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A Killer's Secret

Page 15

by Stanley Gray


  A sprinkler started up somewhere close by, probably the neighbor’s, and the sound broke through Alan’s reverie. At almost the same moment, the drone moved away, swallowed by the obsidian night. Looking up again, Alan watched the moon. It was beautiful. Full and shimmering like the eyes of a newlywed, it seemed painted onto the sky. Except for the sprinkler, the neighborhood was quiet. Still.

  Alan trembled. He looked back at the door. He wanted to return inside. It was cold out. The October air slapped his face and ears. Things felt…spooky, being out after dark, with all the lights off, everything quieter than a petrified dog turd. He looked down, craning his neck, to check the front of his pants. He grunted. At least I didn’t piss myself, he thought.

  Alan Grunke was about to kidnap his first victim. Technically, her first victim. But, she was too weak to do it, and she was an alien, anyway. The heat was on in the area now, on top of it all. Everyone was out looking for aliens and bigfoot and any other hipster paranormal trend now, since the cameras were rolling and money was changing hands behind the scenes.

  Ever since he’d agreed to do it, if he were to tell the truth, he kind of started to like the idea. The process was gradual, but…it made him feel. Not only did it awaken some dormant sense of emotion, but it felt empowering. Even if it were sick and a distorted logical process, he went through that mysterious door when it was offered to him. Alan started off rationalizing it. He was doing this for Xenobia. She was forcing him. After all, she could do that horrible mind trick, right? Where she pulled a migraine out of a fucking invisible bag of tricks?

  But, he felt that she needed him. She, the powerful alien fugitive with crazy powers, required his help. And, he possessed the power to say no. He’d made a significant decision on his own, without having to answer to anyone. That felt empowering.

  The layers of complexity grew like a callous with time and wear. Alan didn’t even really want to admit it to himself. The reality was, he kind of liked the idea of holding power over another human being. Now, for the first time in his life, he could be in total control. He wouldn’t be some boss in an obscure federal law enforcement agency with virtually no real authority. He wouldn’t be some helpless kid being experimented on by cruel parents. Alan would be, for all intents and purposes, a god.

  But, here as he was about to go find someone to abduct, a fucking drone was hovering close by.

  How’s that for a coincidence?

  Alan stood there, shaking, for several minutes, trying to clear his thoughts and re-center his focus on the night’s mission. He wore creased navy slacks and a red shirt, with a blue tie. The original plan had been to go out to a truck stop near Eugene, pretending to be an out-of-town doctor searching for directions. When one of the lot lizards sashayed over showing off her two good teeth and pimpled titties, he’d flash a few bills and get the girl into his car. After he’d gotten serviced (he threw that one in there himself- no need for Xenobia to know), he would incapacitate the poor girl and bring her back to mama alien.

  The drone didn’t return. Alan cast one last look back at the house, then gritted his teeth and briskly walked through the cold to his car. He got in, and sat there, staring ahead. His arms felt heavy. His body felt tingly, slightly numb. Somehow, this all felt vaguely far away, as if he were in a trance. Alan hadn’t consumed any alcohol for 24 hours. Xenobia had forced that. Yet, he experienced the sensations of inebriation. Alan wondered idly if it maybe it were a lack of sleep.

  He turned on the radio, programmed his GPS, and then drove off into the darkness.

  A horn blared, and Alan blinked himself awake. “Shit!” he said, seeing nothing but the blinding lights of what seemed like a massive vehicle ahead of him. He pulled hard on the steering wheel, jerking the car left. The car bounced as it went over a slight embankment, then came to an abrupt halt when it knocked down a wire fence. Three cows sat nearby, and they all stared dumbly at him. Alan looked around, his body stiff. He couldn’t feel anything broken.

  He pushed on the door handle, and was glad to feel it give. He opened the door, and the cold-hearted assassin of night moved on him quickly, stiletto in hand. The wind hissed as it sliced at him. Alan turned on the emergency blinkers and got out of the car, stretching as he stood.

  He’d fallen asleep. He’d almost gotten killed. All because he just couldn’t wait to take a fucking nap.

  Alan leaned back inside, turning on the dome light. He rifled through the glove compartment until he felt the familiar weight and heft of a flashlight. The metal felt cold on his skin. He pressed the button just to make sure it worked, and then returned to his inspection. He walked around the car, shining the light here and there. He knelt down and peered at the front fender. That was the only thing damaged, and even there, it wasn’t bad. Just a little chipped paint.

  Standing, Alan tried to gauge any damage that might’ve been done to the property. Nothing major, it seemed. Just a downed fence. Of course, with the three cattle nearby, it seemed there could be some room for concern. A rancher that lost a bunch of his herd might be a tad upset in the morning.

  But, that wasn’t too much of his concern. He didn’t have a moral problem with it. He was about to go kidnap a hooker. Alan obviously treaded lightly in the realm of ethics and doing the right thing. He just didn’t want the cops tracing any paint back to the distinctive markings on his vehicle.

  Satisfied that the only witnesses were the triumvirate of ruminants, Alan returned to his place behind the wheel. He turned on some heavy metal just to try and make sure he kept himself awake this time.

  “I’ve been getting a decent amount of sleep every night.” he said out loud. Reaching out, he tapped the middle electronic panel in the dashboard. He saw he only had twelve miles to go before he reached his destination. Alan’s hands began to shake. He almost couldn’t control the steering wheel, his hands shook so badly. He sped through the night, alone with the stars and countless miles of agricultural land.

  He almost missed the turn.

  As he wound his way around a sharp corner going way too fast, he failed to see the sign directing motorists down a short gravel road. However, the heavy lights blasting through the thick veneer of the black night helped guide his way. Slowing down, he looked back and put the car into reverse. With a little maneuvering, he was able to reach his destination without further delay.

  Alan’s blood pulsed in his temples. His body quaked, and his eyesight blurred a little at the edges. He felt his heart trying to claw its way out of its prison. He rocked in his seat as he clutched the steering wheel. He sat in the jaundiced glow of the truck stop’s lights, bathed in a coat of sweat. He reached over, seat belt straining against his chest and stomach, and opened the glove compartment. Removing a small glass container of cologne, he sprayed his neck and shirt. Then, he rummaged around, groaning as he did so. Pulling at the nylon seatbelt, he cursed it and all that took part in its inception. He stabbed a finger at the button several times in a vain effort to free himself from the safety device. Finally, he succeeded, the buckle filling the small car’s interior with its distinctive click.

  Returning to the glove box, he rifled around, squinting inside. The car was so dark, despite the heavy artificial sunshine cast by the gas station, that Alan couldn’t see. Sitting up and taking a deep breath, he attempted to calm his nerves. He closed his eyes and focused. He repeated a mantra in his mind.

  When he opened his eyes, he felt calmer. He reached up to turn on the dome light, making the effort slow and deliberate. He waited a second before voyaging back into the cluttered domain of stained receipts and esoteric documents. When Alan felt calm enough, he scooched over into the passenger seat, where he bent forward and began his search anew in earnest. He smiled and gulped when his fingers traced the familiar, welcome edges of his bounty: gum. Pulling the silver wrapper off the long rectangular object, he inspected it. A soft hue of green commonly associated with mint, a light dust coated its surface. Alan bent the stick of gum, watching it break. He sl
ipped it into his mouth and began to chew.

  Alan returned to the driver’s side. He stared out the window. Part of this was a reconnaissance mission. While he hoped he appeared non-descript, he also was trying to see where any cameras were. Large trucks idled in a separate nearby parking lot, and a number of motorcycles and other vehicles congregated around the back of the truck stop. Alan assumed that was where the diner was.

  He smiled. The front of the gas station read: Fried Chicken, Gatorade 2 for $3. For some reason, those words, stenciled in with some sort of neon coloring marker, seemed amusing to him in the moment. Behind him, trucks and travelers navigated the three lanes of gas pumps. Disheveled attendants worked the crowds, pumping gas and wiping windshields.

  Alan watched them. Part of the measured gaze that swept over their every movement, studying, analyzing like the hawk, part of it came out of curiosity. In Oregon, gas stations had to employ people to pump gas. It was illegal for most people to do it themselves. That was something he still wasn’t quite used to. Nonetheless, because he was here for nefarious reasons, he wanted to make sure these people wouldn’t become potential witnesses to his crimes.

  One of the attendants, a tall, emaciated blonde with dirty hair and a broken smile, wore denim coveralls. Even if they had been tight and form-fitting, they would have revealed nothing, for there was nothing to be revealed. Alan almost felt sorry for her as he watched her glide through the night, taking money and debit cards and then pumping gas with the practiced ease of a veteran. Alan wondered about her. Where had she been? Where would she go?

  Once he felt confident in his assessment of the layout, Alan reached back into the back seat and retrieved a briefcase. Moving the faux golden metal numbered tabs into place, he heard it click. Opening it, he removed a thin piece of transparent film. Not quite plastic, not quite silicone, the clear mask could be shaped in various ways on his face. The added bonus was it didn’t look like he was actually wearing a mask.

  In his sadistic toolbox, there were several things: gloves, bleach, wet wipes, a powerful magnet, and, most important, a bottle of chemicals and rags. The latter combination would be the most critical in making this night a success.

  Alan took a moment, as he stared into the brown executive briefcase, to assess his own physiological state. Though hyper-alert and on edge, his hands didn’t shake anymore. He felt calm enough, all things considered. Nodding his head at a silent, internal prompt, he turned the car on and slid through the diesel-soaked fabric of the night. He found a dark spot close to the trucks, and waited.

  He didn’t have to wait long.

  He turned his head when he heard a knock at his window. A large Hispanic-looking woman wearing too much makeup leaned forward, her bulging bosom jiggling as her tits tried desperately to escape their prison. Alan rolled down the window. The woman looked furtively around, her mouth chewing gum furiously. “Hey.” she said. Her voice sounded thick and husky. It was the voice of a smoker.

  “Hey.” Alan said. He smiled.

  “You…uh, you lost? The diner is over there.” she said. She reached one hand into the car, pointing in the direction of the diner. Her nails jutted out from the tips of her chubby fingers, a loud mixture of greens and blues.

  Alan reached out and took a hold of her wrist, making the movement deliberate and gentle. He guided the woman’s hand back and away. “Please don’t do that unless I ask.” he said.

  The woman widened her eyes. She wore a thick, globular coat of shimmering blue eye shade that probably possessed some horrible name. Ocean Sands, Azure Island Sky. Something like you might find on a Yankee Candle. She looked around again, and shifted her weight. She appeared nervous and agitated. “Are you looking for…someone?” she asked.

  Alan raised an eyebrow. “More like something.” he said.

  She perked up at this. She looked at him. Then, after a moment of eye contact, she nodded and smiled. “May I get in?” she asked.

  “Door’s unlocked. Come on over.” Alan responded.

  He watched her as she circled around the car. Reaching back, he put a jacket over the briefcase. He wedged the chloroform-soaked rag into the narrow space between his seat and the door and unbuckled his seat belt. The door opened, and the prostitute got in. The car swayed a bit as she settled in.

  “What kind of something?” she asked. Her voice seemed softer now. She smelled like lavender, stale sweat, and exhaust fumes. It wasn’t exactly an appealing odor.

  Alan looked at her. Appraised her. Part of him faltered in that moment. Here was an unfortunate woman with a story. Someone had given birth to her, possible even helped raise her. Someone probably loved her. Her greasy cleavage displayed a liberal spattering of pimples, and her face showed evidence of her adolescence, pockmarks dominating the left side. She wasn’t pretty, but she was human. He idly wondered if she had tissues hidden somewhere in her skimpy get-up, if she spit out the loads in secret defiance as she waddled away into the shadows.

  “You go’n’ talk, wha’?” she asked.

  “What’s your name?” Alan asked. He smiled at himself. What was this fascination he had with names? He remembered the first thing he’d asked Xenobia when they’f initially met.

  “Baby, I can be whatever you want me to be.” she said.

  “Sarah Silverman?” Alan asked.

  The woman sniffed. “Hey, what’s that smell?” she asked.

  “Sarah Silverman. Yeah.” Alan nodded.

  “What the fuck are you talkin’ ‘bout? You a cop?” the prostitute asked.

  Alan laughed. “Get over here and put your fuckin’ lips around my cock, and if you do it right, I’ll give you five bucks.” he said. The world seemed to stand still. Alan’s nerves banged on snare drums and made a racket in the garage of his reptile brain.

  “Fi’e buck?!” the overweight hooker looked at him as if he’d just walked into a Castro District gay bar wearing a MAGA hat. “Honey, you want some o’ this jelly, you go’n’ nee’ mo’ than fi’e buck.” she said.

  Alan drew the tainted rag and rushed towards the woman. He clutched the dingy fabric with tight fists as he pushed it towards her face. She tried to scream. Unable to put the chloroform over her face as she writhed and struggled, Alan had to settle for stifling her attempted pleas for help with his bare hand. He dropped the cloth.

  He jumped. The woman bit down on his hand, hard. Alan felt the blood flowing. He pulled his hand back.

  The woman shrieked. She turned and fiddled with the door hand handle, trying to escape.

  Alan reached across, his face contorted with the collective rage nurtured and erected over decades of pain. He grabbed her hair. Twisting his hand around, he clutched the fistful of hair and pulled.

  He suddenly flew backwards, his neck bouncing back then forward in rapid succession. The back of his head slammed against the driver’s side window, cracking it. He felt thick, treacly blood ooze down the obverse side of his cranium. Warm and gooey, it slid down into his shirt.

  Alan blinked, the fuzzy white dots fading. He saw the woman as she slipped and fell onto the pavement, then ran away into the night. He felt far away. It seemed like he was watching a movie.

  He licked his lips. He felt thirsty. Alan’s eyes strafed down to the discarded rag.

  Grunting, he stumbled up. He plucked up the cloth. Pulling a small .38 revolver from the backseat floor, he slipped the deadly weapon into the back of his pants. Then, he exited the vehicle.

  The night air felt cold on is skin.

  Eyes scanning the horizon, trying to decipher the many secrets of the shadows, he began walking. Slowly, he advanced. He paused at the edge of one of the trucks. A dozen different engines thrummed, their mechanical pulse teasing him, trying to lull him into a false sense of complacency.

  Alan’s heart was a jackhammer ripping through the early morning air. His legs felt like jelly. He knew he was leaving sweat on the pavement, and that knowledge made him more nervous.

  He heard someone whispering.
Not far. One of the voices sound panicked, perhaps even angry. The fast-talking one with the emotional baggage seemed to be a woman. A woman with a husky, deep voice.

  Alan slid into the shadows, using them as a sheath for his barely contained violence. He crouched unconsciously, and walked forward, leaning on the front of his feet. He barely made a sound as he crept along on the peripheries of the sallow light cast by a solitary halogen lamp.

  He stopped.

  Taking a breath, trying to make it slow so that the sharp and sudden inhalation didn’t arouse suspicion or alarm. He leaned flat against the cold metal of a truck. He looked down. Alan realized that, if someone were to look, they would be able see a pair of legs and feet underneath the trailer. There wasn’t much he could do about that, so he resigned himself to the only thing he could do: wait.

  Around the corner, a large bald man wearing a second skin of tattoos stood with Alan’s intended victim. The duo had stopped talking. Did that mean they’d heard something?

  Alan inched forward, holding his breath. He peeked around the corner.

  He met the big guy’s eyes.

  Alan waited. His every instinct, screaming a piercing war cry in his veins, was to run. But, he defied the obscenely powerful urge. After a few seconds, he heard footsteps rapidly approaching. Kneeling down, Alan slid under the trailer of the semi. He saw the fat legs of the behemoth. Probably the woman’s pimp, Alan thought.

  He felt strangely calm, at least mentally. His body made every effort to disrupt his focus, but the adrenaline in this moment only seemed to clarify his thinking. Alan experienced something he had never felt before: power. The thrill coursed through him. In moments, if he made the slightest mistake, his life could be over. Everything hung on the line, here, and Alan discovered he loved it.

  Alan fiddled in his pocket. He fondled the blunt handle of the revolver. He extracted it.

 

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