffee and some

cheese curds, which I can’t get in Illinois. I suggest you

mind your own business. This isn’t my jurisdiction, but I’m

guessing the local authorities wouldn’t mind if I fed you

some of your teeth.”

The older fat guy next to me snorted. The pimp wasn’t so

amused.

“The local authorities,” he said it in a falsetto, obviously

trying to mimic me, “and I have an arrangement. That

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arrangement means no cops.” He gave me a rough shove

in the shoulder. “And I’m sure they wouldn’t mind if I fed

you—”

I drove the salt shaker into his upper jaw with my palm,

breaking both the glass and the teeth I’d promised. Besides

being hard and having weight, the shards and the salt did

a number on the pimp’s gums. Must have hurt like crazy.

He dropped to his knees, clutching his face and howling,

and three of his women dragged him out of there. I did a

slow pan across the room, looking for other challengers,

seeing none. Then I brushed my hand on my pants, wiping

off the excess salt, and went back to my coffee, trying to

control the adrenalin shakes. I hated violence of any kind,

but once he touched me, I didn’t have any other recourse.

I didn’t want to play footsie with the local cops he was

paying off, trying to get an assault charge to stick. Or worse,

wind up in the hospital because some asshole pimp thought

he could treat me the same way he treated the women

who worked for him.

Better to nip it in the bud and drop him fast. Though

I didn’t have to feel good about it.

I took a deep, steadying breath, and managed to sip

some coffee without spilling it all over myself, all the while

keeping one eye on the entrance. I’d hurt the pimp bad

enough to require an emergency room visit, but if he were

tougher and dumber than I’d guessed, he might return with

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a weapon. I set my purse on the counter, my .38 within easy

reach, just in case.

“You’re Lieutenant Jack Daniels, aren’t you?”

I glanced at the fat man again. Even though I’d been on

the news many times, I didn’t get recognized very often in

Chicago, and it never happened away from home.

“And you are?” My voice came out higher than I would

have liked.

“Just a fan. You got that serial killer Charles Kork, the one

they called the Gingerbread Man. How many women did he

kill?”

“Too many.” I turned back to my coffee.

“I saw the TV movie. The one that became the series. You’re

much better looking than the actress who played you.”

I was in no mood to be idolized. Plus, there was something creepy about this guy.

“Look, buddy, I don’t want to be rude, but I’m really not

up for conversation right now.”

The fat man didn’t take the hint. “And you got Barry

Fuller. He killed over a dozen, didn’t he? He was both a serial

killer and a mass murderer, due to all those Feds he took out

at that rest stop.”

I sighed. The waitress came by with my cheese curds. She

set down the basket and winked at me. “These are on me.”

“Thanks. I could use some salt.”

I tried a curd. Too hot, so I spit it back out into my palm

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and played hot potato until it cooled off. My biggest fan

refused to give up.

“There were others in the Kork family as well, weren’t

there? A whole group of psychos. I heard they killed over

forty people, total.”

I really didn’t want to think about the Kork family, and

I really didn’t want to have a late-night gabfest with a cop

groupie.

But, on the plus side, knocking out that pimp’s teeth

really woke me up.

When the waitress brought me the salt, I asked for my

meal to go. The fat guy apparently didn’t like that, because he

gave me his back and had an intense whisper exchange with

his buddy; a younger, attractive man in a flannel shirt. The

young guy nodded, got up, and left.

“Just one last question, Lieutenant, and then I promise

I’ll leave you alone.”

I sighed again, glancing at him. “Go ahead.”

“Did you ever try to take on two serial killers at once?”

I popped a curd in my mouth. “Can’t say that I have.”

He smiled, lopsided. “Too bad. That would have been

cool.”

The fat guy threw down some money, then followed his

buddy out.

No longer pestered, I decided to eat there, and settled in

to eat my cheese curds.

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5

Taylor hadn’t ever killed a cop. He came close once, a

few years ago, when a state trooper pulled him over, and

asked him to step out of his truck. Taylor had been ready to

pull his knife and gut the pig, but the cop only wanted him

to do a field sobriety test. Taylor wouldn’t ever risk driving

drunk, and he easily passed, getting let off with a warning

and pulling away with a dead hooker in his sleeping

compartment.

But he was itching to get at this cop. Taylor liked strong

women. He liked when they fought him, refusing to give up.

They were so much fun to break. Especially when they had

such adorable feet.

As Donaldson suggested, Taylor had left the diner and

gone back to his rig to grab the ether. Candi with an i was

still out cold, but she held far less fascination for Taylor than

this new prospect.

I’m going to have a little nip of Jack Daniels, he thought,

smiling wildly. Maybe more than one. And maybe not so little.

For helping out, he’d let Donaldson have Candi. While

Taylor wasn’t into the whole voyeur scene, it might be

interesting to watch another pro do his thing. Hopefully, it

didn’t involve any sort of sex, because he had zero desire to

see Donaldson’s flabby, naked ass.

Taylor grabbed the plastic bag—the ether-soaked paper

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towels still moist—and met Donaldson in the parking lot.

“The best spot is here, in the shadow of this truck,”

Donaldson said.

Taylor didn’t like him calling the shots, but he heard the

man out.

“She thinks I’m a fan,” Donaldson continued, “so I’m

going to call her over here, ask for an autograph. Then you

come up behind her with the ether.”

“She’s armed. Her purse was too heavy to only be carrying

a wallet and make-up.”

“I saw that, too. I’ll grab her wrists, you get her around

the neck. We can pull her to the ground here, out of sight.

How close is your truck?”

“The red Peterbilt, a few spaces back.”

“When she’s out, we throw her arms around our

shoulders, walk her over there like she’s drunk.”

Taylor shook his head. “Only when we’re sure no one is

watching. I don’t want a witness getting my plate number.”

“Fine. We can walk her around until we’re sure we’re clear.”

Taylor stared at Donaldson for a moment, then said,

“She’s mine.”

Donaldson didn’t respond.

“I’ll give you the whore for helping me, Donaldson. But

the cop is mine.”

Donaldson eventually nodded. “Fair enough. Is the whore

cute?”

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“Too old, fat thighs, saggy gut from popping out kids.”

Donaldson raised his eyebrow. “She’s got kids?”

Taylor laughed. “You into kiddies, Donaldson?”

“Any port in the storm. But you can have fun with kids

in other ways. Did the whore have a cell phone?”

“Yeah.”

“Give it here.”

Interested in where Donaldson was going with this,

Taylor dug the phone out of his pocket and handed it over.

Donaldson scrolled through the address book.

“Calling home,” Donaldson told him.

“Can’t calls be traced?”

“They can be traced to this cell phone, but not to

our current location. To do that requires some highly

sophisticated equipment—which I highly doubt the local

constabulary possesses.”

“Put it on speaker.”

Donaldson hit a button, and Taylor heard ringing.

“Hello?” A child’s voice, preteen.

“This is Detective Donaldson. I’m sorry to inform you

that your mommy is dead.”

“What?”

“Mommy is dead, kid. She was horribly murdered.”

“Mommy’s dead?” The child began to cry.

“It’s an occupational hazard. Your mom was a whore,

you know. She had sex with strange men for money. One of

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those men killed her.”

“Mommy’s dead!”

Donaldson hit the disconnect button.

Taylor shook his head, smiling. “Man, that is low.”

“I’ll call him back later, see how he’s doing. This phone has

a camera, too. Maybe I’ll send him some pictures of Mommy

when I’m done with her.”

“What about the babysitter sending the cops here?”

“You think the babysitter knows what Mom’s job is? And

even if she calls the cops, Murray’s pays them to stay away.

Besides, we’ll be in your truck by then.”

Taylor thought it was reckless. But still, calling up a kid

and saying his mother was dead was pretty good. Taylor

considered all of the cell phones he’d thrown away, and

cursed himself for the fun he’d missed.

Donaldson dug into his pocket and produced a pair of small

binoculars. He held them to his face and looked at the diner.

“The cop is still working on her burger. She is a sweet

piece of pie, isn’t she? Jack fucking Daniels. What a lucky day

indeed. It’s a small world, my friend.”

“Not when you’re driving from L.A. to Boston.”

“Funny you should mention that. One of the reasons

I’m a courier is to have a wide area to hunt in. I’m assuming

you got into trucking for the same reason.”

“The wider the better. You shouldn’t shit where you eat.”

“I agree. I don’t think I’m even on the Fed’s radar. And

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cops don’t talk to each other from state to state. A man

could keep on doing this for a very long time, if he plays it

smart.”

“So, what’s your thing?” Taylor asked.

Donaldson lowered the binocs. “My thing?”

“What you do to them.”

Donaldson did the eyebrow raise again, which was

starting to get annoying. “Have we reached that point in our

relationship where we can share our methods? You haven’t

even told me your name.”

“It’s Taylor. And I want to know, before I invite you into

my truck, that you aren’t into some sick shit.”

“Define sick. ”

“Guts are okay, but don’t puncture the intestines. That

smell takes forever to go away.”

“I’m not into internal organs.”

“How about rape?”

Donaldson smiled. “I am into rape.”

“I don’t want to see it. No offense, but naked guys are not

a turn-on for me.”

“That’s fair enough. We can take turns, give each other

some privacy. My thing, as you put it, is to cut off their faces.

One little piece at a time. A nostril. An ear. An eye. A lip. And

then I feed their faces to them, bit by bit.

Taylor could see the appeal in that.

“How about you, Taylor?”

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“Biting. Toes and fingers, to start. Then all over.”

“How long have you kept one alive for?”

“Maybe two days.”

Donaldson nodded. “See, that’s nice. I do all my work

outdoors, different locations, so I never have time to make

it last, savor it. You’ve got a little murder-mobile, you can

take your time.”

“That’s the reason I’m a trucker, not a courier.”

Donaldson got a wistful look. “I’m thinking of renting

a shack out in the woods. Out in the middle of nowhere.

Then I could bring someone there, really drag it out. You

remember that old magic trick? The girl in the box, and the

magician sticks swords in it?”

Taylor nodded. “Yeah.”

“I’d love to build one of those. Except there’s no trick.

Wouldn’t that be fun? Sticking the swords in one at a time?”

Taylor decided it would.

Donaldson peered through the binocs again. “Here she

comes. Let’s get in position.”

Taylor nodded. He felt the excitement building up again,

but a different kind of excitement. This time, he was sharing

the experience with another person. It was oddly fulfilling, in

a way his dozens of other murders hadn’t been.

Maybe tag-team was the way to go.

He clenched the ether-soaked paper towels, crouched

behind a bumper, and waited for the fun to start.

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6

The burger was good. The coffee was good. The cheese

curds were heavenly. I had no idea why they weren’t served

in Chicago.

I paid, left a decent tip, then tried calling Latham to tell

him I felt good enough to keep driving.

Still no signal. I needed to switch carriers, or get a new

phone. It especially bugged me because I saw other people in

the diner talking on their cell phones. If that Can you hear me

now? guy walked into the restaurant, I would have bounced

my cell off his head.

The parking lot had decent lighting, but all of the big

trucks cast shadows, and I knew more than most the dangers

of walking in shadows. I pulled my purse on over my head

and tucked it under my arm, then headed for my car while

staying in the light. The last thing I needed was the pimp to

make a play for me. Or that—

“Lieutenant Daniels!”

—fat guy from the diner, who approached me at a quick

pace, coming out from behind one of the rigs. I stopped,

my hand slipping inside my purse and seeking my revolver.

Something about this man rubbed me the wrong way, and

at over two hundred and fifty pounds he was too big to play

around with.

He slowed down when I reached into my handbag—a

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bad sign. People with good intentions don’t expect you to

have a gun. I felt my heart rate kick up and my legs tense.

“Don’t come any closer,” I commanded, using my cop

voice.

He stopped about ten feet in front of me. His hands were

empty. “I wanted to ask you for your autograph.”

My fingers wrapped around the butt of my .38.

Confrontation, even with over twenty years of experience,

was always a scary thing. Ninety-nine percent of the time,

de-escalation was the key to avoiding violence. Take control

of the situation, be polite but firm, apologize if needed.

It wouldn’t have worked on the pimp, who was showing

off for the crowd, but it might work here.

“I’m sorry, I don’t give autographs. I’m not a celebrity.”

“It would mean a lot to me.” He held up his palms and

took another step forward.

I was taught that you never pull out your weapon unless

you intend to use it.

I pulled out my weapon.

“I told you not to come any closer.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Another step. He was six feet

away from me.

I pointed my gun at his chest. “Does it look like I’m

kidding?”

He put on a crooked grin. “Is this how you treat your fans,

Lieutenant? I don’t mean any harm. You want to shoot an

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innocent civilian?”

“I don’t want to. But I will, if I feel threatened. And right

now I feel threatened. Where’s your buddy?”

“My buddy?”

He was lying, I could see it on his face, and I swirled

around, sensing something behind me. I caught a flash of

movement, someone ducking between two parked cars.

I spun again, storming up to the fat guy, grabbing two of

his outstretched fingers and twisting. My action was fast,

forceful, and I gained enough leverage to bend his arm

to the side and drive him onto his knees, my gun trained

on his head.

“Get on the pavement, face down!”

He pitched forward, and I had to let him go or fall with

him. Rather than face-first, he dropped onto his side and

swung his leg at me.

I should have fired, but a small part of me knew I could be

killing a guy whose only crime was wanting my autograph,

and I had enough of an ego to think I could still handle the

situation. I side-stepped his leg and rammed my heel into

his kidney, hard enough to show him this wasn’t a joke.

That’s when his partner dove at me.

He hit me sideways, knocking me off my feet in a flying

tackle that drove me to the asphalt, shoulder-first. His weight

squeezed the air out of me, his hand pawing at my face, a

cold, wet hand covering my mouth and nose, flooding

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my airway with harsh chemicals. I held my breath, bringing

my weapon up, squeezing the trigger—

The trigger wouldn’t squeeze. The gun didn’t fire.

Now the paper towels were in my eyes, the sting a

hundred times worse than chlorine, making me squeeze my

eyelids shut in pain. I felt my gun being wrestled away, and

the small part of my brain that wasn’t panicking knew the

perp had grabbed my .38 by the hammer, his grip preventing

me from shooting.

I still refused to breathe, knowing that whatever was

on my face would knock me out, knowing when that

happened I was dead. That made me panic even more,

thrashing and pushing against my unseen assailant. I tried

to kick my feet, get them under me to gain some leverage,

but then they were weighed down the same as my upper

body—the fat guy had joined the party.

So I went for the fake-out, letting my body go limp.

The seconds ticked by, each one a slice of eternity since

I was oxygen-deprived. I could hold my breath for over a

minute under ideal conditions. But terrified and with two

psychos on top of me, I wouldn’t be able to last a fraction

of that…

One second at a time, Jack. Just don’t breathe.

I felt that vertigo sensation in my head, my mind seeming

to stretch out and twist around.

“Is anyone coming?”

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“It’s clear.”

Stay still. Don’t breathe.

My eyes were stinging like crazy, and I wanted to put my

hands to my face, rub the pain away.

Don’t. Move. Don’t. Breathe.

My chest began to spasm, my diaphragm convulsing

and begging for air. In moments it wouldn’t be under my

control anymore. I would breathe in those toxic fumes

whether I wanted to or not.

Hold it in don’t breathe don’t breathe DON’T BREATHE—

“Too much and you’ll kill her.” The fat guy talking.

The hand over my face eased up, the noxious rag being

pulled away. I wanted to gasp, to suck in air like a marathon

runner, but I managed to take a slow, silent breath through

my nose.

The fumes still clinging to my face smelled like gasoline,

and by sheer will I didn’t sneeze or cough. I kept my breathing

slow, like I was sleeping, even though my heart pounded

so loud and fast I could hear it.

“She’s out. Grab an arm.”

I felt myself lifted into an upright position, my arms over

their shoulders. Then I was dragged, my feet scraping against

the asphalt, which tore at my bare toes like sandpaper. I bit

my inner cheek. If I made a peep, they’d use the rag again.

“Her feet! Watch her feet! I don’t want them messed up!”

“Shh! Lift higher.”

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Then I was completely off the ground. I tried to peek, to

see where we were, but everything was blurry and opening

my eyes made the pain worse. I could feel the weight of

my purse still hanging at my side, and I had a dull throb in

my shoulder where I’d hit the pavement, but it didn’t seem

dislocated or broken.

“It’s this one.”

My body was shifted, and I heard the jingle of keys and

a vehicle door opening.

“I’ll get in first, pull her up.”

“Check around for witnesses.”

“We’re alone out here, brother.”

Another shift, and then strong hands under my armpits,

pulling me up, hands on my ankle, my right shoe coming off,

and then…

Something warm and wet on my big toe.

Jesus… he’s got my toe in his mouth.

His tongue circled it, once, twice, and then I felt the

suction. Heard the slurping. Heard him moan.

This freak is sucking my toe.

Wet and sloppy, like a popsicle. I wanted to flinch. I

wanted to scream.

Stay still, Jack. Don’t kick him. Don’t move.

His teeth locked on, scraping along the top and bottom,

not enough to break the skin but enough to hurt, the pressure

increasing…

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I felt a surge of revulsion unlike any I’ve ever experienced,

and my muscles involuntarily locked and my stomach

churned, threatening to upload the burger and curds.

I was half-hanging out of a truck, and I couldn’t see, but

I was going to take my chances and kick this bastard in

the face, hopefully burying my shoe heel into his eye socket.

It was two on one, and they had my gun, but I wasn’t going

to let him chew my toe off without a fight.

“Taylor, let’s hold off until we get her inside.”

My toe was abruptly released, and then I was violently

shoved upward onto the fat guy’s lap. I assumed he was

sitting in the driver’s seat of a semi. I felt his hot breath on

my ear, and then the clammy touch of his lips. One hand

pawed at my chest, tugging at my bra through my shirt.

The other slid up my leg.

“Such a pretty lady,” he said, nuzzling my neck. “I’m

going to love feeding you your face.”

Breathe slowly, Jack. Don’t tense up and let him know you’re

awake.

When his lips touched my cheek it was like a taser shock,

and my bile began to rise again.

“Take her in the back,” Taylor said. “We’ll bring her up to

the sleeper.”

The fat man gave my knee a final squeeze, then grunted

as he hefted me up in his arms and shifted his bulk. Once

again I was lifted, tugged, and pushed. I chanced a peek,

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everything dark and blurry, wanting so badly to rub my eyes,

and all I could make out was a ladder of some sort.

“There’s a handle on the trap door. Turn it.”

“Where?”

“Right above your head.”

I was shoved through an opening in the ceiling of the

cab, then dropped unceremoniously onto a mat. It was hot.

I smelled bleach, cheap perfume, and the copper-pennies

stench of fresh blood. Also, underneath everything, was an

odor that scared me to my core, an odor I recognized from

hundreds of cases from more than twenty years or cases.

A cross between meat gone bad and excrement that all the

bleach on the planet couldn’t ever fully erase.

The stink of dead bodies.

People have died in this room.

“Warm up here.”

“When we get started, I’ll put the air conditioning on.

I’ve also got recessed stereo speakers, for mood music, and

an AC outlet up by the fire alarm, if you want to plug in any

power tools.”

“I like power tools.”

“Give yours a tap, see if she’s awake yet.”

I heard a slapping sound, skin on skin, and then a feminine

whine.

“She’s still groggy.”

“She’ll be up soon. I know she’s not much to look at, but

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that really doesn’t matter once you get started, does it?”

“Actually, Taylor, as grateful as I am to you for inviting

me into your home, I’ve been reading about Jack Daniels for

years. She’s every killer’s wet dream.”

There was a long pause.

“What are you saying?” Taylor said.

“I’m saying I want the cop.”

“We already agreed, she’s mine.”

“You can have her feet. I want her face.”

“Maybe I want the whole thing.”

Donaldson laughed. “You know, you remind me of my

younger brother. I miss that kid, so much that I sometimes

regret killing him. But I remember something my father

used to say when we were fighting over a toy. He said, If you

can’t share, then neither of you can have it. ”

Then I heard the unmistakable sound of my .38 being

cocked.

7

Standing on the ladder, with his upper half through the

trap door, Taylor stared at the gun in the kneeling fat man’s

hand. It was pointed at the cop’s head, but Donaldson’s eyes

were focuses on him.

Goddammit, why did I let him grab the gun?

Taylor felt himself go dead inside, like his body turned

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to ice. He chose his words carefully, keeping his voice even.

“You know what, Donaldson? Maybe you’re right. Sharing

seems like a fair thing to do, and it might even be fun. Besides,

it would be a shame to deprive such a famous lady of either

of our company. But I have to say that seeing you holding a

gun makes me a bit nervous. We don’t want to make enemies

of each other, do we?”

Donaldson smiled, shrugged, and then uncocked the

gun and shoved it into his front pocket. “I appreciate your

generosity, Taylor. Really, I do. And normally I wouldn’t be

so ungracious to a fellow traveler. But this woman just does

something to me. I haven’t been this excited in years.”

“I can see that.” Taylor was eye-level with Donaldson’s

crotch. “Or maybe that’s the gun.”

“So let’s have a meeting of the minds.”

“Fine.”

Taylor relaxed a notch now that the weapon was out of

play, but he had no doubt Donaldson would use it again.

His original fantasy of tag-team action had been replaced

by the unpleasant image of Donaldson tying him up and

feeding him his own face. When there are too many foxes

in the henhouse, the foxes kill each other. A shame, because

Taylor was starting to like the older man.

“Since you agree to sharing,” Donaldson said, “would you

be adverse to both of us going at her at the same time? You

take the bottom half, I take the top?”

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Taylor reached a hand behind his back and touched

the folding knife clipped to his belt—Donaldson had given

it back to him in the parking lot. Killing him right now

would probably be the best bet, but the guy was big, and

the knife blade was short. Unless he died quick, Donaldson

would fight back and be able to grab his gun.

No, the knife wasn’t the way to go.

But Taylor did have a sawed-off shotgun under his

passenger seat. All he needed to do was jump down, lock the

trap door, and grab it.

“Sharing would be okay.” Taylor tried to look thoughtful.

“But I want to look her in the eyes when I’m doing my thing.

Be tough to do if her eyes were gone.”

“They wouldn’t be gone. They’d be in her mouth.”

Taylor shook his head. “That wouldn’t be good for me.”

“I could leave her eyes alone. Maybe just take off her

eyelids so she’d be forced to look. It could work. We could do

a trial run on the whore, here.”

Donaldson kicked Candi in her side. She moaned.

Taylor figured there were three steps beneath him.

He would need to grab the door and tug it closed before

Donaldson pulled his gun. He didn’t know if the cop’s

bullet would go through the half inch steel the sleeper was

made out of, but his shotgun slugs certainly would. Lots of

damage, though, and it would make a lot of noise.

“I’m not exactly keen on a two on one. If you promise to

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leave her eyes alone, and that she’ll stay conscious and not die

on you, I could let you go first.”

Donaldson’s face remained blank for a moment, then he

raised his eyebrow.

“I appreciate your offer. I sincerely do. But I can’t help but

think that while I’m doing my thing, you might make some

sort of effort to do me harm. Or perhaps lock me in here.”

Taylor began to wish he never parked at this truck stop.

“We seem to be at an impasse.”

“No,” Donaldson shook his head. “I believe we can work

this out. I have no desire to harm you, Taylor. And I am

grateful for this opportunity. I shouldn’t have flashed the

gun. That was a mistake. I’ve been playing this game solo

for so long, I wasn’t thinking clearly. I know you have a knife

on you, and probably some other weapons in the truck, and

I fear I just began a war of escalation.”

“I don’t want to kill you either.” It was the truth. Not

that he had any real affection for Donaldson, but trying to

muscle the dead fat man out of his sleeper and drag him to

a river didn’t seem like a fun time.

“We don’t know each other well yet. But we’re kindred

spirits. Maybe we could even become friends.”

“It’s possible.”

“How long will the cop be out for?” Donaldson asked.

“A few minutes, probably more. Pinch her, see if she

flinches. When they’re really under, they don’t flinch.”

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Donaldson leaned over Jack Daniels and squeezed her

breast. She didn’t move.

“She’s out. You have some rope?”

“More bungee cords in the trunk.”

Neither man moved to get them. Eventually, Donaldson

raised an eyebrow. “Are you a gambling man, Taylor?”

“I’ve been known to play the odds.”

“Let’s flip a coin. Winner gets first crack at the cop.”

Taylor considered it. “I’d be up for that, if it were a fair

toss.”

“We could go in the diner, have our waitress do the

flipping. I’ll even let you call it. Would be good to get out

in the fresh air, clear our heads.”

“Let’s say I agree. You still have me at a disadvantage.”

Donaldson nodded. “The gun. Firing it wouldn’t be smart

for either of us. Cops might already be on their way, after

what Lieutenant Daniels did to that pimp.”

“I’ve got a solution.”

“I’m listening.”

“An empty gun isn’t a threat. Hand me the bullets. But

do it slowly, or else I might get nervous and lock you up here

for a few days with no air conditioning or water.”

“Fair enough.”

Donaldson gently reached back into his pants and

removed the gun. He held it upside-down by the trigger

guard, and swung out the cylinder. Then he dumped the

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rounds onto his palm and handed them to Taylor.

Taylor grinned.

Maybe this tag-team thing will work out after all.

“Are we good?” Donaldson asked.

“We’re good. Let’s hogtie this pig.”

Taylor climbed into the sleeper, and after an uneasy

moment of sizing each other up, the two of them began to

bind the cop. Donaldson quickly got the hang of it, and they

soon had Jack suitably trussed.

“You sure she’s safe here?” Donaldson asked, admiring

their handiwork.

“Never had an escape. Bungee cords are tighter than rope.

The enclosure is steel, the lock on the door is solid. She’s not

going anywhere.”

Taylor grabbed the cop’s purse, wound it over his

shoulder, and crawled down out of the sleeper after

Donaldson. He made sure the trap door was locked, took

what he wanted from the purse, and together they walked

back to the diner.

8

The moment they were gone I rolled onto my belly and

inch-wormed up to my knees. My hands were behind my

back, the bungee cords so tight my fingers were tingling.

I strained against the elastic, trying to twist my wrists apart,

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but couldn’t free myself.

More cords wound around my chest and upper arms,

and encircled my knees and ankles. I flopped onto my side,

wincing at the pain. My shoulder still hurt, and there was a

throb in my left breast where Donaldson had pinched me. If

he’d done it for a few seconds longer, I would have screamed.

Pretending to be unconscious seemed like a better choice

than really being unconscious, but when they tied me up

I realized that maybe fighting back and yelling for help

when I had the chance might have been the better move.

Panic threatened to overwhelm me, and I began to

hyperventilate. Fear and I were old adversaries. There was

no way to squelch it, but if I kept my focus I could work

through the fear. The goal was to not think about any

potential outcome to this situation other than escape.

Still unable to open my eyes because of the stinging,

I rolled to my left, hoping to bump into anything that

would help me free myself. I hit something soft. I brushed

my cheek against it. Foam of some kind. I rolled right

instead, eventually coming up against something more

suitable. Something hard, stuck into the floor. After

maneuvering around onto my knees, I rubbed my hands

against the object.

It felt like a board, only two feet tall, and thin. Midway

down the side was some sort of protrusion. Though my

hands were quickly getting numb, I could tell by the sound

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when I jiggled it that it was a padlock.

I got my wrists under the lock, trying to wedge it in

between my arms and the bungee cords. Then I took a deep

breath and violently tugged my arms forward.

The elastic caught, stretched.

I pulled harder, feeling like my arms were pulling out

of their sockets.

Then, abruptly, my hands were free, and I pitched forward onto my face, bumping my forehead against the

padded floor.

I spent a few seconds wiggling my fingers, wincing as

the blood came back, and made quick work of the other

cords around my arms. Then I spit in my hands and rubbed

them against my eyes. The stinging eased up enough for

me to have a blurry look around the enclosure. There was

moderate lighting, from an overhead fixture. I saw beige

mats. A black slanted ceiling covered with sound baffles.

A trunk. And a bound woman, her feet in some sort of

wooden stock, my wrist bungee cord wound around a

padlock on the side.

I unwound my legs, tugged off my remaining shoe, and

crawled over to her, unhooking her bindings. “Can you hear

me?”

The woman moaned softly, and her eyelids fluttered.

“You need to wake up.” I gave her a shake. “We’re in

trouble.”

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“My… foot… hurts…”

“What’s your name?”

“My… foot…”

I cupped her chin in my hand, made her look at me.

“Listen to me. I’m a cop. We’re in a truck sleeper and some

men are trying to kill us. What’s your name?”

“Candi. I… I can’t move my feet. It hurts.”

I turned my attention to the stock. I crawled around to

the other side, wincing when I saw the blood. I took a closer

look because I had to assess the damage, then wished I could

erase the image from my mind.

“What’s wrong with my foot?”

“You’re missing your little toe.”

“My… toe? ”

I studied the stock. Heavy, solid, the padlock and latch

unbreakable. So I looked at the hinge on the other side. Six

screws held it in place.

I scooted away from the stock, on my butt, and reared

back my right heel.

“Stay still, Candi. I’m going to try to break the hinge.”

I shot my leg out like a piston, striking the top of the stock

once, twice, three times.

The stock stayed solid, the screws tight. And if I tried

kicking any harder I’d break my heel.

“Don’t you have a gun?”

I ignored her, turning my attention to the trunk in the

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corner of the enclosure. I crawled over to see if there was

anything inside I could use.

“Don’t leave me!”

“I won’t leave you. I promise.”

I found paper towels, paper masks, starter fluid, plastic

bags, and a large Tupperware container. The lid had brown

stains on it—dried blood—and I got an uneasy feeling looking

at it. Fighting squeamishness, I pulled the top off.

It was filled with rock salt. But I could make out something brown peeking through. I shook the box, and it revealed

a few of the brown things, small and wrinkled. They looked

like prunes.

Then I realized what they were, and came very close to

throwing up. I pulled away, covering my mouth. There had to

be dozens, maybe over a hundred, of them in there.

That sick bastard…

“Did you find anything?”

“Nothing helpful,” I said, closing the lid.

“What’s in that box you were holding?”

Taylor was smart. He didn’t leave any tools, weapons, or

keys lying around. I eyed the starter fluid.

“Candi, do you smoke?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you have matches on you? A lighter?”

“In my purse. He took it.”

Dammit. But starting a fire in the enclosed space pro127

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bably wasn’t a good idea anyway. However, the chest itself

had possibilities. It was made of wood, with metal reinforced

corners. I picked it up, figuring it weighed at least fifteen

pounds.

“What was in the box!”

I muscled the chest over to Candi and knelt next to her.

“Hold still,” I said. “If I miss I could break your leg.”

I reared back, clenched my teeth, and shoved the chest

into the top of the stock. There was a loud crack, but both

objects stayed intact.

I did it again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

My shoulder began to burn, and the corners of the chest

were coming apart, but the hinge on the stock was bending.

Two more times and the chest burst open, spilling its

contents onto the mat, the Tupperware container bouncing

next to Candi.

I hit the stock one last time. The chest broke into several

large pieces. I grabbed one of the slats used to make the chest,

and wedged it in the opening I’d made between the top and

bottom of the stock. I used it like a crowbar, levering at the

hinge.

It was slowly giving… giving…

Then the stock popped open like a shotgun blast.

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Candi sat up abruptly, grabbing her ankle to see her injury

for herself. Then the tears hit, fast and hard.

“Ah shit… that fucker.”

“We need to find a way out of here.”

“My toe…” she sobbed.

“Candi! Focus!”

Her eyes locked on mine.

“We need to start rolling up the mats,” I ordered, “find the

way out of here before they come back.”

She sniffled. “They? I only know one. Taylor.”

“He’s got a buddy now.” I made a face. “And they’re

armed.”

I watched Candi’s face do an emotion montage. Anger,

pain, despair, then raw fear.

“I have kids,” Candi whispered. “A boy and a girl.”

“Then we need to find the exit, fast. Start pulling up the

mats.”

“What time is it? My man, Julius, he’ll come looking for

me when I don’t report back.”

I thought about the pimp, running out of the diner with

his teeth in his hand.

“Julius, uh, probably won’t be coming to the rescue. Do

the mats. Now.”

She wiped her nose on her arm, and then reached for the

Tupperware container.

“Candi…”

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“I want to see.”

She popped off the lid and squinted at the objects in the

rock salt.

“What are these things?”

“We need to look for the exit, Candi.”

“Are those… aw, Jesus…”

“Don’t worry about that now.”

“Don’t worry? Do you know what these are?”

“Yes.”

“These are… nipples. ”

“I know, Candi. That’s why we need to get the hell out of

here.”

That seemed to spur her to action. I joined Candi in

pulling up mats, and we soon found the trap door. I pulled

on the recessed handle.

Locked.

I tugged as hard as I could, until the cords on my neck

bulged out and I saw stars.

It wouldn’t budge.

“We’re going to die up here.” Candi was hugging her

knees, rocking back and forth.

I blew out a breath. “No, we’re not.”

“He’s going to bite off our toes. Then our tits, to add to

his collection.”

I reached up overhead, tugging at the baffling stuck to

the ceiling. Under it was heavy aluminum. I did a 360, looking

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at all the walls.

There was no way out. We were trapped up here.

Then we both felt it. The truck cab jiggle.

Oh, shit. They’re back.

9

Fran the waitress was happy to flip a coin for the two

gentlemen who had tipped her so well.

“Tails,” Taylor called.

Fran caught the quarter, slapped it against her wrist.

“Tails it is. Congrats, handsome.”

Taylor gave her a polite nod, then turned to judge

Donaldson’s reaction. There wasn’t one. The fat man’s face

was blank. Taylor left the diner, his cohort in tow. It was

still hot and muggy outside, and the lot was still almost full,

but there weren’t any people around.

“Are we cool?” Taylor asked as they walked to his truck.

“Yeah. Fair is fair. You’ll let me watch?”

Taylor shrugged like it didn’t matter, but secretly he was

thrilled at the idea of an audience.

“Sure.”

“And you’ll let me do her face?”

“Her face is all yours.”

“You should try it once. The face. You peel enough of

the flesh away, you can see the skull underneath. I bet Jack

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Daniels has a beautiful skull.”

Taylor stopped and stared at him. “You’ve really got a

hard-on for this cop, don’t you?”

“I’d marry her if she’d have me. But I’ll settle for a bloody

blowjob after I knock her teeth out. Do you still have Jack’s

phone?”

Taylor had pocketed her phone and wallet. He tugged

the cell out.

“Does Officer Donaldson want to inform the next of

kin?” Taylor grinned as he handed it over.

“That’s a possibility. Might also be fun to call up her

loved ones while you’re working on her, let them hear her

screams.”

“You’ve got a sick mind, my friend.”

“Thank you, kindly. Let’s see who our favorite cop talked

to last. The winner is… Latham. And less than an hour ago.

Shall we see if Latham is still up?”

“Put it on speaker.”

The phone rang twice, and a man answered.

“Jack? I was worried.”

“And you have good reason to be,” Donaldson said. “Is

this Latham?”

“Who is this?”

“I’m the man about to murder Jack Daniels. She’s going

to die in terrible pain. How do you feel about that?”

There was silence.

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“What’s wrong, Latham? Don’t you care that…” Donaldson

squinted at the phone. “Dammit, lost the signal.”

Donaldson hit redial. The call didn’t go through.

They stood there for a moment, neither of them saying

anything.

“I hate dropped calls,” Taylor finally offered. “Drives me

nuts.”

“Cops.”

“I hate cops, too.”

“Behind you.”

Taylor spun around and froze. A Wisconsin squad car

rolled up next to them. Its lights weren’t on, but the driver’s

side window was open and a pig was leaning out. White

male, fat, had something on his upper lip that an optimist

might call a mustache.

“Did you men happen to witness a disturbance in the

diner earlier?”

Taylor thought fast. But apparently so did Donaldson,

because he spoke first.

“What disturbance?”

“Seems an Illinois cop got into a tussle with one of the

locals.”

“We’re just passing through,” Donaldson said. “Didn’t see

anything.”

The pig nodded, then pulled up next to the diner. He let

his fellow cop out, then began to circle the parking lot.

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“I had to lie,” Donaldson said, “or else we’d have to give

statements. I don’t want my name in any police report.”

“I’m with you. But now we’ve got a big problem. One of

them is going to talk to our waitress, and she’ll mention us.

The other is taking down plate numbers. He’ll find Jack’s car,

realize she’s still here, and start searching for her.”

“We need to move our vehicles. Right now.”

Taylor nodded. “There’s an oasis thirty miles north on

39. I’ll meet you there in half an hour. You’ve got the whore’s

phone, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Give me the cop’s,” Taylor said. “We’ll exchange numbers

if we need to get in touch.”

After programming their phones, Donaldson offered his

hand. Taylor shook it.

“See you soon, fellow traveler.”

Then they parted.

Taylor hustled into his cab, started the engine, and

pulled out of Murray’s parking lot. He smiled. While he still

didn’t fully trust Donaldson, Taylor was really starting to

enjoy their partnership. Maybe they could somehow extend

it into something fulltime. Teamwork made this all so

much more exciting.

Taylor was heading for the cloverleaf when he saw the

light begin to flash on the dashboard.

It was the fire alarm. The smoke detector in the overhead

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sleeper was going off.

What the hell?

Taylor pulled onto the shoulder, set the brake, and tugged

his sawed-off shotgun out from under the passenger seat.

Then he headed for the trap door to see what was going on

with those bitches.

10

The moment the cab jiggled, I began to gather up

bungee cords and hook them to the handle on the trap

door, pulling them taut and attaching them to the foot

stock. When that door opened, I wanted it to stay open.

Then the truck went into gear, knocking me onto my

ass. Moving wasn’t going to help our situation. At least at

Murray’s we were surrounded by people. If Taylor took us

someplace secluded, our chances would get even worse.

I looked around the sleeper again, and my eyes locked

on the overhead light. Next to it, on the ceiling, was a

smoke alarm. I doubted it would be heard through all the

soundproofing, but there was a good chance it signaled

the driver somehow.

“Candi! Press the test button on the alarm up there!”

She steadied herself, then reached up to press it. The

high-pitched beeping was loud enough to hurt my ears. But

would Taylor even be aware of it?

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Apparently so, because a few seconds later, the truck

stopped.

I reached for the Tupperware container and a broken slat

from the chest, and crawled over to the side of the trap door.

Then I waited.

I didn’t have to wait long. The trap door opened up and

the bungee cords worked as predicted, tearing it out of

Taylor’s grasp. The barrel of a shotgun jutted up through

the doorway. I kicked that aside and threw a big handful of

salt in Taylor’s eyes. He screamed, and I followed up with

the wooden slat, smacking him in the nose, forcing him to

lose his footing on the stepladder.

As he fell, I dove, snaking face-first down the opening

on top of him, landing on his chest and pinning the shotgun

between us.

He pushed up against me, strong as hell, but I had

gravity on my side and I was fighting for my life. My knee

honed in on his balls like it lived there, and the first kick

worked so well I did it three more times.

He moaned, trying to keep his legs together and twist

away. I grabbed the shotgun stock and jerked. He suddenly

let go of the weapon, and I tumbled backwards off of him,

the gun in my hands, and my back slammed into the step

ladder. The wind burst out of me, and my diaphragm

spasmed. I tried to suck in a breath and couldn’t.

Taylor got to his knees, snarling, and lunged. I raised the

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gun, my fingers seeking the trigger, but he easily knocked

it away. Then he was straddling me, and I still couldn’t

breathe—a task that became even more difficult when his

hands found my throat.

“You’re gonna set a world fucking record on how long

it takes to die.”

Then Candi dropped onto his back.

Taylor immediately released his grip, trying to reach

around and get her off. But Candi clung on like a monkey,

one hand around his neck, the other pressing a wet paper

towel to his face.

He fell on all fours and bucked rodeo bull-style. Candi

held tight. I blinked away the stars and managed to suck

in some air, my hands seeking out the dropped shotgun. It

was too dangerous to shoot him with Candi so close, so

I held it by the short barrel, took aim, and cracked him

in the temple with the wooden stock.

Taylor crumpled.

I gasped for oxygen, my heart threatening to break

through my ribs because it was beating so hard. Candi kept

the rag on Taylor’s face, and part of me wanted to let her

keep it there, let her kill him. But my better judgment took

over.

“Candi.” I lightly touched her shoulder. “It’s over.”

“It’ll be over when I bite one of his goddamn toes off.”

I shook my head. “Give me the rag, Candi. He’s going

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away for the rest of his life. Depending on the jurisdictions,

he might even get the death penalty.”

She looked at me. Then she handed over the rag and

burst into tears.

That’s when Donaldson stepped into the cab. He took

a quick look around, then pointed my gun at me.

“Well what do we have here? How about you drop that

shotgun, Lieutenant.”

I looked at him, and then got a ridiculously big grin on

my face.

“You gave him the bullets, asshole.”

Donaldson’s eyes got comically wide, and I brought up

the shotgun and fired just as he was diving backward out

the door. The dashboard exploded, and the sound was a

force that punched me in my ears. Candi slapped her hands

to the sides of her head. I ignored the ringing and pumped

another slug into the chamber, already moving after him.

Something stopped me.

Taylor. Grabbing my leg.

Candi pounced on him, tangled her fingers in his hair,

and bounced his head against the floor until he released his

grip.

I stumbled out of the cab, stepping onto the pavement.

My .38 was on the road, discarded. I looked left, then right,

then under the truck.

Donaldson was gone.

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A few seconds later, I saw a police car tearing up the

highway, lights flashing, coming our way.

11

“Thank you, honey.”

I took the offered wine glass and Latham climbed into

bed next to me. The fireplace was roaring, the chardonnay

was cold, and when Latham slipped his hand around my

waist I sighed. For a moment, at least, everything was right

with the world. Candi had been reunited with her children.

Taylor was eagerly confessing to a string of murders going

back fifteen years, and ten states were fighting to have first

crack at prosecuting him. No charges were filed against me

for my attack on the pimp, because Fran the waitress had

sworn he shoved me first. My various aches and pains were

all healing nicely, and I even got all of my things back,

including my missing shoe. It was five days into my

vacation, and I was feeling positively glorious.

The only loose end was Donaldson. But he’d get his,

eventually. It was only a matter of time until someone

picked him up.

“You know, technically, you never thanked me for

saving your life,” Latham said.

“Is that what you did?” I asked, giving him a playful

poke in the chest. “I thought I was the one who did all the

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saving.”

“After that man called me, I called the police, told them

you were at Murray’s and someone had you.”

“The police arrived after I’d already taken control of the

situation.”

“Still, I deserve some sort of reward for my coolheadedness and grace under pressure, don’t you think?”

“What have you got in mind?”

He whispered something filthy in my ear.

“You pervert,” I said, smiling then kissing him.

Then I took another sip of wine and followed his

suggestion.

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PART FoUR UTAh, oNE WEEk LATER

Donaldson kept one hand on the wheel. The other caressed

the cell phone.

The cell phone with Jack Daniels’s number on it.

It had been over a week since that fateful meeting. He’d

headed southwest, knowing there was a nationwide manhunt going on, knowing they really didn’t have anything on

him. A description and a name, nothing more.

He’d been aching to call the Lieutenant. But it wasn’t

the right time yet. First he had to let things cool down.

Maybe in another week or so, he’d give her a ring. Just to

chit-chat, no threats at all.

The threats would come later, when he went to visit her.

He felt a tinge of sadness about Taylor’s arrest. A shame,

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losing a kindred spirit like that. But if the man had been

willing to share, he wouldn’t be in custody right now.

At least he kept quiet about me, Donaldson thought.

But that hadn’t stopped Donaldson from putting as

much road between him and Wisconsin as he could. He’d

been so busy running from the authorities, covering his

tracks, Donaldson hadn’t had any time to indulge in his

particular appetites. He kept an eye open for likely prospects,

but they were few and far between.

The hardest thing about killing a hitchhiker was finding

one to pick up.

Donaldson could remember just ten years ago, when

interstates boasted a hitcher every ten miles, and a

discriminating killer could pick and choose who looked

the easiest, the most fun, the juiciest. These days, cops kept

the expressways clear of easy marks, and Donaldson was

forced to cruise off-ramps, underpasses, and rest areas,

prowl back roads, take one hour coffee breaks at oases.

Recreational murder was becoming more trouble than it

was worth.

He’d finally found one standing in a Cracker Barrel

parking lot. The kid had been obvious, leaning against the

cement ashtray near the entrance, an oversize hiking pack

strapped to his back. He was approaching every patron

leaving the restaurant, practicing his grin between

rejections.

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A ripe plum, ready to pluck.

Donaldson tucked the cell phone into his pocket and

got out of the car. He didn’t even have to initiate contact.

He walked in to use the bathroom and strolled out with

his car keys in hand, letting them jingle a bit. The kid

solicited him almost immediately.

“Excuse me, sir. Are you heading up north?”

Donaldson stopped, pretending to notice the man for

the first time. He was young, maybe mid-twenties. Short,

reddish hair, a few freckles on his face, mostly hidden

by glasses. His clothing looked worn but of good quality.

Donaldson was twice his age, and damn near twice his

weight.

Donaldson rubbed his chin, which he knew softened his

harsh features.

“In fact I am, son.”

The boy’s eyes lit up, but he kept a lid on his excitement.

Any hitcher worth his salt knew to test the waters before

sealing the deal.

“I am, too. If you’d like some company, I can chip in for

gas.” He hooded his eyes and quickly added, “No funny stuff.

I’m just looking for a ride. I was hoping to get to Ogden by

midnight. Got family up there. My name’s Brett, by the way.”

Well played, Donaldson thought. Friendly, a little

desperate, making clear this wasn’t a sexual hookup and that

he had people waiting for him.

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As if any of that would keep him safe.

“How do I know you’re not some psycho?” Donaldson

asked. He knew that was pushing it, but he liked the irony.

“There’s a gas station across the street. I can top off the

tank, pay with a credit card. All gas stations have cameras

these days. Credit card is a paper trail. If anything happens

to you, that would link me to your car, and I’d get caught.”

Smart kid. But not that smart.

The really smart ones don’t hitchhike.

“Won’t need gas for a few hundred miles.” Donaldson

took off his Cubs baseball hat, running a hand over his gray,

thinning hair. Another way to disarm the victim. No one

feared grandfatherly types. “Until then, if you promise not

to sing any show tunes, you got yourself a ride.”

Brett smiled, hefted his pack onto his shoulders, and

followed his ride into the parking lot. Donaldson unlocked

the doors and the kid loaded his pack into the backseat of

Donaldson’s 2006 black Honda Accord, pausing when he saw

the clear plastic covers on the front seats.

“My dog, Neil, usually rides up front with me,”

Donaldson said, shrugging. “I don’t like him messing up the

upholstery.”

Brett flashed skepticism until he noticed the picture

taped to the dash: Donaldson and a furry dachshund.

“Sheds like crazy,” Donaldson said. “If you buy a dog,

stick with short-haired breeds.”

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That was apparently reassurance enough, because Brett

climbed in.

Donaldson heaved himself into the driver’s seat, the car

bouncing on its shocks.

“Buckle up for safety.” Donaldson resisted the urge to

lick his lips, then released the brake, started the car, and

pulled onto the highway.

The first ten miles were awkward. Always were. Strangers

tended to stay strangers. How often did a person initiate

conversation on a plane or while waiting in line? People kept

to themselves. It made them feel safe.

Donaldson broke the tension by asking the standard

questions. Where’d you go to school? What do you do for a

living? Where you headed? When’d you start hitchhiking?

Invariably, the conversation turned to him.

“So what’s your name?” Brett asked.

“Donaldson.” No point in lying. Brett wouldn’t be alive

long enough to tell anyone.

“What do you do, Donaldson?”

“I’m a courier.”

Donaldson sipped from the Big Gulp container in the cup

holder, taking a hit of caffeinated sugar water. He offered

the cup to Brett, who shook his head. Probably worried

about germs. Donaldson smiled. That should have been the

least of his worries.

“So you mean you deliver packages?”

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“I deliver anything. Sometimes overnight delivery isn’t

fast enough, and people are willing to pay a premium to

get it same day.”

“What sort of things?”

“Things people need right away. Legal documents. Car

parts for repairs. A diabetic forgets his insulin, guy loses his

glasses and can’t drive home without them, kid needs his

cello for a recital. Or a kidney needs to get to a transplant

location on time. That’s the run I’m on right now.”

Donaldson jerked a thumb over his shoulder, pointing

to the backseat floorboard. Brett glanced back, saw a cooler

sitting there, a biohazard sticker on the lid.

“No kidding, there’s a kidney in there?”

“There will be, once I get it.” Donaldson winked at the

kid. “By the way, what’s your blood type?”

The kid chuckled nervously. Donaldson joined in.

A long stretch of road approaching. No cars in either

direction.

“Sounds like an interesting job,” Brett said.

“It is. Perfect for a loner like me. That’s why it’s nice to

have company every so often. Gets lonely on the road.”

“What about Neil?”

“Neil?”

Brett pointed at the photograph on the dashboard. “Your

dog. You said he rode with you sometimes.”

“Oh, yeah. Neil. Of course. But it isn’t the same as having

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a human companion. Know what I mean?”

Brett nodded, then glanced at the fuel gauge.

“You’re down to a quarter tank,” he said.

“Really? I thought I just filled up. Next place we see, I’ll

take you up on that offer to pay.”

It was a bright, sunny late afternoon, clean country air

blowing in through the inch of window Donaldson had open.

A perfect day for a drive. The road ahead was clear, no one

behind them.

“So seriously,” Donaldson asked, “What’s your blood

type?”

Brett’s chuckle sounded forced this time, and Donaldson

didn’t join in. Brett put his hand in his pocket. Going for

a weapon, or holding one for reassurance, Donaldson

figured. Not many hitchers traveled without some form

of reassurance.

But Donaldson had something better than a knife, or

a gun. His weapon weighed thirty-six hundred pounds and

was barreling down the road at eighty miles per hour.

Checking once more for traffic, Donaldson gripped the

wheel, braced himself, and stood on the brake.

The car screeched toward a skidding halt, Brett’s seatbelt

popping open exactly the way Donaldson had rigged it to,

and the kid launched headfirst into the dashboard. The

spongy plastic, beneath the veneer, had been reinforced with

unforgiving steel.

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The car shuddered to a stop, the stench of scorched

rubber in the air. Brett was in bad shape. With no seatbelt

and one hand in his pocket, he’d banged his nose up pretty

good. Donaldson grasped his hair, rammed his face into

the dashboard two more times, then opened the glove

compartment. He grabbed a plastic zip tie, checked again

for oncoming traffic, and quickly secured the kid’s hands

behind his back. In Brett’s coat pocket, he found a tiny

Swiss Army knife. Donaldson barked out a laugh.

If memory served, and it usually did, there was an off

ramp less than a mile ahead, and then a remote stretch of

farmland. Donaldson pulled back onto the highway and

headed for it, whistling as he drove.

The farm stood just where he remembered it. Donaldson

pulled offroad into a cornfield and drove through the dead

stalks until he could no longer see the street. He killed the

engine, set the parking brake—the Accord had transmission

issues—and tugged out the keys to ensure it wouldn’t roll

away. Then he picked a few choice tools from his toolbox

and stuck them in his pocket.

His passenger whimpered as Donaldson muscled him

out of the car and dragged him into the stalks.

He whimpered even more when Donaldson jerked his

pants down around his ankles, got him loosened up with an

ear of corn, and then forced himself inside.

“Gonna stab me with your little knife?” he whispered

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in Brett’s ear between grunts. “Think that was going to save

you?”

When he’d finished, Donaldson sat on the kid’s chest

and tried out all the attachments on the Swiss Army knife.

The tiny scissors worked well on eyelids. The nail file

just reached the eardrums. The little two-inch blade was

surprisingly sharp and adept at whittling the nose down to

the cartilage.

Donaldson also used some tools of his own. Pliers, for

cracking teeth and pulling off lips. When used in tandem

with some garden shears, he was able to get Brett’s tongue

out in one piece. And of course, there was the muddler.

Normally wielded by bartenders to mash fruit in the

bottom of drink glasses, Donaldson had his own special

use for the instrument. People usually reacted strongly to

being fed parts of their own face, and even under the threat

of more pain, they’d spit those parts out. Donaldson used

the plastic muddler like a ram, forcing those juicy bits down

their throats.

After all, it was sinful to waste all of those delectable

little morsels like that.

When the fighting and screams began to find down,

the Swiss Army knife’s corkscrew attachment did a fine job

on Brett’s Adam’s apple, popping it out in one piece and

leaving a gaping hole that poured blood bright as a young

cabernet.

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Apple was a misnomer. It tasted more like a peach pit.

Sweet and stringy.

He shoved another ear of corn into Brett’s neck hole, then

stood up to watch.

Donaldson had killed a lot of people in a lot of different

ways, but suffocation especially tickled his funny bone.

When people bled to death they just got sleepy. It was

tough to see their expression when they were on fire, with

all the thrashing and flames. Damaging internal organs,

depending on the organ, was either too fast, too slow, or

too loud.

But a human being deprived of oxygen would panic for

several minutes, providing quite a show. This kid lasted

almost five, his eyes bulging out, wrenching his neck side

to side in futile attempts to remove the cob, and turning

all the colors of the rainbow before finally giving up the

ghost. It got Donaldson so excited he almost raped him

again. But the rest of the condoms were in the car, and

befitting a man his age, once he got them and returned

to the scene of death, his ardor probably would have waned.

He didn’t bother trying to take Brett’s kidney, or any of

his other parts. What the heck could he do with his organs

anyway? Sell them on eBay?

Cleanup was the part Donaldson hated most, but

he always followed a strict procedure. First, he bagged

everything associated with the crime. The rubber, the zip

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tie, the Swiss Army knife, and the two corn cobs, which

might have his prints on them. Then he took a spray bottle

of bleach solution and a roll of paper towels and cleaned the

muddler, shears, and pliers, and swabbed out the interior

of his car. He used baby wipes on himself, paying special

attention to his fingernails. He put his tools back into his

toolbox. Everything else went into the white plastic garbage

bag, along with a full can of gasoline and more bleach

spray.

He took the money from Brett’s wallet—forty lousy

bucks—and found nothing of interest in his backpack.

These went into the bag as well, and then he soaked that

and the body with lighter fluid.

The fire started easily. Donaldson knew from experience

that he had about five minutes before the gas can exploded.

He drove out of the cornfield at a fast clip, part of him

disappointed he couldn’t stay to watch the fireworks.

The final result would be a mess for anyone trying to ID

the victim, gather evidence, or figure out what exactly had

happened. If the body wasn’t discovered right away, and the

elements and hungry animals added to the chaos, it would

be a crime scene investigator’s worst nightmare.

Donaldson knew how effective this particular disposal

method was, because he’d used it twenty-six times and

hadn’t ever been so much as questioned by police.

He wondered if the FBI had a nickname for him,

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some-thing sexy like The Roadside Burner. But he wasn’t

convinced those jokers had even connected his many crimes.

Donaldson’s courier route took him all across the country,

over a million square miles of hunting ground. He waited

at least a year before returning to any particular spot, and

he was finding new places to play all the time.

Donaldson knew he would never be caught. He was

smart, patient, and never compulsive. He could keep on

doing this until he died or his pecker wore out, and they had

pills these days to fix that.

He reached I-15 at rush hour, traffic clogging routes

both in and out of Salt Lake, and he was feeling happy and

immortal until some jerk in a Winnebago decided to drive

ten miles under the speed limit. Irritated motorists tagged

along like ducklings, many of them using their horns, and

everyone taking their good sweet time getting by in the

passing lane.

Seriously, they shouldn’t allow some people on the road.

Donaldson was considering passing the whole lot of

them on the shoulder, and as he surveyed the route and got

ready to gun it, he saw a cute chick in pink shoes standing

at the cloverleaf. Short, lugging a guitar case, jutting out

a hip and shaking her thumb at everyone who passed.

Two in one day? he thought. Do I have the energy?

He cranked open the window to get rid of the bleach

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smell, and pulled up next to her under the overpass, feeling

his arousal returning.

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She set the guitar case on the pavement and stuck

out her thumb. The minivan shrieked by. She turned her

head, watched it go—no brakelights. The disappointment

blossomed hot and sharp in her gut, like a shot of iced Stoli.

Despite the midmorning brilliance of the rising sun, she

could feel the cold gnawing through the tips of her gloved

fingers, the earflaps of her black woolen hat.

According to her Internet research, 491 (previously

666) ranked as the third least traveled highway in the

Lower-Forty-Eight, with an average of four cars passing

a fixed point any given hour. Less of course at night. The

downside of hitchhiking these little-known thoroughfares

was the waiting, but the upside paid generous dividends in

privacy.

She exhaled a steaming breath and looked around.

Painfully blue sky. Treeless high desert. Mountains thirty

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miles east. A further range to the northwest. They stood

blanketed in snow, and on some level she understood that

others would find them dramatic and beautiful, and she

wondered what it felt like to be moved by nature.

Two hours later, she lifted her guitar case and walked

up the shoulder toward the idling Subaru Outback, heard

the front passenger window humming down. She mustered

a faint smile as she reached the door. Two young men in

the front seats stared at her. They seemed roughly her age

and friendly enough, if a little hungover. Open cans of

Bud in the center console drink holders had perfumed the

interior with the sour stench of beer—a good omen, she

thought. Might make things easier.

“Where you headed?” the driver asked. He had sandy

hair and an elaborate goatee. Impressive cords of bicep

strained the cotton fibers of his muscle shirt. The passenger

looked native—dark hair and eyes, brown skin, a thin,

implausible mustache.

“Salt Lake,” she said.

“We’re going to Tahoe. We could take you at least to I-15.”

She surveyed the rear storage compartment—crammed

with two snowboards and the requisite boots, parkas, snow

pants, goggles, and…she suppressed the jolt of pleasure—

helmets. She hadn’t thought of that before.

A duffle bag took up the left side of the backseat. A little

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tight, but then she stood just five feet in her pink crocs. She

could manage.

“Comfortable back there?” the driver asked.

“Yes.”

Their eyes met in the rearview mirror.

“What’s your name?”

“Lucy.”

“Lucy, I’m Matt. This is Kenny. We were just about to have

us a morning toke before we picked you up. Would it bother

you if we did?”

“Not at all.”

“Pack that pipe, bro.”

They got high as they crossed into Utah and became

talkative and philosophically confident. They offered her

some pot, but she declined. It grew hot in the car and she

removed her hat and unbuttoned her black trench coat,

breathing the fresh air coming in through the crack at the

top of the window.

“So where you going?” the Indian asked her.

“Salt Lake.”

“I already asked her that, bro.”

“No, I mean what for?”

“See some family.”

“We’re going to Tahoe. Do some snowboarding at

Heavenly.”

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“Already told her that, bro.”

The two men broke up into laughter.

“So you play guitar, huh?” Kenny said.

“Yes.”

“Wanna strum something for us?”

“Not just yet.”

They stopped at a filling station in Moab. Matt pumped

gas and Kenny went inside the convenience store to procure

the substantial list of snacks they’d been obsessing on for

the last hour. When Matt walked inside to pay, she opened

the guitar case and took out the syringe. The smell wafted

out—not overpowering by any means, but she wondered

if the boys would notice. She hadn’t had a chance to

properly clean everything in awhile. Lucy reached up

between the seats and tested the weight of the two

Budweisers in the drink holders: each about half-full. She

eyed the entrance to the store—no one coming—and shot

a squirt from the syringe into the mouth of each can.

Kenny cracked a can of Bud and said, “Dude, was that shit

laced?”

“What are you talking about?”

They sped through a country of red rock and buttes and

waterless arroyos.

“What we smoked.”

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“I don’t think so.”

“Man, I don’t feel right. Where’d you get it?”

“From Tim. Same as always.”

Lucy leaned forward and studied the double yellow

line through the windshield. After Matt drifted across for a

third time, she said, “Would you pull over please?”

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m going to be sick.”

“Oh God, don’t puke on our shit.”

Matt pulled over onto the shoulder and Lucy opened

her door and stumbled out. As she worked her way down a

gentle embankment making fake retching sounds, she heard

Matt saying, “Dude? Dude? Come on, dude! Wake up, dude!”

She waited in the bed of the arroyo for ten minutes

and then started back up the hill toward the car. Matt had

slumped across the center console into Kenny’s lap. The

man probably weighed two hundred pounds, and it took

Lucy ten minutes to shove him, millimeter by millimeter,

into the passenger seat on top of Kenny. She climbed in

behind the wheel and slid the seat all the way forward and

cranked the engine.

She turned off of I-70 onto 24. According to her map,

this stretch of highway ran forty-four miles to a nothing

town called Hanksville. From her experience, it didn’t get

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much quieter than this barren, lifeless waste of countryside.

Ten miles south, she veered onto a dirt road and

followed it the length of several football fields, until the

highway was almost lost to sight. She killed the engine,

stepped out. Late afternoon. Windless. Soundless. The boys

would be waking soon, and she was already starting to

glow. She opened the guitar case and retrieved the syringe,

gave Kenny and Matt another healthy dose.

By the time she’d wrangled them out of the car into the

desert, dusk had fallen and she’d drenched herself in sweat.

She rolled the men onto their backs and splayed out their

arms and legs so they appeared to be making snow angels

in the dirt.

Lucy removed their shoes and socks. The pair of scissors

was the kind used to cut raw chicken, with thick, serrated

blades. She trimmed off their shirts and cut away their pants

and underwear.

Kenny and Matt had returned to full, roaring consciousness by 1:15 a.m. Naked. Ankles and wrists tightly bound with

deeply scuffed handcuffs, heads helmeted, staring at the

small, plain hitchhiker who squatted down facing them at

the back of the car, blinding them with a hand held

spotlight.

“I didn’t think you were ever going to wake up,” Lucy said.

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“What the hell are you doing?” Matt looked angry.

Kenny said, “These cuffs hurt. Get them off.”

She held a locking carabiner attached to a chain that

ran underneath the Subaru. She clipped it onto another pair

of carabiners. A rope fed through each one, and the ends

of the ropes had been tied to the handcuffs on the boys’

ankles.

“Oh my God, she’s crazy, dude.”

“Lucy, please. Don’t. We’ll give you anything you want.

We won’t tell anyone.”

She smiled. “That’s really sweet of you, Matt, but this is

what I want. Kind of have my heart set on it.”

She stepped over the tangle of chain and rope and moved

toward the driver’s door as the boys hollered after her.

She left the hatch open so she could hear them. Kept

looking back as she drove slowly, so slowly, along the dirt

road. They were still begging her, and occasionally yelling

when they dragged over a rock or a cactus, but she got them

to the shoulder of Highway 24 with only minor injuries.

The moon was up and nearly full. She could see five

miles of the road in either direction, so perfectly empty

and black, and she wondered if the way it touched her

in this moment felt anything like how the beauty of the

those mountains she’d seen this morning touched normal

people.

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Lucy buckled her seatbelt and glanced in the rearview

mirror. Matt had climbed to his feet, and he hobbled toward

the car.

“Hey, no fair!” she yelled and gave the accelerator a

little gas, jerking his feet out from under him. “All right,

count of three. We’ll start small with half a mile!”

She grasped the steering wheel, heart pumping. She’d

done this a half dozen times but never with helmets.

“One! Two! Three!”

She reset the odometer and eased onto the accelerator.

Five, ten, fifteen, twenty miles per hour, and the boys

already beginning to scream. At four-tenths of a mile, she

hit forty, and in the rearview mirror, Kenny’s and Matt’s

pale and naked bodies writhed in full-throated agony, both

trying to sit up and grab the rope and failing as they slid

across the pavement on their bare backs, dragged by their

cuffed ankles, the chains throwing gorgeous yellow sparks

against the asphalt.

She eased off the gas and pulled over onto the shoulder.

Collected the spray bottle and the artificial leech from

the guitar case, unbuckled, jumped out, and went to the

boys. They lay on their backs, blood pooling beneath them.

Bone and muscle already showing through in many places

where the skin had simply been erased, and Kenny must

have rolled briefly onto his right elbow, because it had been

sanded down to a sharp spire of bone.

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“Please,” Matt croaked. “Oh, God, please.”

“You don’t know how beautiful you look,” she said, “but

I’m gonna make you even prettier.”

She spritzed them with pure, organic lemon juice,

especially their backs, which looked like raw hamburger,

then knelt down with the artificial leech she’d stolen from

a medical museum in Phoenix several years ago. Using it

always made her think fondly of Luther and Orson.

She stuck each of them twenty times with the

artificial leech, and to the heartwarming depth of their

new screams, skipped back to the car and hopped in and

stomped the gas, their cries rising into something like

the baying of hounds, Lucy howling back. She pushed the

Subaru past fifty, to sixty, to seventy-five, and in the

illumination of the spotlight, the boys bounced

along the pavement, on their backs, their sides, their

stomachs, and with every passing second looking more

and more lovely, and still making those delicious screams

she could almost taste, Lucy driving with no headlights,

doing eighty under the moon, and the cold winter

wind rushing through the windows like the breath

of God.

She made it five miles (no one had ever lasted five miles

and she credited those well-made snowboarding helmets)

before the skeletons finally went quiet.

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Lucy ditched what was left of the boys and drove all

night like she’d done six blasts of coke, arriving in Salt Lake

as the sun edged up over the mountains. She checked into

a Red Roof Inn and ran a hot bath and cleaned the new

blood and the old blood out of the ropes and let the

carabiners and the chains and the handcuffs soak

in the soapy water.

In the evening she awoke, that dark weight perched on

her chest again. The guitar case items had dried, and she

packed them away and dressed and headed out. The motel

stood along the interstate, and it came down to Applebee’s

or Chili’s.

She went with the latter, because she loved their Awesome

Blossom.

After dinner, she walked outside and stared at the Subaru

in the parking lot, the black rot flooding back inside of her,

that restless, awful energy that could never be fully sated,

those seconds of release never fully quenching, like water

tinged with salt. She turned away from the Subaru and

walked along the frontage road until she came to a hole in

the fence. Ducked through. Scrambled down to the shoulder

of the interstate.

Traffic was moderate, the night cold and starry. A line of

cars approached, bottled up behind a Winnebago.

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She walked under the bridge, set down her guitar case,

and stuck out her thumb.

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Donaldson pulled over onto the shoulder and lowered

the passenger window. The girl was young and tiny, wearing

a wool cap despite the relative warmth.

“Where you headed?” He winked before he said it, his

smile genuine.

“Missoula,” Lucy answered.

“Got a gig up there?” He pointed his chin at her guitar

case.

She shrugged.

“Well, I’m going north. If you chip in for gas, and promise not to sing any show tunes, you can hop in.”

The girl seemed to consider it, then nodded. She opened

the rear door and awkwardly fit the guitar case onto the

backseat. Before getting in, she stared at the upholstery on

the front seats.

“What’s with the plastic?” she asked, indicating

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Donaldson’s clear seat covers.

“Sometimes I travel with my dog.”

Lucy squinted at the picture taped to the dashboard—

the portly driver holding a long-haired dachshund.

“What’s its name?”

“Scamp. Loveable little guy. Hates it when I’m away. But

I’m away a lot. I’m a courier. Right now, I’m headed up to

Idaho Falls to pick up a donor kidney.”

Her eyes flitted to the backseat, to a cooler with a biohazard sign on the lid.

“Don’t worry,” he said, taking off his hat and rubbing a hand

through his thinning gray hair. “It’s empty for the time being.”

The girl nodded, started to get in, then stopped. “Would

you mind if I sat in the back? I don’t want to make you feel

like a chauffeur, but I get nauseated riding up front unless

I’m driving.”

Donaldson paused. “Normally I wouldn’t mind, Miss,

but I don’t have any seat belts back there, and I insist my

passengers wear one. Safety first, I always say.”

“Of course. Can’t be too careful. Cars can be dangerous.”

“Indeed they can. Indeed.”

The front passenger door squeaked open, and the girl

hopped in. Donaldson watched her buckle up, and then he

accelerated back onto the highway.

Grinning at her, he rubbed his chin and asked, “So what’s

your name, little lady?”

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“I’m Lucy.” She looked down at the center console. A

Big Gulp sweated in the drink holder. She reached into her

pocket and looked at the man and smiled. “I really appreciate

you picking me up. I don’t think I caught your name.”

“Donaldson. Pleased to meet you.”

“Is that really your last name, or are you one of those guys

who have a last name for a first name?”

“No, that’s my first.”

They drove in silence for a mile, Donaldson glancing

between the girl and the road.

“Highway’s packed this time of day. I bet we’d make

better time on the county roads. Less traffic. If that’s okay

with you, of course.”

“I was actually just going to suggest that,” Lucy said.

“Weird.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to do anything to make you feel

uncomfortable.” Donaldson glanced down at Lucy’s pocket.

“Pretty young thing like yourself might get nervous driving

off the main drag. In fact, you don’t see many young lady

hitchers these days. I think horror movies scared them all

away. Everyone’s worried about climbing into the car with

a maniac.”

Donaldson chuckled.

“I love county roads,” Lucy said. “Much prettier scenery,

don’t you think?”

He nodded, taking the next exit, and Lucy leaned over,

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almost into his lap, and glanced at the gas gauge.

“You’re running pretty low there. Your reserve light’s

on. Why don’t we stop at this gas station up ahead. I’ll put

twenty in the tank. I also need something to drink. This

mountain air is making my throat dry.”

Donaldson shifted in his seat. “Oh, that light just came

on, and I can get fifty miles on reserve. This is a Honda, you

know.”

“But why push our luck? And I’m really thirsty,

Donaldson.”

“Here.” He lifted his Big Gulp. “It’s still half full.”

“No offense, but I don’t drink after strangers, and I um…

this is embarrassing…I have a cold sore in my mouth.”

The gas station was coming up fast, and by all accounts

it appeared to be the last stop before the county road started

its climb into the mountains, into darkness.

“Who am I to say no to a lady?” Donaldson said.

He tapped the brakes and coasted into the station. It

had probably been there for forty years, and hadn’t updated

since then. Donaldson sidled up to an old-school pump—one

with a meter where the numbers actually scrolled up, built

way back when closed-circuit cameras were something out

of a science fiction magazine.

Donaldson peered over Lucy, into the small store. A

bored female clerk sat behind the counter, apparently asleep.

White trash punching the minimum wage clock, not one to

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pay much attention.

“The tank’s on your side,” Donaldson said. “I don’t think

these old ones take credit cards.”

“I can pay cash inside. I buy, you fly.”

Donaldson nodded. “Okay. I’m fine with doin’ the

pumpin’. Twenty, you said?”

“Yeah. You want anything?”

“If they have any gum that isn’t older than I am, pick me

up a pack. I’ve got an odd taste in my mouth for some

reason.”

Lucy got out of the car. Donaldson opened the glove

compartment and quickly shoved something into his coat

pocket. Then he set the parking brake, pocketed the keys,

and followed her out.

While Donaldson stood pumping gas into the Honda,

Lucy walked across the oil-stained pavement and into

the store. The clerk didn’t acknowledge her entrance, just

sat staring at a small black-and-white television airing

Jeopardy, her chin propped up in her hand and a Marlboro

Red with a one-inch ash trailing smoke toward the ceiling.

Lucy walked down the aisle to the back of the store and

picked a Red Bull out of the refrigerated case. At the drink

fountain, she went with the smallest size—sixteen ounces—

and filled the cup with ice to the brim, followed by a little

Dr. Pepper, Mountain Dew, Pepsi, and Orange Fanta.

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She glanced back toward the entrance and through the

windows. Donaldson was still fussing with the pump. She

reached into her pocket and withdrew the syringe. Uncapped the needle, shot a super-size squirt of liquid Oxycontin

into the bubbling soda.

At the counter, she chose a pack of Juicy Fruit and

pushed the items forward.

The clerk tore herself away from a video Daily Double

and rang up the purchase.

“$24.52.”

Lucy looked up from her wallet. “How much of that is

gas?”

“Twenty.”

“Shit, I told him just do fifteen. Here.” She put a Jefferson

on the filthy counter. “I’ll send him in with the balance, ’cause

this is all I’ve got.”

“Don’t be trying to steal my gas.”

Donaldson was screwing on the gas cap when Lucy

walked up. She said, “They still need five bucks. I’m sorry. It

came to more than twenty with the drinks and gum. I’m out

of cash.”

“No ATM?”

“Here? Lucky they have electricity. I’ll get you next stop.”

She flashed a shy grin, sashaying her fingers through the air.

“Cross my heart and hope to die.”

He just stared at her for a moment, then turned and

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started toward the store. Lucy opened the front passenger

door and traded out Donaldson’s Big Gulp for the fresh drink.

She tossed the bucket-size cup into a trashcan between the

pumps and climbed in.

Donaldson was at the counter. Lucy glanced into the

backseat at the cooler with the biohazard sign. She looked

into the convenience store, back at the cooler, then spun

quickly around in her seat and reached back toward the lid.

Empty. The inside a dull, stained white. She closed it

again.

Donaldson’s footsteps slapped at the pavement. She

settled back into her seat as he opened his door. The chassis

bounced when he eased his bulk behind the wheel.

“Sorry about that,” Lucy said. “I thought I had another

ten. I could swear my snowboarder friend gave me some

cash.” She stuck out her lower lip, pouting. “I got you some

gum. And a new drink.”

Donaldson frowned, but he took the Juicy Fruit, ran it

under his nose.

“Thank you, kindly. Fresh soda too, huh?”

Lucy cracked open the Red Bull and nodded.

“Cheers. To new friends.” She took a sip. A trail of pink

liquid dribbled down the corner of her mouth, hugging her

chin and neck, dampening her shirt.

Donaldson shifted in his chair and reached for the cup.

He sipped on the straw and made a face.

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“What flavor is this?”

“I didn’t know what you liked,” Lucy said. “So I got you a

little of everything.”

Donaldson chuckled his approval, then turned the key

and put the car into gear.

The winding county road ahead was pitch black, like

driving through ink. Donaldson sipped his soda. Lucy

watched him closely, taking periodic nips at her energy

drink. The cool, dry air seemed to crackle with electricity

as they climbed into the mountains.

“So is that really a guitar in that case?” Donaldson asked

after five miles of silence.

“What do you think?”

“I’ll be honest with you, darlin’. You’re a bit of a mystery to

me. I’ve been around, but I’m not sure what to make of you.”

“How so?”

“You’re young. But you’ve heard of Vietnam, I’m

guessing.”

“I loved Platoon. ”

Donaldson nodded. “Well then, you were practically

there in the rice paddies with me, going toe-to-toe with the

Cong.”

He drank more soda. Lucy watched.

“Took some shrapnel in my hip in Ca Lu,” Donaldson

said. “Nicked my sciatic nerve. Biggest nerve in the body.

Pain sometimes gets so bad I can chew through a bath towel.

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Do you understand pain, little girl?”

“More so than you’d think.”

“So you should know, then, opiates and I are friends

from way back.” Donaldson took a big pull off the soda. “So

spiking my drink here hasn’t done much more than make

me a little horny. Actually a lot horny.” Donaldson turned

to Lucy. “You’re about as musical as I am Christian. So you

want to tell me what your game is, or do I take you over

my knee and spank you right now like the naughty girl

you are?”

Lucy said, “It’s Oxycontin. Did they have that back in

’Nam, gramps? And you being one fat bastard, I squirted two

hundred and fifty milligrams into your drink. I’m not some

frat boy trying to roofie up a chunky freshman. I gave you

the rhino dose.”

She tested the weight of the Styrofoam cup. “Jesus, you’ve

already gone through half of it? I’m actually more concerned

you’re going to die of a drug overdose instead of the fun

I have planned.”

She reached across the seat and squeezed his leg. “Look,

you will be losing consciousness shortly, so we don’t have

much time. Pull the car over. I’d like to take you up on that

spanking.”

Donaldson stared at her, blinked hard twice, and stomped

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reinforced dashboard. Donaldson shook his head, then

swiped the zip tie from his pocket. He grabbed a handful

of wool cap and the hair beneath it and yanked Lucy up off

the floor. She fought hard, but weight and strength won out

and he cinched her hands behind her back.

Donaldson glanced through the windshield, then checked

the rearview mirror. Darkness.

Lucy laughed through her shattered nose and ran her

tongue along her swollen upper lip and gums—two front

teeth MIA.

Donaldson blinked and shook his head again. Pulled off

the road onto the shoulder.

“We’re gonna have some fun, little girl,” he said. “And

two hundred and fifty milligrams is like candy to me.”

He ran a clumsy paw across her breasts, squeezing hard,

then turned his attention to the backseat.

The guitar case had two clasps, one on the body, one on

the neck.

Donaldson slapped the left side of his face three times

and then opened the case.

A waft of foulness seeped out of the velvet-lined guitar lid,

although the contents didn’t seem to be the source—a length

of chain. Four pairs of handcuffs. Three carabiners. Vials of

liquid Oxycontin. Cutlery shears. A creepy-looking instrument

with six blades at one end. A spotlight. A small spray bottle.

Two coils of climbing rope. And a snowboarding helmet.

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The front passenger door squeaked open and Donaldson

spun around as Lucy fell backward out of the car. He lunged

into her seat, but she kicked the door. It slammed into his

face, his chin crunching his mouth closed, and as the door

recoiled, he saw Lucy struggling onto her feet, her wrists

still bound behind her back.

She disappeared into the woods.

Donaldson took a moment, fumbling for the door

handle. He found it, but paused.

He adjusted the rearview mirror, grinning to see the

blood between his teeth.

“Should we let this one go, sport? Or show the little

missus that there are things a lot scarier than a guitar case

full of bondage shit?”

Donaldson winked at his reflection, tugged out the keys,

yanked up the brake, and shoved his door open. He weaved

over to the trunk, a stupid grin on his face, got the right key

in on the third try.

Among the bottles of bleach solution, the rolls of paper

towels, the gas cans, and the baby wipes, Donaldson grabbed

the only weapon an upstanding citizen could legally carry

without harassment from law enforcement.

The tire iron clenched in his hand, he bellowed at the

woods.

“I’m coming for you, Lucy! And there won’t be any drugs

to dull your pain!”

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He stumbled into the forest after her, his erection

beginning to blossom.

She crouched behind a juniper tree, the zip tie digging

into her wrists. Absolute darkness in the woods, nothing to

see, but everything to hear.

Donaldson yelled, “Don’t hide from me, little girl! It’ll

just make me angry!”

His heavy footsteps crunched in the leaves. Lucy eased

down onto her butt and leaned back, legs in the air, then slid

her bound wrists up the length of them. Donaldson stumbled

past her tree, invisible, less than ten feet away.

“Lucy? Where are you?” His words slurred. “I just wanna

talk.”

“I’m over here, big boy! Still waiting for that spanking!”

His footsteps abruptly stopped. Dead quiet for thirty

seconds, and then the footsteps started up again, heading in

her general direction.

“Oh, no, please,” she moaned. “Don’t hurt me, Donaldson.

I’m so afraid you’ll hurt me.”

He was close now, and she turned and started back toward

the road, her hands out in front of her to prevent collision

with a tree.

A glint of light up ahead—the Honda’s windshield

catching a piece of moonlight.

Lucy emerged from the woods, her hands throbbing

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from circulation loss. She stumbled into the car and turned

around to watch the treeline.

“Come on, big boy! I’m right here! You can make it!”

Donaldson staggered out of the woods holding a tire

iron, and when the moon struck his eyes, they were already

half-closed.

He froze.

He opened his mouth to say something, but fell over

instead, dropping like an old, fat tree.

Donaldson opened his eyes and lifted his head. Dawn

and freezing cold. He lay in weeds at the edge of the woods,

his head resting in a padded helmet. His wrists had been

cuffed, hands purple from lack of blood flow, and his ankles

were similarly bound. He was naked and glazed with dew,

and as the world came into focus, he saw that one of those

carabiners from Lucy’s guitar case had been clipped to his

ankle cuffs. A climbing rope ran from that carabiner to

another carabiner, which was clipped to a chain which was

wrapped around the trailer hitch of his Honda.

The driver-side door opened and Lucy got out, walked

down through the weeds. She came over and sat on his chest,

giving him a missing-toothed smile.

“Morning, Donaldson. You of all people will appreciate

what’s about to happen.”

Donaldson yawned, then winked at her. “Aren’t you just

the prettiest thing to wake up to?”

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Lucy batted her eyelashes.

“Thank you. That’s sweet. Now, the helmet is so you

don’t die too fast. Head injuries ruin the fun. We’ll go slow

in the beginning. Barely walking speed. Then we’ll speed up

a bit when we get you onto asphalt. The last ones screamed

for five miles. They where skeletons when I finally pulled

over. But you’re so heavy, I think you just might break that

record.”

“I have some bleach spray in the trunk,” Donaldson said.

“You might want to spritz me with that first, make it hurt

even more.”

“I prefer lemon juice, but it’s no good until after the

first half mile.”

Donaldson laughed.

“You think this is a joke?”

He shook his head. “No. But when you have the opportunity to kill, you should kill. Not talk.”

Donaldson sat up, quick for a man his size, and rammed

his helmet into Lucy’s face. As she reeled back, he caught

her shirt with his swollen hands and rolled on top of her,

his bulk making her gasp.

“The keys,” he ordered. “Undo my hands, right now.”

Lucy tried to talk, but her lungs were crushed. Donaldson

shifted and she gulped in some air.

“In...the...guitar case...”

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ally, I think suffocation is the way to go. All that panic and

struggle. Dragging some poor sap behind you? Where’s the

fun in that? Hell, you can’t even see it without taking your

eyes off the road, and that’s a dangerous way to drive, girl.”

Lucy’s eyes bulged, her face turning scarlet.

“Poc...ket.”

“Take your time. I’ll wait.”

Lucy managed to fish out the handcuff keys. Donaldson

shifted again, giving her a fraction more room, and she

unlocked a cuff from one of his wrists.

He winced, his face getting mean.

“Now let me tell you about the survival of the fittest, little

lady. There’s a...”

The chain suddenly jerked, tugging Donaldson across the

ground. He clutched Lucy.

“Where are the car keys, you stupid bitch?”

“In the ignition...”

“You didn’t set the parking brake! Give me the handcuff

key!”

The car crept forward, beginning to pick up speed as it

rolled quietly down the road.

The skin of Donaldson’s right leg tore against the

ground, peeling off, and the girl pounded on him, fighting to

get away.

“The key!” he howled, losing his grip on her. He clawed

at her waist, her hips, and snagged her foot.

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Lucy screamed when the cuff snicked tightly around

her ankle.

“No! No no no!” She tried to sit up, to work the key into

the lock, but they hit a hole and it bounced from her grasp.

They were dragged off the dirt and onto the road.

Lucy felt the pavement eating through her trench coat,

Donaldson in hysterics as it chewed through the fat of his

ass, and the car still accelerating down the five-percent

grade.

At thirty miles per hour, the fibers of Lucy’s trench

coat were sanded away, along with her camouflage panties,

and just as she tugged a folding knife out of her pocket and

began to hack at the flesh of her ankle, the rough county road

began to grind through her coccyx.

She dropped the knife and they screamed together for

two of the longest miles of their wretched lives, until the

road curved and the Honda didn’t, and the car and Lucy and

Donaldson all punched together through a guardrail and

took the fastest route down the mountain.

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EPILoGUE ThE NExT DAy, LoCATIoN UNkNoWN

The TV droned on in the background.

“…is Gregory Donaldson, age 56, who was in the news

a week ago for assaulting a police officer in Wisconsin.

He’s been linked to over fifty homicides going back thirty

years, and found hidden in the upholstery of his vehicle was

a large collection of Polaroid pictures, apparently showing

him viciously murdering numerous victims. The woman

chained to Donaldson, as of yet unidentified, is described

as a person of interest by the FBI. They’ve just released

a statement suggesting that fingerprint and DNA evidence

could point to her being a serial killer. A task force has

been formed to try and close the books on dozens of unsolved murders spanning nineteen states that this duo

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may have been responsible for.

“This is the arresting officer in the recent Marshal Otis

Taylor case, Chicago Homicide Lieutenant Jacqueline

Daniels, who encountered Donaldson eight days ago at a

Murray’s truck stop on Interstate 39 in Wisconsin during

her confrontation with Taylor.”

The scene on the television changed from the trenchcoated reporter standing in front of the hospital to an

attractive woman in a pantsuit being mobbed by reporters in

a parking lot.

“There are predators out there,” the cop said. “We’ve

been lucky to nail three in a week. But there are others. Many

others. Recreational killers are incredibly hard to catch, but

even the smartest of them screw up eventually.”

Hmm, Luther thought, turning his attention from the

television set to the crying, bleeding man hanging from the

ceiling.

Jacqueline Daniels… I really should look her up.

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For the continuing adventures of Mr. K, read SHAKEN,

the 7th Jack Daniels thriller by J.A. Konrath.

For the continuing adventures of Orson and Luther,

read DESERT PLACES and LOCKED DOORS by Blake Crouch.

For the continuing adventures of Taylor, read AFRAID by

Jack Kilborn.

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AFTERWoRD

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In Which Blake and Joe Interview Each Other About the

Experience of Writing SERIAL and SERIAL UNCUT.

BLAKE I know it must be a great thrill getting to work with

me, probably the real reason you wanted to become a writer

in the first place. Did the experience live up to the dream?

JOE I can’t remember where we met for the first time.

I think it was Jon Jordan (editor of the Crimespree zine) who

gave me one of your books and said, “Read this, this guy is

sick like you.” He was right. But to answer your question,

yes, the experience lived up to the dream. I’ve collaborated

on stories with several authors (Jeff Strand, Henry Perez,

Tom Schreck, F. Paul Wilson) but nothing ever came so fast

and furious, with so little need for revision. We cranked out

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almost 8000 words in something like five hours. This might

be a good place to talk about our co-writing process.

BLAKE You pitched this idea to me in an email: “Now, let’s

consider hitchhiking. You aren’t supposed to go hitch hiking,

because the driver who picks you up could be crazy. You

aren’t supposed to pick up hitchhikers, because they could

be crazy. Now if we were to collaborate, I write a scene where

a driver kills someone he picked up. You write a scene where

a hitchhiker kills the guy who gave him a ride. Then we get

these two together...”

I was immediately hooked. As I recall, we each wrote

our sections in isolation, and we didn’t share them with

each other. When they were as good as they could be, you

emailed me 200 words to kick off section 3, and I wrote

back the next hundred words or so. You write much faster

than I do so you pretty much just harassed me until I

would email you back with my scene, or rather, my response

to what your character had done. Do you remember the

ground rules we came up with for writing section 3 together?

I don’t think we had an end in mind when we started.

Didn’t we just let it flow organically and hope it came out

all right?

JOE We had no ending planned, and we weren’t allowed

to get into our character’s thoughts. It was a straight third189

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person observational point-of-view, with no head-hopping.

Sort of like a screenplay. The action had to be on the page.

BLAKE What made this so fun for me was that it was like

playing chess with words. I created my very evil character

and gave her a certain MO. You created the vastly demented

Donaldson and gave him an MO, however as we began to

email back and forth the text for section 3, we didn’t know

anything about each others’ characters. In fact, I tried to get

my girl to sit in the backseat, but you wouldn’t let her. You

insisted she sit up front. I didn’t know why, but I knew it

couldn’t be good.

JOE It was like we were really trying to kill each other.

Which was fun to do with you, because you’re just as twisted

as I am. You were writing LOCKED DOORS at the same time

I was writing RUSTY NAIL, and we both wound up with

a similar gimmick independent of one another; all serial

killers have families.

BLAKE You and I share a similar sensibility in the darker

side of fiction. There have been other instances when we were

working on projects that had similarities. Like in AFRAID

and SNOWBOUND when we both wrote scenes with wolves

and bear traps. We also both love beer.

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JOE I’m about eight years older, so I’ve loved beer longer

than you have. Might be worth doing a brief bio here, for those

who haven’t read us before. I write thrillers under the name

J.A. Konrath, about a cop named Jack Daniels who chases

serial killers. The books have some laughs, but also contain

a lot of dark, scary parts, very much like the Taylor section

of this novella.

Over the years I’ve gotten a fair amount of mail from fans,

asking if I would ever do a scary book without any jokes.

AFRAID was the result. Because it’s no-holds-barred horror,

I used a pen name, Jack Kilborn.

BLAKE My first two books featured suspense writer

Andrew Thomas, who gets pulled into a nightmarish

world even worse than the ones he writes about. My latest

book, SNOWBOUND, is coming out June 2010. It deals with

human trafficking, a missing mother/wife, the Alaskan

mob, and an elite Mexican ex-paratrooper group who are

muscle for the drug cartels (they’re real and they are so

freaking terrifying I don’t even call them by name in the

book). Want to talk about all the negative reviews SERIAL

has gotten?

JOE Man, people sure are vocal in their hatred of this story.

There have been hundreds of negative reviews on Amazon,

Sony, B&N, and Apple, saying how sick and disgusting the

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story is, and how we’re both monsters for writing such a thing.

First of all, it’s a horror story. Horror is supposed to

push boundaries and freak people out. What did they expect

downloading a story about serial killers? Dr. Seuss?

Second, SERIAL was free, for heaven’s sake. It’s not like

anyone was ripped off by us. They get it for nothing, then

tear it to shreds because they don’t like horror. If I didn’t

find it so funny, I might be a little hurt.

BLAKE There have been some classic negative reviews.

Clearly, a large group of people just downloaded SERIAL

because it was free, without reading the explicit and

redundant warnings you and I both went out of our way

to post. The woman who wrote that she wanted to have a

priest bless her Kindle and sprinkle holy water on it after

it had been infected by SERIAL was my personal favorite.

Did you notice that a new word was created in some of the

reviews? I noted several people wanted to “unread” it.

JOE I also liked those who said that “free was too much

money” and “I wish I could rate this lower than 1 star.” I’d love

to watch some of those haters read this uncut version. And

then go to therapy to unread it.

BLAKE SERIAL UNCUT was your idea. How’d it come

about?

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JOE I’d been wanting to do this uncut version of SERIAL

ever since I wrote TRUCK STOP. With TRUCK STOP, my

goal was to unite the Jack Daniels series with the Jack

Kilborn books. But then we got so many bad reviews saying

how graphic SERIAL was, when in reality most of the

violence is understated and off the page, that I started

wondering what would happen if we really did pull out all

the stops. If we added TRUCK STOP to SERIAL, and then

put even more material tying it in with your novels, this

would actually be a short book. A short book about six

horrible yet very different serial killers, that linked together

the majority of both of our work.

BLAKE From the first time you mentioned expanding

SERIAL, I knew I wanted to do it, because I thought it

would be fun to write some more about Lucy. And what

you did with TRUCK STOP and bringing in characters

from AFRAID and your Jack Daniels series seemed like

so much fun. If you’ll recall, my pre-SERIAL Lucy

story was actually conceived in the Hyatt hot tub in

Indianapolis at Bouchercon 2009 (the world mystery

convention). You and I were talking about expanding

SERIAL and what I could do with Lucy, and I came

up with the idea of bringing in Orson, Luther, and Andy

Thomas. Since we were at a mystery convention, and since

Andrew Thomas is essentially a dark mystery writer,

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it made sense to set my pre-SERIAL Lucy story at a

Bouchercon-type of convention.

JOE From my end, putting this together was really easy.

The opening section, where we learn how Donaldson got

his start, practically wrote itself. Part of the fun of writing

the original SERIAL was having two killers playing cat and

mouse. With TRUCK STOP, I decided to see if killers could

actually play well together. The opening scene, with

Donaldson and Mr. K, was a nice precursor to those two

scenes. Readers interested in the further adventures of

Mr. K can find him as the main villain in the next Jack

Daniels novel, called SHAKEN. Do you think it’s more fun

to write for the bad guys than the good guys?

BLAKE Bad guys are without a doubt so much more fun

to write. And I don’t know what this says about me, but

I definitely find them easier to write. The idea of killers

playing well together certainly was the foundation of

my Lucy/Orson/Luther section as well. We think of serial

killers as these loners, societal outcasts who can’t connect

to other human beings. I think it’s fascinating to consider

two such outcasts (or three in my case) finding each other

and comparing notes.

My next novel coming up is called SNOWBOUND. It’s a

thriller about the search for a missing girl, and the horri194

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fying place the search leads. What’s up next for you?

JOE Besides SHAKEN, I’ve written two books in the

TIMECASTER science fiction series under the pen name

Joe Kimball. They take place in 2056, and the hero is Jack

Daniels’s grandson. I’ve also written two more Jack Kilborn

horror novels that should be coming out soon. The working

titles for them are TRAPPED and ENDURANCE, but titles

change all the time, and I don’t know what they’ll eventually

wind up being called. TRAPPED is sort of a semi-sequel

to AFRAID, but it’s a lot more visceral. ENDURANCE is

also pretty intense. I also have a ton of ebooks available,

including a lot of thriller and horror books and stories.

What’s up with you on the ebook front?

BLAKE I just uploaded a short story collection to

Kindle called FOUR LIVE ROUNDS, and a horror novella

called PERFECT LITTLE TOWN, and possibly an early

novel. Jeroen ten Berge, the genius behind the SERIAL

graphic design and illustrations (and my website) is

designing amazing covers for these eBooks. He has a

great website at www.jeroentenberge.com.

JOE Jeroen rocks.

BLAKE There’s a bibliography after this interview,

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along with some excerpts of AFRAID, SHAKEN, and

SNOWBOUND. So what’s next? Are we going to do a Jack

Daniels/Luther story?

JOE Hell yeah, we are. And I’m not sure we’re entirely

done with SERIAL yet. Careful readers will notice that we

never say Donaldson and Lucy are dead. I think we have a

few more tales to tell about these horrible characters…

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BIBLIoGRAPhy

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Jack Daniels series by J.A. Konrath:

• Whiskey Sour

• Bloody Mary

• Rusty Nail

• Dirty Martini

• Fuzzy Navel

• Cherry Bomb

• Shaken (featuring Mr. K)

Exclusive ebooks by J.A. Konrath:

• 55 Proof – Short Story Omnibus

• Origin

• The List

• Disturb

• Shot of Tequila

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• Crime Stories – Collected Short Stories

• Horror Stories – Collected Short Stories

• Jack Daniels Stories – Collected Short Stories

• Suckers by J.A. Konrath and Jeff Strand

• Planter’s Punch by J.A. Konrath and Tom Schreck

• Floaters by J.A. Konrath and Henry Perez

• SERIAL by Blake Crouch and Jack Kilborn

(included in SERIAL UNCUT)

• Truck Stop by Jack Kilborn and J.A. Konrath

(included in SERIAL UNCUT)

Writing as Jack Kilborn:

• Afraid (featuring Taylor)

• Trapped

• Endurance

Non-Fiction

• The Newbie’s Guide to Publishing

Visit Joe at www.jakonrath.com

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By Blake Crouch

• Desert Places (featuring Andrew, Orson and Luther)

• Locked Doors (sequel to Desert Places)

• Abandon

• Snowbound

Exclusive ebooks by Blake Crouch:

• SERIAL by Blake Crouch and Jack Kilborn

(included in SERIAL UNCUT)

• Four Live Rounds – Collected Short Stories

• Perfect Little Town

Visit Blake at www.blakecrouch.com

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ThE FoLLoWING IS AN ExCERPT oF AFRAID By

JACk kILBoRN, NoW AvAILABLE EvERyWhERE BookS

ARE SoLD FRoM GRAND CENTRAL PUBLIShING…

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The hunter’s moon, a shade of orange so dark it appeared to

be filled with blood, hung fat and low over the mirror surface

of Big Lake McDonald. Sal Morton took in a lungful of crisp

Wisconsin air, shifted on his seat cushion, and cast his Lucky

13 over the stern. The night of fishing had been uneventful; a

few small bass earlier in the evening, half a dozen Northern

Pike—none bigger than a pickle—and then, nothing. The zip

of his baitcaster unspooling and the plop of the bait hitting

the water were the only sounds he’d heard for the last hour.

Until the helicopter exploded.

It was already over the water before Sal noticed it. Black,

without any lights, silhouetted by the moon. And quiet.

Twenty years ago Sal had taken his wife Maggie on a helicopter

ride at the Dells, both of them forced to ride with their hands

clamped over their ears to muffle the sound. This one made a

fraction of that noise. It hummed, like a refrigerator.

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The chopper came over the lake on the east side, low

enough that its downdraft produced large eddies and waves.

So close to the water Sal wondered if its wake might overturn

his twelve foot aluminum boat. He ducked as it passed over

him, knocking off his Packers baseball cap, scattering lures,

lifting several empty Schmidt beer cans and tossing them

overboard.

Sal dropped his pole next to his feet and gripped the sides

of the boat, moving his body against the pitch and yaw. When

capsizing ceased to be a fear, Sal squinted at the helicopter for

a tag, a marking, some sort of ID, but it lacked both writing

and numbers. It might as well have been a black ghost.

Three heartbeats later the helicopter had crossed the

thousand yard expanse of lake and dipped down over the tree

line on the opposite shore. What was a helicopter doing in

Safe Haven? Especially at night? Why was it flying so low?

And why did it appear to have landed near his house?

Then came the explosion.

He felt it a moment after he saw it. A vibration in his feet,

as if someone had hit the bow with a bat. Then a soft warm

breeze on his face, carrying mingling scents of burning wood

and gasoline. The cloud of flames and smoke went up at least

fifty feet.

After watching for a moment, Sal retrieved his pole

and reeled in his lure, then pulled the starter cord on his 7.5

horsepower Evinrude. The motor didn’t turn over. The second

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and third yank yielded similar results. Sal swore and began to

play with the choke, wondering if Maggie was scared by the

crash, hoping she was all right.

Maggie Morton awoke to what she thought was thunder.

Storms in upper Wisconsin could be as mean as anywhere on

earth, and in the twenty-six years they’d owned this house

she and Sal had to replace several cracked windows and half

the roof due to weather damage.

She opened her eyes, listened for the dual accompaniment

of wind and rain. Strangely, she heard neither.

Maggie squinted at the red blur next to the bed, groped

for her glasses, pushed them on her face. The blur focused

and became the time: 10:46

“Sal?” she called. She repeated it, louder, in case he was

downstairs.

No answer. Sal usually fished until midnight, so his

absence didn’t alarm her. She considered flipping on the

light, but investigating the noise that woke her held much

less appeal than the soft down pillow and the warm flannel

sheets tucked under her chin. Maggie removed her glasses,

returned them to the night stand, and went back to sleep.

The sound of the front door opening roused her sometime

later.

“Sal?”

She listened to the footfalls below her, the wooden floors

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creaking. First in the hallway, and then into the kitchen.

“Sal!” Louder this time. After thirty-five years of marriage,

her husband’s ears were just one of many body parts that

seemed to be petering out on him. Maggie had talked to him

about getting a hearing aid, but whenever she brought up the

topic he smiled broadly and pretended not to hear her, and

they both wound up giggling. Funny, when they were in the

same room. Not funny when they were on different floors and

Maggie needed his attention.

“Sal!”

No answer.

Maggie considered banging on the floor, and wondered

what the point would be. She knew the man downstairs was

Sal. Who else could it be?

Right?

Their lake house was the last one on Gold Star Road, and

their nearest neighbor, the Kinsels, resided over half a mile

down the shore and had left for the season. The solitude was

one of the reasons the Mortons bought this property. Unless

she went to town to shop, Maggie would often go days without

seeing another human being, not counting her husband. The

thought of someone else being in their home was ridiculous.

Reassured by that thought, Maggie closed her eyes.

She opened them a moment later, when the sound of

the microwave carried up the stairs. Then came the muffled

machine-gun report of popcorn popping. Sal shouldn’t be

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eating at this hour. The doctor had warned him about that,

and how it aggravated his acid reflux disease, which in turn

aggravated Maggie with his constant tossing and turning all

night.

She sighed, annoyed, and sat up in bed.

“Sal! The doctor said no late night snacks!”

No answer. Maggie wondered if Sal indeed had a hearing

problem, or if he simply used that as an excuse for not

listening to her. This time she did swing a foot off the bed

and stomp on the floor, three times, with her heel.

She waited for his response.

Got none.

Maggie did it again, and followed it up with yelling, “Sal!”

loud as she could.

Ten seconds passed.

Ten more.

Then she heard the sound of the downstairs toilet flush.

Anger coursed through Maggie. Her husband had

obviously heard her, and was ignoring her. That wasn’t like

Sal at all.

Then, almost like a blush, a wave of doubt overtook her.

What if the person downstairs wasn’t Sal?

It has to be, she told herself. She hadn’t heard any boats

coming up to the dock, or cars pulling onto their property.

Besides, Maggie was a city girl, born and raised in Chicago.

Twenty-some years in the Northwoods hadn’t broken her of

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the habit of locking doors before going to sleep.

The anger returned. Sal was deliberately ignoring her.

When he came upstairs, she was going to give him a lecture

to end all lectures. Or perhaps she’d ignore him for a while.

Turnabout was fair play.

Comforted by the thought, she closed her eyes. The

familiar sound of Sal’s outboard motor drifted in through

the window, getting closer. That Evinrude was older than Sal

was. Why he didn’t buy a newer, faster motor was beyond her

understanding. One of the reasons she hated going out on the

lake with him was because it stalled all the time and—

Maggie jack-knifed to a sitting position, panic spiking

through her body. If Sal was still out on the boat, then who was

in her house?

She fumbled for her glasses, then picked up the phone

next to her clock. No dial tone. She pressed buttons, but the

phone just wouldn’t work.

Maggie’s breath became shallow, almost a pant. Sal’s

boat drew closer, but he was still several minutes away from

docking. And even when he got home, what then? Sal was an

old man. What could he do against an intruder?

She held her breath, trying to listen to noises from

downstairs. Maggie did hear something, but the sound wasn’t

coming from the lower level. It was coming from the hallway

right outside her bedroom.

The sound of someone chewing popcorn.

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Maggie wondered what she should do. Say something?

Maybe this was all some sort of mistake, some confused

tourist who had walked into the wrong house. Or perhaps

this was a robber, looking for money or drugs. Give him what

he wanted, and he’d leave. No need for anyone to get hurt.

“Who’s there?”

More munching. Closer. He was practically in the room.

She could smell the popcorn now, the butter and salt, and the

odor made her stomach do flip-flops.

“My...medication is in the bathroom cabinet. And my

purse is on the chair by the door. Take it.”

The ruffling of a paper bag, and more chewing. Openmouthed chewing. Loud, like someone smacking gum. Why

wouldn’t he say anything?

“What do you want?”

No answer.

Maggie was shivering now. The tourist scenario was gone

from her head, the robber scenario fading fast. A new scenario

entered Maggie’s mind. The scenario of campfire stories and

horror movies. The boogeyman, hiding under the bed. The

escaped lunatic, searching for someone to hurt, to kill.

Maggie needed to get out of there, to get away. She could

run to the car, or meet Sal on the dock and get into his boat,

or even hide out in the woods. She could hurry to the guest

bedroom, lock the door, open up the window, climb down—

Chewing, right next to the bed. Maggie gasped, pulling

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the flannel sheets to her chest. She squinted into the darkness,

could barely make out the dark figure of a man standing a few

feet away.

The bag rustled. Something touched Maggie’s face and

she gasped. A tiny pat on her cheek. It happened again, on

her forehead, making her flinch. Again, and she swatted out

with her hand, finding the object on the pillow.

Popcorn. He was throwing popcorn at her.

Maggie’s voice came out in a whisper. “What...what are

you going to do?”

The springs creaked as he sat on the edge of the bed.

“Everything,” he said.

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ThE FoLLoWING IS AN ExCERPT oF SNoWBoUND

By BLAkE CRoUCh, AvAILABLE EvERyWhERE FRoM

MINoTAUR BookS IN JUNE 2010…

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1

In the evening of the last good day either of them would

know for years to come, the girl pushed open the sliding glass

door and stepped through onto the back porch.

“Daddy?”

Will Innis set the legal pad aside and made room for Devlin

to climb into his lap. His daughter was small for eleven, felt

like the shell of a child in his arms.

“What are you doing out here?” she asked and in her

scratchy voice he could hear the remnants of her last

respiratory infection like gravel in her lungs.

“Working up a closing for my trial in the morning.”

“Is your client the bad guy again?”

Will smiled. “You and your mother. I’m not really

supposed to think of it that way, sweetheart.”

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“What’d he do?” His little girl’s face had turned ruddy

in the sunset and the fading light brought out threads of

platinum in her otherwise midnight hair.

“He allegedly—”

“What’s that mean?”

“Allegedly?”

“Yeah.”

“Means it’s not been proven. He’s suspected of selling

drugs.”

“Like what I take?”

“No, your drugs are good. They help you. He was selling,

allegedly selling, bad drugs to people.”

“Why are they bad?”

“Because they make you lose control.”

“Why do people take them?”

“They like how it makes them feel.”

“How does it make them feel?”

He kissed her forehead and looked at his watch. “It’s after

eight, Devi. Let’s go bang on those lungs.”

She sighed but she didn’t argue. She never tried to get out

of it.

He stood up cradling his daughter and walked over to the

redwood railing.

They stared into the wilderness that bordered Oasis Hills,

their subdivision. The houses on No-Water Lane had the

Sonoran Desert for a backyard.

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“Look,” he said. “See them?” A half mile away, specks

filed out of an arroyo and trotted across the desert toward a

shadeless forest of giant saguaro cacti that looked vaguely

sinister profiled against the horizon.

“What are they?” she asked.

“Coyotes. What do you bet they start yapping when the

sun goes down?”

After supper, he read to Devlin from A Wrinkle in Time.

They’d been working their way through the penultimate

chapter, “Aunt Beast,” but Devlin was exhausted and drifted

off before Will had finished the second page.

He closed the book and set it on the carpet and turned

out the light. Cool desert air flowed in through an open

window. A sprinkler whispered in the next door neighbor’s

yard. Devlin yawned, made a cooing sound that reminded

him of rocking her to sleep as a newborn. Her eyes fluttered

and she said very softly, “Mom?”

“She’s working late at the clinic, sweetheart.”

“When’s she coming back?”

“Few hours.”

“Tell her to come in and kiss me?”

“I will.”

He was nowhere near ready for court in the morning but

he stayed, running his fingers through Devlin’s hair until

she’d fallen back to sleep. Finally, he slid carefully off the bed

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and walked out onto the deck to gather up his books and legal

pads. He had a late night ahead of him. A pot of strong coffee

would help.

Next door, the sprinklers had gone quiet.

A lone cricket chirped in the desert.

Thunderless lightning sparked somewhere over Mexico,

and the coyotes began to scream.

2

The thunderstorm caught up with Rachael Innis thirty

miles north of the Mexican border. It was 9:30 p.m., and it

had been a long day at the free clinic in Sonoyta, where she

volunteered her time and services once a week as a bilingual

psychologist. The windshield wipers whipped back and

forth. High beams lit the steam rising off the pavement, and

in the rearview mirror, Rachael saw the pair of headlights a

quarter of a mile back that had been with her for the last ten

minutes.

Glowing beads suddenly appeared on the shoulder just

ahead. She jammed her foot into the brake pedal, the Grand

Cherokee fishtailing into the oncoming lane before skidding

to a stop. A doe and her fawn ventured into the middle of

the road, mesmerized by the headlights. Rachael let her

forehead fall onto the steering wheel, closed her eyes, drew

in a deep breath.

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The deer moved on. She accelerated the Cherokee, another

dark mile passing as pellets of hail hammered the hood.

The Cherokee veered sharply toward the shoulder and

she nearly lost control again, trying to correct her bearing,

but the steering wheel wouldn’t straighten out. Rachael

lifted her foot off the gas pedal and eased over onto the

side of the road.

When she killed the ignition all she could hear was the

rain and hail drumming on the roof. The car that had been

following her shot by. She set her glasses in the passenger

seat, opened the door, and stepped down into a puddle that

engulfed her pumps. The downpour soaked through her

black suit. She shivered. It was pitch-black between lightning

strikes and she moved forward carefully, feeling her way

along the warm metal of the hood.

A slash of lightning hit the desert just a few hundred

yards out. It set her body tingling, her ears ringing. I’m going

to be electrocuted. There came a train of earsplitting strikes,

flashbulbs of electricity that lit the sky just long enough for

her to see that the tires on the driver side were still intact.

Her hands trembled now. A tall saguaro stood burning

like a cross in the desert. She groped her way over to the

passenger side as marble-size hail collected in her hair. The

desert was electrified again, spreading wide and empty all

around her.

In the eerie blue light she saw that the front tire on the

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passenger side was flat.

Back inside the Cherokee, Rachael sat behind the steering

wheel, mascara trailing down her cheeks like sable tears. She

wrung out her long black hair and massaged the headache

building between her temples. Her purse lay in the passenger

floorboard. She dragged it into her lap and shoved her hand

inside, rummaging for the cell phone. She found it, tried her

husband’s number, but there was no service in the storm.

Rachael looked into the back of the Cherokee at the spare.

She had no way of contacting AAA and passing cars would

be few and far between on this remote highway at this hour

of the night. I’ll just wait and try Will again when the storm has

passed.

Squeezing the steering wheel, she stared through the

windshield into the stormy darkness, somewhere north of

the border in Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument. Middle

of nowhere.

There was a brilliant streak of lightning. In the split

second illumination she saw a black Escalade parked a

hundred yards up the shoulder.

Thunder rattled the windows. Five seconds elapsed. When

the sky exploded again, Rachael felt a strange, unnerving pull

to look through the driver side window.

A man swung a crowbar through the glass.

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3

Will startled back into consciousness, disoriented and

thirsty. It was so quiet—just the discreet drone of a computer

fan and the second hand of the clock ticking in the adjacent

bedroom. He found himself slouched in the leather chair at

the desk in his small home office, the CPU still purring, the

monitor switched into sleep mode.

As he yawned, everything rushed back in a torrent of

anxiety. He’d been hammering out notes for his closing

argument and hit a wall at ten o’clock. The evidence was

damning. He was going to lose. He’d only closed his eyes for a

moment to clear his head.

He reached for the mug of coffee and took a sip. Winced.

It was cold and bitter. He jostled the mouse. When the screen

restored, he looked at the clock and realized he wouldn’t be

sleeping anymore tonight. It was 4:09 a.m. He was due in

court in less than five hours.

First things first—he needed an immediate and potent

infusion of caffeine.

His office adjoined the master bedroom at the west end

of the house, and passing through on his way to the kitchen,

he noticed a peculiar thing. He’d expected to see his wife

buried under the myriad quilts and blankets on their bed,

but she wasn’t there. The comforter was smooth and taut,

undisturbed since they’d made it up yesterday morning.

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He walked through the living room into the den and down

the hallway toward the east end of the house. Rachael had

probably come home, seen him asleep at his desk, and gone

in to kiss Devlin. She’d have been exhausted from working

all day at the clinic. She’d probably fallen asleep in there.

He could picture the nightlight glow on their faces as he

reached his daughter’s door.

It was cracked, exactly as he’d left it seven hours ago when

he’d put Devlin to bed.

He eased the door open. Rachael wasn’t with her.

Will wide awake now, closing Devlin’s door, heading back

into the den.

“Rachael? You here, hon?”

He went to the front door, turned the deadbolt, stepped

outside.

Dark houses. Porchlights. Streets still wet from the

thunderstorms that blew through several hours ago. No

wind, the sky clearing, bright with stars.

When he saw them in the driveway, his knees gave out

and he sat down on the steps and tried to remember how to

breathe. One Beamer, no Jeep Cherokee, and a pair of patrol

cars, two uniformed officers coming toward him, their hats

shelved under their arms.

The patrolmen sat in the living room on the couch,

Will facing them in a chair. The smell of new paint was still

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strong. He and Rachael had redone the walls and the vaulted

ceiling in terracotta last weekend. Most of the black and

white desert photographs that adorned the room still

leaned against the antique chest of drawers, waiting to be

re-hung.

The lawmen were businesslike in their delivery, taking

turns with the details, as if they’d rehearsed who would say

what, their voices so terribly measured and calm.

There wasn’t much information yet. Rachael’s Cherokee

had been found on the shoulder of Arizona 85 in Organ Pipe

Cactus National Monument. Right front tire flat, punctured

with a nail to cause a slow and steady loss of air pressure.

Driver side window busted out.

No Rachael. No blood.

They asked Will a few questions. They tried to sympathize.

They said how sorry they were, Will just shaking his head and

staring at the floor, a tightness in his chest, constricting his

windpipe in a slow strangulation.

He happened to look up at some point, saw Devlin standing in the hall in a plain pink tee-shirt that fell all the way to

the carpet, the tattered blanket she’d slept with every night

since her birth draped over her left arm. And he could see

in her eyes that she’d heard every word the patrolmen had

said about her mother, because they were filling up with

tears.

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4

Rachael Innis was strapped upright with two-inch

webbing to the leather seat behind the driver. She stared

at the console lights. The digital clock read 4:32 a.m. She

remembered the crowbar through the window and nothing

after.

Bach’s Four Lute Suites blared from the Bose stereo

system, John Williams playing the classical guitar. Beyond

the windshield, the headlights cut a feeble swath of light

through the darkness, and even though she was riding in a

luxury SUV, the shocks did little to ease the violent jarring

from whatever primitive road they traveled.

Her wrists and ankles were comfortably but securely

bound with nylon restraints. Her mouth wasn’t gagged.

From her vantage point, she could only see the back of the

driver’s head and occasionally the side of his face by the

cherry glow of his cigarette. He was smooth-shaven, his hair

was dark, and he smelled of a subtle, spicy cologne.

It occurred to her that he didn’t know she was awake,

but the thought wasn’t two seconds old when she caught his

eyes in the rearview mirror. They registered her consciousness, turned back to the road.

They drove on. An endless stream of rodents darted

across the road ahead and a thought kept needling her—at

some point, he was going to stop the car and do whatever

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he was driving her out in the desert to do.

“Have you urinated on my seat?” She thought she detected

the faintest accent.

“No.”

“You tell me if you have to urinate. I’ll stop the car.”

“Okay. Where are you—”

“No talking. Unless you have to urinate.”

“I just—”

“You want your mouth taped? You have a cold. That

would make breathing difficult.”

Devlin was the only thing she’d ever prayed for and that

was years ago, but as she watched the passing sagebrush and

cactus through the deeply tinted windows, she pleaded with

God again.

Now the Escalade was slowing. It came to a stop. He turned

off the engine and stepped outside and shut the door. Her

door opened. He stood watching her. He was very handsome,

with flawless, brown skin (save for an indentation in the

bridge of his nose), liquid blue eyes, and black hair greased

back from his face. His pretty teeth seemed to gleam in the

night. Rachael’s chest heaved against the strap of webbing.

He said, “Calm down, Rachael.” Her name sounded like

a foreign word on his lips. He took out a syringe from his

black leather jacket and uncapped the needle.

“What is that?” she asked.

“You have nice veins.” He ducked into the Escalade and

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turned her arm over. When the needle entered, she gasped.

“Please listen. If this is some kind of ransom thing—”

“No, no. You’ve already been purchased. In fact, right

now, there isn’t a safer place in the world for you to be than

in my possession.”

A gang of coyotes erupted in demonic howls somewhere

out in that empty dark and Rachael thought they sounded

like a woman burning alive, and she began to scream until

the drug took her.

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ThE FoLLoWING IS AN ExCERPT oF ShAkEN By

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IN READING A LoNGER ExCERPT, ThERE’S oNE IN ThE

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1989, June 23

This guy isn’t a killer, Dalton thinks. He’s a butcher.

Dalton isn’t repulsed by the spectacle, or even slightly

disturbed. He stays detached and professional, even as he

snaps a picture of Brotsky tearing at the prostitute’s body

with some kind of three-pronged garden tool.

There’s a lot of blood.

Dalton wonders if he should have brought color film. But

there’s something classic, something pure, about shooting

in black and white. It makes real life even more realistic.

Dalton opens the f-stop on the lens, adjusting for the

setting sun. He’s standing in the backyard of Brotsky’s house,

and his subject has been gracious enough to leave the blinds

open. From his spot on the lawn, Dalton has a clear view into

Brotsky’s living room, where the carnage is taking place.

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Though Brotsky has a high fence and plenty of foliage on his

property, he’s still taking a big risk. There are neighbors on

either side, and the back gate leading to the alley is unlocked.

Anyone could walk by.

It’s not a smart way to conduct a murder.

Dalton has watched Brotsky kill two hookers in this

fashion, and surely there have been others. Yet the Chicago

Police Department hasn’t come knocking on Brotsky’s door

yet. Brotsky has been incredibly lucky so far.

But luck runs out.

At least Brotsky has the sense to put a tarp down, Dalton

thinks.

He snaps another photo. Brotsky’s naked barrel chest is

slick with gore, and the look on his unshaven face is somewhere

between frenzy and ecstasy as he works the garden tool. He’s

not a tall man, but he’s thick, with big muscles under a layer

of hard fat. Brotsky sweats a lot, and his bald head gives off

a glare which Dalton offsets by using a filter on his lens.

Brotsky sets down the garden tool, and picks up a

cleaver.

Yeah, this guy is nuts.

Truth told, Dalton has done worse to people, at least as

far as suffering goes. If the price is right, Dalton will drag

someone’s death out for hours, or even days. But Dalton gets

no pleasure from the task. Killing is simply his business.

Brotsky is killing to meet baser needs. Sex. Power. Blood

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lust. Hunger, Dalton muses, taking a shot of Brotsky with his

mouth full of something moist.

If Brotsky sticks to his MO, he’ll dismember the girl, wrap

up her parts in plastic bags, and then take her severed head

into the shower with him. When Brotsky returns, he’ll be

squeaky clean, and the head will be gone. Then he’ll load the

bags into his car and haul them to the dump site.

Dalton guesses it will be another eleven minutes. He

waits patiently, taking occasional snapshots, musing about

what Brotsky does with the heads. Dalton isn’t bothered

by the heat or the humidity, even though it’s close to ninety

degrees and he’s wearing a suit and tie. Unlike Brotsky,

Dalton doesn’t sweat. Dalton has pores. He just never feels

the need to use them.

Exactly eleven minutes and nine seconds later, Brotsky

walks out his back door, dressed in shorts, sandals, and a

wrinkled blue Hawaiian shirt. He’s lugging several black

plastic garbage bags. The man is painfully unaware, and

doesn’t even bother looking around. He walks right past

Dalton, who is hiding behind the girth of an ancient oak

tree, gun in hand.

The hitman falls into step behind the butcher, his softsoled shoes silent on the walkway. He trails Brotsky, close as

a shadow, for several steps and then jams the Ruger against

the fat man’s back. Brotsky stops cold.

“This is a gun, Victor Brotsky. Try to run and I’ll fire.

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The bullet will blow your heart out the front of your chest.

Neither of us want that to happen. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Brotsky says. “Can I put down these bags? They’re

heavy.”

Brotsky doesn’t seem frightened, or even surprised.

Dalton is impressed. Perhaps the man is more of a pro than

Dalton guessed.

“No. We’re going to walk, slowly, out to the alley. My car

is parked there. You’re going to put the pieces of the hooker

in the trunk.”

Brotsky does as he’s told. Dalton’s black 1989 El Dorado

Roadster is parked alongside Brotsky’s garage. The car isn’t

as anonymous as Dalton would prefer, but he needs to keep

up appearances. The wiseguys he works for like Caddys, and

driving the latest model somewhat compensates for the fact

that Dalton isn’t Italian.

“Trunk is open. Put the bags inside, and take out the red

folder.”

Brotsky hefts the bags into the trunk, and they land with

a solid thump. The alley smells like garbage, and the summer

heat makes the odor cling. Dalton moves the gun from

the man’s back to his neck.

“Take the folder,” Dalton says.

The light from the trunk is enough. Brotsky opens the

folder, begins to page through several 8x10 photos of his two

previous victims. He lingers on one where he’s grinning,

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holding up a severed leg. It’s Dalton’s personal favorite. Black

and white really is the only way to go.

“I’m a teacher,” Brotsky says. He has the barest trace of a

Russian accent. “I don’t have much money.”

Dalton allows himself a small grin. He likes how Brotsky

thinks. Maybe this will work out after all.

“I don’t want to blackmail you,” Dalton says. “My

employer is a very important Chicago businessman.”

Brotsky sighs. “Let me guess. I slaughtered one of his

whores, and now you’re going to teach me a lesson.”

“Wrong again, Victor Brotsky. See the lunch box in the

corner of the trunk? Open it up.”

Brotsky follows instructions. The box is filled with several

stacks of twenty dollar bills. Three thousand dollars total.

“What is this?” Brotsky asks.

“Consider it a retainer,” Dalton says. “My employer wants

to hire you.”

“Hire me for what?”

“To do what you’re doing for free.” Dalton leans forward,

whispers in Brotsky’s plump, hairy ear. “He wants you to kill

some prostitutes.”

Brotsky turns around slowly, and his lips part in a smile.

His breath is meaty, and he has a tiny bit of hooker caught in

his teeth.

“This employer of yours,” Brotsky says. “I think I’m going

to like working for him.”

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2010, August 10

The rope secured my wrists behind my back and snaked

a figure eight pattern through my arms up to my elbows.

Houdini with a hacksaw wouldn’t have been able to get

free. The best I could do was flex and wiggle my fingers to

keep my circulation going.

My legs were similarly secured, the braided nylon line

cris-crossing from my ankles to my knees, pinching my

skin so tight I wished I’d worn pantyhose. And I hate

pantyhose.

I was lying on my side, the concrete floor cool against

my cheek and ear, the only light a sliver that came through

a crack at the bottom of the far wall. A hard rubber ball

had been crammed into my mouth. I was unable to

dislodge it—a strap around my head held it in place. I

probed the curved surface and winced when my tongue

met with little indentations. Teeth marks. This ball gag had

been used many times before.

My sense of time was sketchy, but I guessed I’d been

awake for about fifteen minutes. The first few were spent

struggling against the ropes, trying to scream for help

around the gag. The bindings were escape-proof, and my

ankle rope secured me to a large concrete block, making

it impossible for me to roll away. The ball gag didn’t allow

for more than a low moan, and after a minute or two I

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began to choke on my own saliva, my jaw wedged open too

wide for me to swallow. I had to adjust my head so the spit ran

out the corner of my mouth.

Based on the hollow echoes from my sounds, I sensed I

was in a small, empty garage. Some machine—perhaps an

air conditioner or dehumidifier—hummed tunelessly in

the background. I smelled bleach, which wasn’t a good sign.

Under the bleach I smelled traces of copper, human waste,

and rotten meat, which was even worse.

Fighting panic and losing, I made myself focus on how

I got here, how this happened. My memory was fuzzy. A hit

on the head? A drug? I wasn’t sure. I had no recollection of

anything leading up to this.

But from the smells, and my past, I could assume whoever

abducted me was planning on killing me.

Definitely not the way I wanted to end my new career.

1989, August 15

I didn’t become a cop to do things like this.

The red vehicle pulled up and honked at me. It was one

of those strange combinations of a car and a truck; I think

they were called SUVs. This one said Isuzu Trooper on the

fender. I found them to be too big and blocky, especially for

an urban setting like Chicago. And with gas prices up to

almost $1.20 a gallon, I doubted the trend would catch on.

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The night was hot, humid as hell, and I was sweating even

though I was nearly naked. My candy apple red lipstick kept

smearing in the heat, forcing me to reapply it. I had the whole

block to myself, having chased the other girls away earlier.

I’d done them a favor; action was molasses slow. Plus, the

city was eight days into a garbage strike, and the stink

coming from the alley was a force of nature.

“Your call, Jackie,” my earpiece said. My partner, Officer

Harry McGlade, waited in a vintage Mustang parked up the

street.

“Aren’t you bored with this game yet?” I said into

the microphone. It was hidden in my Madonna push-up

bustier; an item that should have been worn under a top,

not as a top. Jacqueline Streng, working girl. I reached inside

the cup and readjusted my boob. The transmitter was the

size of a pack of cigarettes, but harder and heavier, the

sharp corners not meant to be wedged tight against

delicate female anatomy. It hurt. The wires trailed up my

bra strap, and to the earpiece, hidden by my Fredrick’s of

Hollywood blonde Medusa wig.

“I’ll be bored when I’m actually ahead a few bucks,”

Harry said. “Go on. Guess.”

I squinted at the guy behind the wheel. The street was

dark, but he had his interior light on while he looked around

for something. Possibly his wallet. He was Caucasian, late

forties, balding, thick glasses. White collar, probably married

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with kids.

“BJ,” I said to Harry.

“Naw. I’m guessing something pervy.”

“He looks like a member of the PTA.”

“The clean-cut guys are always the perverts.”

“You said the weird-looking guys are always the

perverts.”

“They’re pretty much all perverts. I’ll say foot fetishist.”

I actually didn’t know what a foot fetishist did. Something to do with feet, I assumed, but what? The Vice

training manual didn’t explain that particular kink. I wasn’t

about to ask Harry, because he’d make fun of me. It was hard

enough being a female in the Chicago Police Department.

Being a young female who did prostitution stings made me

an easy target for potshots.

Not that I would be young for much longer. Today

officially began the last year of my twenties. I was going to

celebrate the happy occasion by watching TV and getting

drunk. My boyfriend Alan was out of town on a business

trip, and so far he’d neglected to get me anything. Big

mistake. True, I didn’t want any reminders of my rapidly

retreating youth. But we cops were big on intent. And

forgetting your girlfriend’s birthday said a lot about your

future intent.

Not that I had any intentions myself. His last name was

Daniels, for chrissakes. I had a hard enough time getting

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respect on the Job. If my name was Jack Daniels, I’d be the

laughing stock of the city.

“You in or out, Jackie?”

“Fine,” I said. “Ten-spot?”

“Make it twenty. I got a feeling.”

Bald Guy honked again. I pulled up the elastic top of one

of my black fishnet stockings, pulled down the hem of my

hot pink spandex micro-mini skirt, and walked over to the

car on painfully high, strappy heels. His window opened,

and I stuck my head inside. The air conditioning bathed my

face, cooling the sweat on my brow and upper lip.

“How are you tonight, sugar?” I asked, smacking my

gum.

Bald Guy appeared nervous, jittery. Most of them did.

Maybe because soliciting sex was embarrassing. Or maybe

because they were worried that the hooker they propositioned

was actually an undercover cop.

Imagine that.

“How much?” he asked without looking at me.

“How much what?” I asked.

“How much money?”

In order to make a clean arrest, and avoid the dreaded

entrapment defense, the suspect had to be the one to bring

up the subject of money. This guy cut right to the heart of

the matter. Now he needed to mention what he wanted in

exchange.

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“Depends,” I said, playing coy. “What is it you’re looking

for?”

“Something special. Can you quote me your, um, rates?”

“Sure. Head is ten. Straight is fifteen. Half-and-half is

twenty. Round the world is thirty. Anything to do with feet

is fifty.”

“No fair!” McGlade yelled in my ear. “You’re pricejacking!”

I hoped Bald Guy didn’t hear that, even though it was so

loud my eyes bugged out.

“I’ve got kind of a strange request,” Bald Guy said.

I leaned in further. The air conditioning was wonderfully

frigid, and the interior smelled like lemon air freshener. After

four hours on the street, this was a little slice of heaven.

“Kinky is extra. Tell me what you need, big boy.”

“Actually, I’ll pay you fifty dollars if you just hold me for

ten minutes.”

“Hold you?”

He nodded, his face puppy dog sad.

“We can’t arrest him for that,” Harry said. “Ask him if

he wants to suck your toes.”

I ignored Harry, which wasn’t the easiest thing to do.

Especially with him in my ear. “That’s all?” I asked Bald Guy.

“Just hold you?”

“That’s all.”

His shoulders slumped. I felt kind of sorry for him.

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“Tell him you’ve been on your feet all day,” Harry said,

“and your toes are really sweaty and stinky.”

I wished I could turn the earpiece off.

“That’s kind of a weird,” I told the guy. “Don’t you have a

mother or an aunt or someone else who can give you a hug?”

“No one. I just got divorced, and I’m all alone.”

“How about friends? Neighbors? A church group?”

Bald Guy shook his head.

Harry said, “Try taking off your shoe and sticking your

foot under his nose.”

“I just need a little tenderness,” Bald Guy said. “Will you

do it?”

He looked so devastated, so desperate. Plus his vehicle

was air-conditioned and smelled nice. What more prompting

did I need? I walked around the front of his car/truck and

climbed into the passenger seat.

“Dammit, Jackie! Find another john!” Harry, in my ear.

“There aren’t any laws against cuddling! Don’t waste our

time!”

The earpiece really needed an off switch. In fact, so did

Harry. The sad thing was, Harry wasn’t as bad as some of

the other jerks I had to work with. What did a female cop

have to do to earn the respect of her peers in this city?

I guessed it wasn’t dressing up as a hooker, offering BJs.

“Okay,” I said. “One quick hug. On the house.”

I opened up my arms, ready to embrace this poor clod,

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and he handed me a latex glove. I backed off a notch.

“Are you sick?” I asked. “Contagious?”

“No, no, nothing like that. While you’re hugging me, I’d

like you to stick your fingers up my bottom.”

No wonder he was divorced.

“And wiggle them,” he added.

“Mirandize that pervert,” McGlade said. “I’ll call the

wagon and be right there.”

I opened my silver-sequined purse, reaching for my star

and handcuffs.

“I’m a police officer,” I said, making my voice hard,

“and you’re under arrest for soliciting a sexual act. Put your

hands on the steering wheel.”

Bald Guy turned bright red, then burst into tears.

“I only wanted a little tenderness!”

“Place your hands on the steering wheel, sir. And for

future reference, fingers up the wazoo really doesn’t qualify

as tenderness.”

“I’m so lonely!” he sobbed.

“Buy a dog.” An unwelcome image popped into my

head, of this pervert with some poor Schnauzer. “On second

thought, that’s a bad idea.”

Bald Guy moaned, wiped his nose with his wrist, and

then flung open his door and ran like hell. Which didn’t

make much sense, considering that in jail he could probably

find someone to fulfill his request for free.

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“He bolted!” I yelled to Harry. “Coming your way!”

I pushed open my door and scrambled after him. Three

steps into my pursuit I broke a heel and almost fell onto

my face. I recovered in time, but my speed was drastically

reduced. A penguin on stilts would have been faster, and

looked less clumsy. I wasn’t about to kick my broken pump

off—this wasn’t the nicest part of town, and I didn’t want

to step on a dirty needle.

“He ducked down the alley, Jackie!” Harry said. “It lets out

on Halsted. Run around and block his exit!”

Easy for him to say. He was wearing gym shoes.

I rounded the corner, hobbling as fast as I could, my

spandex skirt riding up and encircling my waist like a neon

pink belt. My purse orbited my neck on its spaghetti strap,

and each time it passed in front of my face I reached for it

and missed. Inside was my 9mm Beretta, and I didn’t want

to be charging into any alleys without it firmly in hand.

Honking, from the street. I wondered if it was the

squadrol—a police wagon that picked up and booked the

suspects we caught on this sting. No such luck. It was a

carload of cute preppy guys. They hooted at me, pumping

their fists in the air.

“What’s that sound?” Harry said. “You watching

Arsenio?”

I skidded to a halt at the mouth of the alley, tugged down

my skirt, and tugged out my Beretta.

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The hooting stopped. I heard one of the preppies yell,

“The whore is packing heat!” and their tires squealed away.

“Where is he?” I said into the mike.

“If he didn’t come out on your side, he’s hiding in the alley

somewhere.”

“I’ll meet you in the middle.”

“It’s dark. Don’t shoot me by mistake.”

Harry didn’t mean it to be condescending, but he wouldn’t

have said it if I were a man. I set my jaw, gripped my weapon

in both hands with my elbows bent and the barrel pointing

skyward, and crept into the alley.

The decaying garbage odor got worse with every step, so

bad I could taste it in the back of my throat. I moved slowly,

letting my eyes sweep left and right, looking for any place

Bald Guy could hide. I came up to a parked car, checked under

it, behind it.

“Jesus, the stink is making my eyes water.” Harry said.

“It smells like some fat guys with BO ate bad cheese and took

a group shit on a rotting corpse.”

Harry wore so much Brut aftershave I was surprised he

could smell anything.

“You’re a poet, McGlade.”

“Why? Did I rhyme something?”

I stuck my head into a shadowy doorway, didn’t find Bald

Guy, and went deeper into the alley.

Then I heard the scream.

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It came from ahead of me. A man’s voice, with a hollow/

echoey quality to it.

Something horrible was happening to Bald Guy.

My whole body became gooseflesh. I just joined Vice two

weeks ago. Even though I was still a patrol officer, and made

the same pay, I jumped at the chance to wear plainclothes

and ditch the standard uniform. But plainclothes turned out

to be hooker-wear, and I felt especially vulnerable without

my dress blues on. It wasn’t easy being tough when you’re

wearing a micro-mini.

Another scream ripped through the alley. The little girl

in me, the one who still woke up scared during thunderstorms, wanted to turn around and run.

But if I gave in to my fear, Harry would mention it in

the arrest report. Then it would be back to riding patrol and

answering radio calls, where I got even less respect.

I forced myself to move forward. Now my gun was

pointing in front of me, toward the direction of the sound.

The Beretta was double action and protocol dictated it stayed

uncocked. The harder pull meant less accidental shootings.

Theoretically, at least. My finger was so tight on the trigger

that a strong breeze would have caused me to fire.

“You see him?” Harry asked. I heard him in my earpiece,

but I also heard him in the alley, somewhere ahead.

“Not yet.”

“Maybe he’s screaming because he can’t stand the smell.”

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I didn’t think that was the case. I’d heard my share of

screams on the Job. Screams of joy. Screams of sorrow.

Screams of pain.

This was a scream of terror.

A clanging sound, only a few yards away from me. A

Dumpster. I held my breath, heard whimpering coming from

inside.

“He’s in a Dumptser,” I told Harry.

“Probably sitting in a big pile of rats.”

I approached quickly. It was dark, but I could see the

Dumpster lid was open.

“This is the police!” I shouted, hoping my voice didn’t

quaver. “Raise your hands up where I can see them!”

Bald Guy complied. But there was something wrong.

Rather than two hands, I counted three.

I moved closer, and realized the third hand wasn’t his. It

belonged to a woman.

And it wasn’t attached to the rest of her.

I felt someone touch my shoulder and jumped back. It

was Harry.

“Looks like he got you a birthday present, Jackie. Quite

a handy guy.”

My stomach seized up, then I bent over and vomited,

soaking my broken shoes and getting it caught in the fake

curls hanging in front of my face. When I heaved for the

final time, the transmitter popped free of my bustier and

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plonked into the puddle of puke.

“Happy twenty-ninth,” Harry said.

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