by Eric Miller
He was handsome and strong in his youth, a prime target. A natural-looking boy, I could not imagine him walking down the streets of any city or, if he did, he would do so blissfully unaware of the dangers that surrounded him. There was a freshness about him, an aura of innocence, a boyishness at odds with the more mature physique that caused the T-shirt to cling to his torso and outline the muscled frame underneath.
He was exactly the kind of prey ripe for a certain kind of predator. And unless my eyes deceived me, his dining companion was typical of the type.
A burly bear of man who appeared to be in his forties, one look at him and I could tell that he probably stank of old sweat and unwashed flesh. Barrel chested with overly developed arms, he had a body builder’s belly which was destined to shortly run to fat if it had not already begun to do so. Unattractive tufts of wiry hair emerged from the open collar of his shirt and peeped disgustingly from his underarms where the sleeves had been crudely hacked off.
His several days’ growth of stubble was in marked contrast to the boy’s clean, smooth face, and the harshly square line of his jaw and the bushiness of his eyebrows suggested a bestial nature. His expression was severe, his brows furrowed, the scowl on his lips seemed a permanent fixture. Instead of lifting his sandwich to his mouth, I almost expected him to put his face into the plate and ravage his meal, grunting and spitting while he devoured it.
The boy shifted in his seat. Several times, I thought he was about to try and rise, perhaps to attempt an escape. But it took only a glare from the older man, a twist of his lips that bordered on a snarl, to freeze his unfortunate victim in place. When they had finished their meal and paid, they rose to leave.
To the waitresses and cashier—to anyone who lacked my powers of observation and my extensive experience—it must have looked like the man was guiding his young companion to the door with an avuncular hand on his shoulder. But I saw the way the tattoos on the man’s arms shifted when he flexed muscle to tighten his grip on the boy’s shoulder. I watched the tacky cartoon devils and realistic cobras and impossibly large-breasted women seem to move of their own volition. I witnessed his raggedly clipped fingernails digging painfully into the youngster’s flesh, probably deeply enough to leave marks on otherwise unblemished skin. I was testament to the twitching of the youth’s shoulders, as if he was stretching away a kink, when it was obvious to me that he was really trying to shrug free of the older man’s relentless grip.
To the uninitiated, it all passed for something mundane and innocent. I knew better; I could sense the sinister purpose underneath. I shuddered when familiar feelings stirred within me. Flashes of memory streaked across my mind, almost as if I was re-watching selected scenes from a movie I had seen fifty times. There was a sharp pang in the pit of my stomach, not from nerves this time. For an instant, the welling emotions were so powerful that I had to forcibly choke back a sob. But there was no time for that now.
I could not wait for my check or they might evade me and the young man’s fate would be sealed. I hastily threw a few dollars onto the counter and followed them into the parking lot. Casual. I kept my movements deliberately casual. Not only did I have my own followers to worry about, I now had the additional burden of not wanting the old pervert to notice me either.
They walked directly to a well-worn 18-wheeler. I could see the way the animal’s paw cruelly kneaded the muscle underneath the young man’s shirt. I saw the expression on his face when the lad climbed into the cab of the truck, and the way his gaze lingered for long seconds after the door was shut and the youth was trapped inside. It both sickened me and filled me with dread.
I don’t know how I came by the knowledge other than by way of my long and sad association with other innocents who had been corrupted by lust, but at that moment, I saw in my mind’s eye exactly what horrors he had in store for his young victim. It was as if my brain had become a movie screen and the brutish man’s depraved lusts were projected upon it, in full color and sparing me no grotesque or sickening detail. I knew I had to prevent that horrible excuse for a human being from doing it.
It’s both ironic and sad, isn’t it, when you realize that it was for this, this lifelong obligation that had been thrust upon me, that I was so horribly persecuted?
My personal plight faded in importance and I banished thoughts of my own pursuers from my mind. There was a far more immediate need to rescue the blond youth from the danger he was in. How he’d gotten himself into this predicament didn’t matter. My suspicion was that he was a hitchhiker who had unknowingly chosen to accept the wrong offer of a ride. I could have been wrong, of course, but that was the scenario I was most familiar with. He looked far too wholesome to be one of those hustlers who sometimes plied their trade along the highways, kneeling in the tangled brush of the berm to offer blow jobs for twenty bucks a pop.
I got into my car, started the engine, and waited anxiously for the predator to pull out of the lot, confident that the beast of a driver was unaware that he himself was being stalked. The two large trucks I’d parked between blocked me from his view but simultaneously prevented me from having a clear sight line as well. Fortunately, he had to drive past the end of the row, virtually right in front of me, in order to reach the freeway on-ramp. As soon as I saw him accelerating to merge, I hurried to catch up.
I followed for a good half an hour, wondering how I was going to effectuate the boy’s rescue. Fortunately, both our vehicles seemed to be headed in the same direction and traffic was fairly light. Once we reached the desert, there would likely be even fewer people on the road. Every so often, just to fool the driver in case he happened to see me in his rearview mirror, I sped up and passed them briefly. But I was always careful to do so only on open stretches of highway where I knew there were no off ramps; I did not want to overshoot an exit and have to backtrack. It would be the height of irony if I were thwarted by the same technique I had used to elude my own pursuers earlier in the evening.
On and on we drove until the greenery along the highway gave way to tattered scrub and, in turn, to the occasional desiccated tree. Dry, twisted limbs punctuated an ever increasing expanse of rocky sand dotted with cactus and withered palms struggling to survive. It was after midnight now, and the 18-wheeler showed no signs of stopping. Luckily, I had filled my gas tank before leaving the city, so I had no worries about finding myself stranded. Even so, the traffic was reaching that point in the middle of the night when it was at its thinnest and I knew I had only a certain amount of time to make my move before it would start to become congested once again.
We had been driving a good ten minutes with nary another car in sight, and my original destination was fast approaching. I repeatedly checked my rearview mirror, well aware of how easily my intense concentration on the young captive in the vehicle ahead of me could distract me from remaining wary of the possibility that someone had once again picked up my trail. Even now, they could be following just out of sight with their headlights extinguished. Though I had managed to evade them for years, it was always more difficult to stay alert when I was involved with what I sardonically thought of as one of my Good Samaritan missions. And they were tricky little devils, apt to take advantage of a momentary lapse in my judgment to swoop down upon me.
Neither I nor the poor lad in the truck could afford that eventuality.
Instinctively, I knew when the time was right. We were driving in the middle of a long stretch of nowhere. This far out, at this hour, we were unlikely to be interrupted.
As I’ve confessed, I know very little about the large 18-wheelers but I understand that they do not stop as easily as smaller vehicles in emergencies. Many times, I’ve seen them forced to slam on their brakes or lay onto their horns when a smaller car whose driver undoubtedly has a death wish has cut them off to reach an exit or is stupid enough to risk Paradise simply so that he can change lanes.
I pulled alongside the cab of the truck and steeled myself against what I was about to do. This close, the siz
e of the rig was intimidating. Any misjudgment on my part would seal not only the young man’s fate, but my own as well. I jerked the wheel to the right and then back again, as if I was thinking about cutting across his lane but was not quite sure if I could make it. Brakes squealed in response, accompanied by an angry blast of his horn. Emboldened, I did it again, this time making sure to clip his front bumper before retreating back into my own lane. I flinched at the grinding of metal against metal and made sure to clutch the steering wheel with a death grip so as to maintain absolute control of my car during the brief period of contact.
The truck slowed even more, the brakes working overtime. But slowing wasn’t enough; I needed him to stop. I laid onto my own horn and merged directly into his lane, fully cutting him off. I could only imagine the colorfulness of the language that must have been echoing in the truck’s cabin just about then!
Precision was crucial. Given that with only the slightest acceleration on his part, the 18-wheeler could have flattened my car like the proverbial pancake. I had to slow down enough to cause an actual impact while avoiding my car being dragged under his front wheels. The stunt was within the purview of a far more consummate driver than I was. That I was able to pull it off at all was far more due to luck than to any skill on my part.
I ended up stopping in a spot that could not have been more perfect than if Nature had designed it with my particular needs in mind. The embankment where I was parked wasn’t very wide. Just a few yards from the edge of the asphalt, it began a steep slope down to a dry wash. It was a unique feature of the terrain that was about to come in very handy.
Of course it was possible that the truck would not stop even though I’d hit it. I’d driven away from a number of fender benders myself, mostly because my tormentors were getting too close and I lacked the time to tarry. On rarer occasions, I fled the scene because it was obvious I had been set up. Thus, while it was possible he’d keep going, it was highly unlikely.
I pride myself on being an astute judge of human nature. I’ve been gifted with an innate ability to deduce what certain personality types are most likely to do in a given situation, a modest talent but a useful one. I doubted the man I’d seen in the diner would be the type to shrug off even a minor scratch to his vehicle. I’d gotten the distinct impression from the way he sat in the booth, both glowering and gloating over his victim, that he possessed the kind of primitive psyche that was quick to anger and which relished any opportunity that provided him the slightest justification to indulge his more brutal nature. He’d been cut off, not once, but three times; he must be furious. Once he saw me parked, I strongly believed that he would be incapable of resisting the opportunity to pull over himself and give me a piece of his mind. Very likely, he would be eager to add a punishing physical element to the chastisement as well.
When the rig continued past my car, I had a brief moment of concern that my instincts had failed me and he was going to simply drive on by. I was just about to start my engine and dive back into the chase when his brake lights flashed, vindicating my initial instincts. His passing me was explained by the way he angled the truck in front of my car when he parked; he had deliberately hemmed me in. Doubtless, he sought to block me from easily pulling around him and back onto the highway should I decide at the last minute to try and escape his wrath.
Chuckling to myself at his presumption, I reached into the space behind the passenger seat to grab what I might need to defend myself and got out.
The driver’s side door sprang open. Only a fool could have missed the torrents of anger spewing from the man; his fury was palpable even without the stream of incessant cursing. He approached me with a lumbering and aggressive gait, belligerent from the very start. I’d been right about the brute’s propensity for violence; his hands were already spasmodically flexed and clenched into fists. His chest was thrust forward over his burgeoning belly. I’m sure he was proud of the imposing picture he thought he presented.
This close, I could tell that he was a few years younger than I’d first assumed from my brief glimpses of him in the diner, perhaps in his mid-thirties. His slovenly demeanor and the brooding scowl were partly responsible for my error. Then again, I’d been concentrating on the plight of his younger companion and hadn’t paid as close attention as I normally would have.
He stopped an arm’s length from me. Given the picture of myself that I intentionally present to the world, I doubted he’d throw a punch right away. At first glance, I appear to be the quintessential victim, unassuming and unthreatening, even frail. Bullies of his type can rarely resist basking in the opportunity to threaten someone they perceive as weaker than themselves. They get off on using intimidation to reduce their targets to begging and tears and they enjoy the humiliation almost as much as they enjoy wading in with their fists. The reality where I am concerned, as my pursuers and a select few already knew, and as this barbarian was about to find out, is quite something else altogether.
As I’d surmised, instead of attacking me physically at the start, he vented his spleen for a while using the foulest language imaginable. I stood quite still, concentrating on maintaining the illusion that I was helpless, assuming the most innocent and apologetic demeanor that I could. Eventually, he ran out of steam and I thought I might finally be able to get a word in edgewise.
“I know about you,” I said. I kept my voice quiet and casual. It has been my experience that angry people will stop shouting if you speak softly, for no reason other than it is impossible for them to hear you if they don’t.
My words brought him up short. He stood, blinking for a moment, and his brow furrowed uncertainly.
“About you and that young man.” I clucked my tongue as if to say, “Shame on you.”
“Leave my brother out of this,” he spat.
“Ah! Your brother. I see.” By both my expression and my tone, I let him know I was not going to fall for the lie. I may even have smirked a bit. “It’s always a brother, or a son or a nephew, isn’t it?”
My meaning penetrated and his cheeks took on high color.
“You sick fuck,” he spat.
“Me?” I put my hand in the center of my chest, in a questioning gesture I knew he would interpret as prissy and overly effeminate and would enrage him even further. “I know what you’re planning to do.”
His face, already flushed, took on new depths of color. I’ve taunted others of his ilk in the same way before. They usually contrive a righteous indignation, unable to comprehend that their dirty little secret has been exposed. But it never lasts for long. Eventually, they are forced to realize that the jig is up. Some of them prove themselves not to be completely irredeemable, having the good graces to show at least a little shame for what they’ve done, or had been about to do.
This beast, however, was not one of the nobler breed of perverts. Though it was clear to me that my accusations had struck home, he displayed not a shred of remorse. His response was typical. Like so many others, he first tried to explain away his actions. It always starts the same way, with the cretin snarling, “Not that it’s any of your business but…” In this case, he had some cockamamie story about driving the boy back to college cross country. I do not know whence comes this compulsion to justify themselves but, in my experience, a majority of them try to get away with it. They cast themselves as the heroes, these monsters do, always claiming some altruistic motives, foolishly determined to prove that I have misinterpreted what I’ve seen.
It never works of course. And their failure to convince me makes them even angrier. Typically, the trucker was working himself into a frenzy again and I was guessing that I had perhaps another minute before he’d begin swinging his fists. I never understood the notion of trying to prove by violence that the truth was a falsehood. Nor was I able to reconcile his bizarre logic that, instead of exposing his depravity, I’d contrived to insult him. In any case, I was already weary of his protestations and of his tawdry display of temper.
The crowbar made a
hefty dent above his left ear.
I’d taken the precaution of turning off my headlights when I stopped, leaving only the parking lights to illuminate our little tableau. In their yellowish glow, I could not tell if the chunk that flew into the air was an actual bit of skull or merely a nice-sized swathe of hairy scalp.
He teetered as if about to fall over and he felt at his wound with a comically wide-eyed expression of surprise that never fails to amuse me. I don’t know why people sometimes do that. Perhaps they want to make sure that no cranial fluid leaks out. Like most scum, they are concerned only for themselves, obsessed with their own hurts. At times like this, I suspect they give little thought to the feelings of their victims. One thing is for certain though, few of these deviants ever stop to consider that, in nature, even the most skillful predators may find themselves victims of something more vicious still.
His mouth opened. But whether it was to speak, to cry out, to beg, or perhaps even to vomit, I had no interest in finding out.
I hit him again.
Harder.
The crack of the iron against his skull made my arm muscles shudder such that I almost lost my grip on the crowbar. With the third swing, I both heard and felt the satisfying crunch of bone giving way. I knew there was no need for a fourth swing; he was already dead. I didn’t need to stand there gawking like a tourist and watch him collapse onto to the ground to confirm it.
I set the crowbar aside and started toward the van. Before I had taken more than a few steps, the passenger side door swung open and the young man clambered out.
“Karl?” he asked. “What happened? Are you okay?”