by Jack Kilborn
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 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?
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 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 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.
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 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 cool-headedness 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.
-Epilogue-
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.
In the meantime, 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.
A ripe plum, ready to pluck.
Donaldson tucked the cell phone into his pocket and got out of the car…
For a continuation of Donaldson’s adventures, read SERIAL by Jack Kilborn & Blake Crouch.
For a continuation of Jack’s adventures, read FUZZY NAVEL by J.A. Konrath.
For a continuation of Taylor’s adventures, read AFRAID by Jack Kilborn.
The first grown-up books I ever read, at the age of nine, were mysteries. This had more to do with them being on my mother’s bookshelf than any particular design on my part. But I fell in love with them. Spenser and Travis McGee were my first literary heroes. I really enjoyed Ed McBain’s 87th Precinct, and the Remo Williams Destroyer series by Richard Sapir and Warren Murphy.
Then I got into hardboiled and noir. Mickey Spillane. Max Allan Collins. Lawrence Block. Ross MacDonald. Donald Westlake and Richard Stark. Chandler and Hammet. Andrew Vachss. Reading about cops and PIs was cool, but reading about criminals was cool too.
In my teen years, I was floored by Red Dragon and Silence of the Lambs, and that started me on a serial killer binge. I devoured John Sandford, James Patterson, Robert W. Walker, David Wiltse, and Ridley Pearson.
Which is probably why my novels are such a mishmash of different genre styles.
When I sit down to write a short story, it’s for one of two reasons. First, because someone asked me for one. Second, because I have an idea that begs to be written. If I’m writing to fill an anthology slot or crack a market, I usually start with a few lines, which leads me to a premise, which leads to conflict, which leads to action. But if I already have an idea, it usually springs full blown from my head and onto the page as fast as I can type.
Often, I have story ideas that won’t fit into the Jack Daniels universe. Sometimes these are horror stories, or straight humor, or sci-fi, or a combination of different styles.
Sometimes they’re crime stories
This was one of three stories written for Small Bites, an anthology of flash fiction to benefit horror author and editor Charles Grant, who needed assistance paying some hefty medical bills. Flash fiction is a story of 500 words or less. Strange as it sounds, writing shorter is sometimes harder than writing longer, because you have less words to fit all of the story elements in. Small Bites used three of my flash fiction shorts. This piece won a Derringer Award.
“I’m surprised you asked me here, Ralph. I didn’t think you liked me.”
Ralph grinned over the wheel. “Don’t be silly, Jim.” He cut the engines and glanced over the starboard bow. There was some chop to the sea, but the yacht had a deep keel and weathered it well.
“Well, we’ve been neighbors for almost ten years, and we haven’t ever done anything together.”
Ralph shrugged. “I work crazy hours. Not a lot of free time. But I’ve always considered you a good friend, Jim. Plus, our wives are close. I thought this would give us a chance to get to know each other. Belinda mentioned you like to fish.”
Jim nodded. “Mostly freshwater. I haven’t done much deep sea fishing. What are we going for, anyway?”
Ralph adjusted his captain’s cap.
“I was originally thinking salmon or sailfish, but it’s been a while since I went for the big guys.”
“Big guys?”
“Sharks, Jim. You up for it?”
“Sure. Just tell me what I need to do.”
“First step is getting into the harness.” Ralph picked up a large life vest, crisscrossed with straps and latches. “This clips onto the rod, so you don’t lose it, and this end is attached to the boat, in case you get pulled overboard.”
Jim raised an eyebrow. “Has that ever happened?”
“Not yet, but it pays to be careful. These are Great White waters, and some of those bad boys go over two thousand pounds.”
Ralph helped Jim into the vest, snugging it into place.
“What next?”
“We have to make a chum slick.”
“I’ve heard of that. Fish blood and guts, right?”
“Yep. It’s a shark magnet. You want to get started while I prepare the tackle?”
“Sure.”
Ralph went to the cooler and took out the plastic bucket of chum. Even refrigerated, it stank to high heaven. He handed it to Jim, with a ladle.
“Toss that shit out there. Don’t be stingy with it.”
Jim began to slop chum into the blue waters.
Ralph swiveled his head around, scanning the horizon. No other boats.
“So,” Jim asked, “what’s the bait?”
Ralph gave Jim a deep poke in the shoulder with a fillet knife, then shoved his neighbor overboard.
Jim surfaced, screaming. Ralph ladled on some guts.
“Not very neighborly of you, Jim. Screwing my wife while I was at work.”
“Ralph! Please!”
Jim’s hands tried to find purchase on the sides of the yacht, but they were slippery with blood. Ralph dumped more onto his head, making Jim gag.
“Keep struggling.” Ralph smiled. “The big guys love a moving target.”
“Don’t do this, Ralph. Please. I’m begging you.”
“You’d better beg fast. I see that we already have some company.”
Jim stared across the open water. The dorsal fin approached at a brisk pace.
“Please! Ralph! You said you considered me a good friend!”
“Sorry…wrong choice of words. I actually meant to say I considered you a good chum.”
It took a while for Ralph to stop laughing.
I wrote this in college, and never tried to publish it because I considered it too violent. But after selling several stories to Ellery Queen, I still couldn’t crack its sister publication, Alfred Hitchcock. After a handful of rejections, I sent them this, and they bought it. I liked the last line so much I’ve reused it a few times in other stories.
Hutson closed his eyes and swallowed hard, trying to stop sweating. On the table, in the pot, thirty thousand dollars worth of chips formed a haphazard pyramid. Half of those chips were his. The other half belonged to the quirky little mobster in the pink suit that sat across from him.
“I’ll see it.”
The mobster pushed more chips into the pile. He went by the street nick Little Louie. Hutson didn’t know his last name, and had no real desire to learn it. The only thing he cared about was winning this hand. He cared about it a great deal, because Bernard Hutson did not have the money to cover the bet. Seven hours ago he was up eighteen grand, but since then he’d been steadily losing and extending his credit and losing and extending his credit. If he won this pot, he’d break even.
If he didn’t, he owed thirty thousand dollars that he didn’t have to a man who had zero tolerance for welchers.
Little Louie a
lways brought two large bodyguards with him when he gambled. These bodyguards worked according to a unique payment plan. They would hurt a welcher in relation to what he owed. An unpaid debt of one hundred dollars would break a finger. A thousand would break a leg.
Thirty thousand defied the imagination.
Hutson wiped his forehead on his sleeve and stared at his hand, praying it would be good enough.
Little Louie dealt them each one more card. When the game began, all six chairs had been full. Now, at almost five in the morning, the only two combatants left were Hutson and the mobster. Both stank of sweat and cigarettes. They sat at a greasy wooden card table in somebody’s kitchen, cramped and red-eyed and exhausted.
One of Louie’s thugs sat on a chair in the corner, snoring with a deep bumble-bee buzz. The other was looking out of the grimy eighth story window, the fire escape blocking his view of the city. Each men had more scars on their knuckles than Hutson had on his entire body.
Scary guys.
Hutson picked up the card and said a silent prayer before looking at it.
A five.
That gave him a full house, fives over threes. A good hand. A very good hand.
“Your bet,” Little Louie barked. The man in the pink suit boasted tiny, cherubic features and black rat eyes. He didn’t stand over five four, and a pathetic little blonde mustache sat on his upper lip like a bug. Hutson had joined the game on suggestion of his friend Ray. Ray had left hours ago, when Hutson was still ahead. Hutson should have left with him. He hadn’t. And now, he found himself throwing his last two hundred dollars worth of chips into the pile, hoping Little Louie wouldn’t raise him.
Little Louie raised him.
“I’m out of chips,” Hutson said.
“But you’re good for it, right? You are good for it?”
The question was moot. The mobster had made crystal clear, when he extended the first loan, that if Hutson couldn’t pay it back, he would hurt him.
“I’m very particular when it comes to debts. When the game ends, I want all debts paid within an hour. In cash. If not, my boys will have to damage you according to what you owe. That’s the agreement, and you’re obliged to follow it, to the letter.”