In all that time, each motel room he was in had been virtually the same, right down to the smell. It wasn't a bad smell really, just a stench that lay beneath the surface–under the smell of cleaning products and air fresheners.
It was the aroma of sex and lawlessness.
Oh come on, Harry, don't be melodramatic.
Harry imagined that every motel room in America had been fucked in, and had some sort of crime occur; sometimes simultaneously. He liked to sit back and look at the room to see if he could figure out the details of these unknown crimes. He had this fantasy that he could read any room and know what went wrong; just like Sherlock Holmes. Deeper in his mind, he knew that he was full of shit.
Harry glanced at the bed to his left, and the same stacks of folders and papers that he had abandoned an hour ago were smiling back at him. Case files, witness reports, photographs, and other evidence were all piled in predominantly neat stacks. This case didn't lack for paperwork. That was for sure.
He had been put on the Strawberries murders a week and a half ago, inheriting the case from another agent who had failed to put the evidence together during the six months he had been in charge. Agent Henderson was initially given the case because he was one of the best young agents the bureau had seen in years. Harry was sure Henderson had the same piles of paper on his bed all those months. How many sleepless nights had Henderson experienced before he was unceremoniously removed from the case?
Thus far, Harry hadn't gotten any further than Henderson had.
All that was known about the case was that there was some psychotic individual, probably male, moving in no discernible pattern across the country, and every now and then, he would make a pit stop. The body count was estimated at twenty, though some were still being found in remote locations from time to time. No two murders were exactly the same, but they were all brutal, and creative in their hellishness.
Harry had stared at the stacked pictures for far longer than was good for any man's soul. A person could see beauty in the pictures if he looked deep enough. Blood and sinew. Bone and entrails. Masterworks in unconventional media. Seeing elegance in murder made him sick.
The only piece of evidence that linked each of the crimes together was a drawing of a strawberry left at each scene. The size of the drawing varied depending on the location, but it was always drawn using the victim's blood with a finger.
At first, the theory was that it might actually be multiple people committing the murders in a cult scenario. Most serial killers made their kills ritualistically. They tended to be similar and patterns could be found. The fact that each murder was different from the last pointed to multiple killers, but eventually that idea was ruled out. It would be very difficult for multiple people to stay hidden for this long. If it were a cult, there would be a trail to find. It could be a sick family, Chainsaw Massacre style, but even that would be hard to hide. One person, off the grid, and in the shadows was more likely to evade capture.
At some point, an expert was brought in to analyze the strawberry drawings from each scene, and it was determined that, while they were not all identical, the probability that they were drawn by the same hand was high, and the artist was always smart enough to not leave prints. Most likely, the killer wore a glove, but the blood drawings had a peculiar rough texture to them, so it wouldn't have been a normal latex glove.
You've got fuck all for evidence, Harry. Boy, you sure are screwed.
Harry sat back in his chair, letting his body sink deep into the worn leather cushion. This was actually not a motel owned chair; this was his. Harry had never been known as much of a hard-ass in the bureau, and he rarely threw his weight around, but this chair was his one demand. He traveled all around the country, and if at all possible, he had this recliner shipped to him on the bureau's dime. His supervisors allowed it because Harry didn't make waves. As long as he kept catching the bad guys and kept his head down, they would let Harry have his chair.
Harry did most of his thinking in this chair. He slept in it most nights. The chair was basically the only home that Harry had; his chair, the earth tones, the rotary phone, and the sour shower water. What else could a man need?
He suddenly remembered one other thing that was universal in motels, and he reached into the drawer of the bedside table. Inside, predictably, was the Gideon Bible. He pulled it out and opened to a random page. There, scrawled in an unsteady hand, was the word FUCK in big black letters. He turned the page, then flipped through the rest of the book. Someone had taken the time to write the word on every page.
Harry didn't know God from a hole in the ground, but he knew this was rude. Though he had to admire the dedication it took to get the word on each of those thin pages.
Putting the book back, he glanced once more at the stacks on the bed, half-heartedly contemplating giving them one more look. The thought passed quickly though, and he went back to scanning the motel room. His eyes began to get heavy as his thoughts crept in. He wondered how many lines of cocaine had been cut on the dresser top; how many drunks had passed out with half their bodies on the bathroom floor, the other half drooling into the shag carpet; and how many prostitutes had been fucked against that far wall. The possibilities were endless.
The rotary rang before his thoughts could morph into dreams.
FOUR
The Brazilian sun forced all of Sylvia's nooks and crannies to rain sweat. The rays beat down on her like hellfire causing her skin to blister. The beginning of the path to the airport had tree cover, but that soon disappeared, leaving her with just a rocky dirt path to traverse. The going was slow in her heels, as they seemed to catch themselves on every rock and fallen tree branch. She had tried to take them off, but the ground proved to be too hot to handle.
Half way, she remembered that she had a small fan in her bag, and cursed herself for not remembering it sooner. It ran off a single AAA battery, and when she flicked the switch, it luckily began to spin. It was a tiny thing, and didn't make much of a breeze, but she held it up to her face, and the slight wind felt like ice against the sweat beaded on her skin. Though the rest of her body still boiled, it was enough to keep her chin up and her feet moving.
Twenty minutes after she found the fan, she was finally staring up at the ceiling of the Santos Dumont. The temperature was a good fifteen degrees cooler inside, and while still quite hot, was cool enough to make every drop of moisture on her body shiver with delight.
People flew by her so fast they made a breeze strong enough to rustle her soaked hair. She looked up at the high ceilings, which were intricately molded, and painted with a delicate hand. As she traced the lines of the ceiling with her eyes, her view began to spin and the lights above traced patterns across her iris. She looked away quickly. Too quickly. She felt a force pulling her to the ground, and she fought against it. She couldn't focus on any one point, so she closed her eyes completely.
“Get yourself together, Sylvia,” she told herself. “All you have to do is find a place to sit down and just hold on till the world stops moving. It isn't like you haven't had to do this before.”
She squinted her eyes so that the spinning was less severe and scanned the airport lobby for a place to sit. To her right, she could make out a series of benches, and she carefully made her way over to them. Each step was deliberate, and she could only imagine how she looked from the outside, because from within, she felt like gravity had taken a back seat to ridiculousness.
When her outstretched hand finally touched one of the benches, Sylvia sighed with relief. She let her full weight drop to the seat and her body hunched over between her legs as she sat. She let her eyes close as she pressed her knees to her temples to slow the spinning.
Sometime later, she woke laying on the bench. She rubbed the back of her hand across her mouth to erase the wetness that had accumulated. She was once again looking up at the ceiling, but this time it politely remained motionless. She sat up and looked around, embarrassed, but nobody appeared to have noticed h
er. They were all far too involved with their own lives.
Looking at the clock, Sylvia found that she had not been passed out for all that long. Her bags were piled below her, and when she reached down to grab what was left of the bottle of water, she saw her feet–bloodied and crusted in dirt. They didn't hurt as much as the sight of them would indicate, but that very well could be a happy side effect from whatever medication she had taken. She peeled off one of her red heels to get a better look, but replaced it quickly when she saw that the gore got worse closer to her toes.
Sylvia had to get home. She needed to soak her feet and wash her body, and then she needed to sleep for as long as her mind would allow. She felt as though she had to urinate, but knew this was impossible, as she had sweat out any moisture that her body contained. She ignored the sensation.
Sylvia scanned departure times, but couldn't focus long enough to make out the words without feeling as if her head would burst. She would need to check with someone behind the counter to find a flight. She took the identification that she was using for this particular trip out of her bag. The name on the passport hardly mattered as it was not her own.
Her current working name was Sylvia Stiletto, and it was the first time that she had ever used her real first name. Stiletto was something she came up with while watching an old episode of Married… with Children late one night, and Sylvia just seemed to fit. She adored the name, but would not be caught dead in the shoes.
She waited in line for what she hoped was a friendly employee eager to help. As she stood, she felt her body sway to the left and if it was not for the diligence of her blood squished feet, her world would have shifted, and her body would have approached the counter on its side. With great effort, she managed to greet the woman right side up.
After several minutes of impatient broken language, she had a flight home with two layovers. Normally she would relish the chance to spend a day or two in Rio, but this trip had soured her taste for debauchery. She would be back in the comfort of her own bed by eight thirty.
When her bags were safely stowed and her bottom squarely placed in her seat, she was finally able to settle in for a proper nap. Then she remembered a horrible thing. An inconvenient, atrocious, bitch of a thing.
She had a date tonight.
Not just a date, but a blind date. Her first thought was to cancel. That was the obvious choice, but she didn't have his number. Sylvia was not the type to stand anyone up. In fact, she hated the practice so much that she would always go out of her way to make it to any appointment; inconvenience be damned. It looked as if her scruples were going to rob her of a good night alone yet again. She closed her eyes tight and waited for her mind to settle.
She was going to need sleep. A lot of it.
FIVE
“I don't know why we always have to listen to this stupid Jesus crap.”
Simon made a move to turn the radio dial, but his brother quickly slapped his hand away.
“Stop hitting me, Larry! Damn it, you know I don't like listening to this,” Simon said dejectedly, “Let's put it on that rock station we heard yesterday. Maybe hear some ZZ Top or some Skynyrd.”
“Simon, you are a walking goddamn redneck cliché,” Larry gave his brother a sideways glance as a warning to not try and change the station again. “This is Sunday, and you know I always listen to the preacher on Sunday. Now we are about to embark on a journey across this entire great country of ours, during which, you will most certainly get to hear all the Lynyrd fucking Skynyrd you can handle.” Larry had his map splayed out across the steering wheel and most of the dashboard. He was making one final check of the route that they would be taking from Bumfuck, South Carolina to San Diego, California. It would be the farthest trip that Larry or Simon had ever made since joining the trucking profession.
Microchips.
Goddamn millions of microchips, delivered by ship to a Carolina port and placed on the semi-truck trailer that the two brothers, Larry and Simon Pluckett, would navigate across the United States.
Larry hated computers. He hated the Internet. He even hated his phone, though he saw the value in having it. So, the fact that Larry would be moving a truck full of microchips such a distance almost made him want to turn down the job. However, he swallowed his pride. The fact was that they needed money, and this job was going to pay them enough to get by for at least three months. He and his brother had not had the greatest run of luck as of late, and what little cash they had stashed away had dried up faster than an earth worm in the Carolina sun.
Goddamn microchips.
As he folded up his map, satisfied that the route he had chosen was the best possible, Larry noticed Simon finishing off his mug of coffee. He checked his own travel mug and found it almost empty.
“Before we head out, we need to go in and resupply. I need more coffee if I'm gonna drive first shift, and I'm pretty sure we don't have much food left either.”
They were parked in the side lot of a truck stop called Miss Sallie's Place. They had been parked there for a couple of days, staying at a nearby motel until they could pick up their cargo. At four this morning, they finally got the call to pick up the shipment. After the load was secured, Simon wanted to get on the road right then, but Larry insisted that they make one last pit stop at Miss Sallie's to make sure they were prepared.
Larry always found himself the voice of reason. His brother never was very responsible. Simon always had his head in the clouds. Hell, Larry figured that Simon had just about taken residence up there. Simon was loyal though, and easy to control. In addition, he always had something amusing to say, even if he never realized that it was amusing to begin with. Larry knew that Simon would do anything for him. They split their earnings down the middle, and even though he lost half his wages to his brother, Larry could never turn his back on family.
“Why don't you get in there and get me some more coffee. Get you some hot chocolate or something. Any more coffee and you won't be able to sleep. I'll check the food stores and meet you in there.”
“Alright,” Simon said.
“And brother,” Larry said, as Simon opened his door, “You leave that beaver where it is.”
“Aw shit, Lar, you know beaver don't poke its head out this early.”
“Whatever, Boy, you just keep it in your pants. I'll be along in a minute.”
* * *
Larry was only six hours into his shift when the regret set in as it always had. He got that nagging feeling that he never should have taken this job. The boredom would be too much and the journey too long. His ass would hurt too much and his gut would grow too soft.
He always got the regret, but it would subside after a day or two. These first hours were the hardest for him, and that was why he volunteered to drive the first shift. He needed to get the regret out of the way. In six more hours, he would sleep, and when he woke again, the feeling would be gone.
He grabbed for his coffee mug, but stopped when he remembered it was empty. He had made the same mistake numerous times since he had swallowed the last tepid drop.
Simon was still snoring in the bunk in the back, so Larry was left alone with only his thoughts to keep him company, and he never really much enjoyed his own company. He didn't feel like listening to music, so after the preacher had finished, he just switched off the radio. He tried conversing over the CB, but he only found one person willing to chat. His handle was Chugs. Larry found him obnoxious and inaccessible, and soon changed the frequency.
Larry's thumb twitched against his thigh, and then the steering wheel, and then his thigh again. He couldn't stand it anymore.
“Simon,” he said, getting no answer.
“Simon, get up,” he said almost yelling this time. It was loud enough to stop his brother's snoring, and after a few moments, Larry heard stirring on the back bunk.
“What is it? Is it my turn already?”
“No, I'm only half way done, but I've got the twitches. Come up here and keep me company, OK?”
Simon didn't respond at first, but finally Larry heard him roll out of the bed and put his pants on. Soon he was sitting next to him in the passenger seat.
“Damn it, Lar, I was having such a great dream.”
“Yeah? What did ya dream about?”
“A whole bunch of pigs.”
Larry reached for his empty coffee mug.
“Pigs?” Larry asked, his attention already waning. He really wanted more coffee.
“Yeah a whole heap of pigs, all rootin' around in the mud. They were big ones too. But, the funny thing was that they could talk. Not like pig words, but you know, people words.”
The mention of pig words made Larry smile and brought his attention back to his brother.
“Yeah, and what did they converse about?” Larry asked.
“Oh, this and that. They talked to each other just like you and me would. Then they'd just go back to rootin' and rollin'. Then suddenly there was a farmer, and he came over to the pig pen with a little stool. He went inside and sat right down on that stool in the middle of the pen.”
Larry could tell that his brother was getting excited to tell the rest of his dream. Simon always got into telling Larry his stories and thoughts, and right now, he was squirming and leaning over toward Larry enough to almost fall out of his seat.
“And then that farmer called one of those pigs over to him. He said, 'C'mere, Margaret.' ”
“The pigs had names?”
“Well, I don't know about all of them. I just know about Margaret.”
“Okay, carry on,” Larry said, accepting the facts.
“So the farmer, he pulled out a knife and fork. I don't even know where he got 'em from, but he had them all the same. Then you know what that farmer did? He poked that fork right into Margaret's side and cut him a piece. Just right out of her. It was a perfect, bite-size chunk, and the farmer ate it right there on the spot. And Margaret didn't even make a peep. It was like she didn't even feel it.”
Strawberries Page 3