by Blake Crouch
“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?”
“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.”
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 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:
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, 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 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.”
&nb
sp; BLAKE CROUCH is the author of DESERT PLACES, LOCKED DOORS, SNOWBOUND, and ABANDON, which was an IndieBound Notable Selection, all published by St. Martin’s Press. His latest thriller, RUN, was released in February 2011. His short fiction has appeared in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Thriller 2, Shivers VI, Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, and other anthologies. In 2009, he co-wrote “Serial” with JA Konrath, which has been downloaded over 500,000 times and topped the Kindle bestseller list for 4 weeks. That story and ABANDON have also been optioned for film. Blake lives in Colorado. His website is www.blakecrouch.com.
JA KONRATH is the author of seven novels in the Lt. Jacqueline “Jack” Daniels thriller series. The latest is Shaken, published by AmazonEncore.
JACK KILBORN is the pen name for JA Konrath. Under the Kilborn moniker, he wrote ENDURANCE, TRAPPED, and AFRAID, all structured in the same way as DRACULAS, but decidedly darker. Konrath currently has twenty-seven ebooks available on Kindle, most of them inexpensively priced. In 2011, Ace Books is releasing TIMECASTER, a sci-fi ecopunk novel written under the nom de plume Joe Kimball. You can visit all of his personalities at www.jakonrath.com.
JA KONRATH’S/JACK KILBORN’S WORKS AVAILABLE ON KINDLE
Jack Daniels thrillers
Whiskey Sour
Bloody Mary
Rusty Nail
Dirty Martini
Fuzzy Navel
Cherry Bomb
Shaken
Shot of Tequila
Banana Hammock
Jack Daniels Stories (collected stories)
Serial Uncut with Blake Crouch
Killers with Blake Crouch
Suckers with Jeff Strand
Planter’s Punch with Tom Schreck
Floaters with Henry Perez
Truck Stop
Symbios (writing as Joe Kimball)
Jailbait (with Ann Voss Peterson)
Wild Night is Calling (with Ann Voss Peterson)
Shapeshifters Anonymous
The Screaming
Other works
Afraid
Endurance
Trapped
Origin
The List
Disturb
65 Proof (short story omnibus)
Crime Stories (collected stories)
Horror Stories (collected stories)
Dumb Jokes & Vulgar Poems
A Newbie’s Guide to Publishing
Visit the author at www.jakonrath.com
BLAKE CROUCH’S WORKS AVAILABLE ON KINDLE
Andrew Z. Thomas thrillers
Break You
Desert Places
Locked Doors
Other works
Run
Draculas with JA Konrath, Jeff Strand and F. Paul Wilson
Abandon
Snowbound
Famous
Perfect Little Town (horror novella)
Bad Girl (short story)
Serial with Jack Kilborn
Serial Uncut with JA Konrath and Jack Kilborn
Killers with Jack Kilborn
Birds of Prey with Jack Kilborn and JA Konrath
Killers Uncut with Jack Kilborn and JA Konrath
Serial Killers Uncut with Jack Kilborn and JA Konrath
Shining Rock (short story)
*69 (short story)
On the Good, Red Road (short story)
Remaking (short story)
The Meteorologist (short story)
The Pain of Others (novella)
Unconditional (short story)
Four Live Rounds (collected stories)
Six in the Cylinder (collected stories)
Fully Loaded (complete collected stories)
Visit Blake at www.BlakeCrouch.com
Stirred by Blake Crouch and JA Konrath
Flee by JA Konrath and Ann Voss Peterson
Pines by Blake Crouch
Mummies
Wolfmen
Draculas 2
Compilation copyright © 2011 by Blake Crouch & Joe Konrath
BIRDS OF PREY copyright © 2011 by Blake Crouch & Joe Konrath
Cover copyright © 2011 by Jeroen ten Berge
BIRDS OF PREY 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 & Blake Crouch.
For more information about Blake Crouch, please visit www.blakecrouch.com.
For more information about JA Konrath, please visit www.jakonrath.com.
For more information about Jack Kilborn, please visit www.jackkilborn.com.
For more information about the cover artist, please visit www.jeroentenberge.com.