by Rodd Clark
“Carol is fine . . . for the moment. We’re gonna walk around to the passenger side and you’re then gonna open the car door and slide over to the driver’s side. I will sit beside you with this Smith and Wesson pointed at your side. I’ll direct you where I want you to drive. In no time, you can be with Carol and I can be on my way.” Gabe offered the last bit to imply he didn’t want to hurt anyone, that he needed them alive for some odd reason.
It was clear by the man’s dress and manner he wasn’t a personal banker; Gabe guessed painter or contractor by the stained coveralls. He guided the man to the passenger side and watched him fumble his keys with shaky hands as he unlocked the door. Gabe could tell this Bubba was a decent enough individual. He could see callouses on his unsteady hands. He knew he loved his wife by his concern for her safety. He drove a newer model vehicle, so he was reasonably successful, and even though the man hadn’t spoken much, he could hear the twang of good ole boy drawl in his voice.
Gabe tried not to consider the white lighters’ lives when he did his work. Their mundane existences and personal stories had to be shoved to the back of his brain, hidden from him . . . lest he know they were real people and not the cardboard cutouts he had to imagine they were. He couldn’t afford the luxury of seeing them as individuals. But at times it was hard. He had to keep telling himself it was a predestined act, that no matter how they begged or pleaded for their lives they were fated to be cannon fodder, something to be sacrificed for the greater good that was occluded from his reason. It was a balancing act for Gabe, seeing everything he needed to know about them in a split second but masking it for fear of developing a consciousness.
With his Governor trained at the driver, Gabe ordered him to drive, beginning a long journey out of town. It was a strange reflection in his mind, thinking back on other kills and knowing he’d never taken a white lighter so far from where he’d first picked them up. He struggled to keep the driver calm, telling him it wasn’t robbery he was after, and that his wife Carol would remain safe if he just did as instructed. He couldn’t even imagine what confusion must be bouncing around in that redneck’s head—it seemed insane even for him.
As the driver weaved through the traffic under his controlled guidance, he seemed to relax, and Gabe asked him his name to ease his apprehension.
“Carl . . . Carl Whiting,” he said nervously. But then the look on his face became a veil being lifted. He was placing it together; that if the man with a gun didn’t know his name, why was he being kidnapped? Gabe could see the puzzle pieces connecting in Carl’s underused imagination.
“Okay, Carl . . . truth is I don’t know you . . . and your wife is safe, probably still at home doing some cleaning or something. I admit I lied, but remember I still have the gun.” Gabe was stoic, trying to keep the driver’s mind occupied. He gestured with the Smith and Wesson to indicate it was still fixed at close range and it would take only a single shot to end Carl’s life.
“Let’s just say I needed a ride, and you’re my chauffeur for the day. You’re going to drive me someplace, out of the city limits, and then you’re going to be on your way. It will be a great story you can tell your friends and nothing more. Not to worry big man, this ain’t no scene outta Deliverance . . . trust me you’re not my type.” He smiled over at the driver, anything to ease the tension, and Carl chuckled back, clearly nervous but compliant.
Gabe could see Carl’s beefy hands straining to hold the wheel, beads of perspiration dotting under the sleeves of his coveralls. They chatted causally, just as if it was an unplanned drive with a friend to the country . . . but only because Gabe was forced to. He had to at least try and keep Carl calm and driving. The reality was that Carl could easily veer his truck into a guardrail or stop abruptly, forcing both into the windshield, or he could just accept the bullet that would surely be unleashed if he did any of that. It’s what Gabe would have done, if the tables were turned. In his mind killing Carl was inevitable, but not while driving the interstate headed to a secure scene for murder. Dying on asphalt with a gunshot in his side was not how the game was supposed to play out.
But the long drive and the required chitchat had their own effect, because the more time they spent navigating traffic and interstate exits, the more time Carl became a real person and not some soulless cutout he could so easily murder. Gabe was beginning to feel the tide of remorse building somewhere in his chest, but it only served to irritate him more. This didn’t usually happen, he thought. Normally, he was able to complete the act quickly, and he wasn’t required to spend time staring into the faces of each cow before slaughter. But watching Carl’s eyes dart anxiously from the road and then back to him, hearing that hillbilly speech, or wondering whether he had kids at the exact moment the sun decided to glint off Carl’s wedding band made his stomach turn sick—it all seemed too serious.
He could see the tops of buildings flying past Carl’s driver’s side window, and they were becoming less frequent. Every skyscraper became one less than it had before, and he could see more and more sporadic clumps of trees and fewer billboards. The car exhaust fumes were dissipating as well, telling Gabe they were even farther out of the city than he’d guessed. Pointing his gun like a finger, he tapped it in the air suggesting Carl take the next available exit.
DOING AS he was told, Carl took every road his kidnapper demanded. He didn’t understand what was happening, but he knew he had to play it cool. That seemed the most logical step to take that might guarantee he would see Carol and his boy again. Their conversation had dried up as the man with a gun seemed to be scrutinizing the area, squinting his eyes and trying to gauge side roads that would take them into bushier, more rural, and woody spots.
Carl was grateful the guy said he didn’t have plans of a sexual nature with him; he’d never guessed the dude was queer . . . but why then was he searching for some secluded spot? Did he intend on finding some stretch of nowhere, a place cars and traffic were rare? Was he gonna steal his Dodge and leave him standing in the middle of a road, maybe miles from the nearest house? Was that what this whole thing had been about? The guy wanted his truck and just wanted to get him somewhere he couldn’t easily get help? Was he gonna be forced to watch as the stranger stole his truck and made his getaway? He felt certain that was about to happen. After all, the man had no call to harm him; they didn’t know each other, and his truck was relatively new and in good shape. Why then didn’t he just say that? What was all that shit about Carol for?
BOTH MEN’S minds were racing; one with questions about motives, while the other was simply scanning for a spot where Carl’s body could not be so easily discovered. Gabe’s cold calculations were the implement he used, the rudimentary tool that served to occupy his hands so he didn’t have to consider his actions. It was his brain refusing to grasp any ramifications by weighing out the minutiae of his simple planning. It was a mind trying to prevent him from caring about what was about to happen to the driver, reflecting on what he was about to do. He’d surprised even himself by growing suddenly attached to Carl. It was true that he was more likely insignificant in the big picture, but he surely was important in some aspect of his marginal world. He may’ve been nothing but a tiny cog, but he was a cog that moved all necessary gears for a wife, and possibly for his children. He was important in ways that Gabe had never once even considered. Not since any of this began over eighteen years earlier.
Forcing Carl to pull to the side of the road, he guided him at gunpoint out of the car, telling him they were going to take a walk into the woods just ahead. He lied when he promised Carl he was just getting him far enough off the main road so that he could escape. He watched the big man lumber over brush and fallen trees, following closely behind and chatting with him as if none of this had any meaning, trying to comfort him so he wouldn’t react quickly and try to make a futile run for it. They walked farther into the underbrush, until even the daylight seemed to hide away. Under the canopy of lush vegetation and in the quiet of that forest just
outside of the city, he had Carl turn around and face him before he fired twice, dead center at his chest, killing him instantly.
Gabe dropped to his knees as the man crashed backward like a mannequin forcibly pushed to the ground. He needed to work quickly to steal the essence of the life-giving radiance that had so defined Carl at the hardware store. He felt that familiar pulse surging through him, zapping his strength like an electric charge jumping from circuit to circuit, fleeting as it passed from one body to another. Gabe was immediately blinded with an explosion of bursting light, a hand grenade of UV sunlight trapping him inside its bubble. The detonation set off a debris field of white . . . like standing in the center of an oncoming car’s headlights with no place to turn before impact. Even the dead thing in the mossy grass ahead was captured in the beam and emblazed with a brilliance before the light eventually evaporated . . . leaving one man poised on his knees amid the wet leaves while the other lay on his back, his face staring up at the God who’d unsympathetically taken his life. The roar of the explosion in his ears took several minutes to die away. Equally, it took several minutes for the pounding in his chest to subside and stop racing. It was always like this . . . both painful and amazing. It left him with hard breathing but sated, like a quick fuck with an enthusiastic and energetic lover.
After regaining his composure he walked over and looked down at Carl’s face. His eyes were open; sadly, his death expression had captured his surprise for all eternity. A wet stain circled his crotch, and any dignity the man once had had been washed away with his final breaths. His chest was stained a bright red with a patch of wet blood pooling at the big man’s belly. Church dragged the body a few feet away to offer it a better cover before rummaging through Carl’s pockets for his keys. He stowed the gun in the small of his back and hung his head as he took the long walk back to the truck. He’d drive back into town in Carl’s Dodge, and then wipe it down thoroughly, before discarding it somewhere close to his neighborhood. He would abandon the truck with keys dangling in the ignition, just a baited hook with the slim hope someone would boost it and take it for an extended joy drive; anything to help cover his tracks and confuse the patrol cars that’d surely be looking for it later tonight, or at best, by early the next morning.
In his mind, it was something that had to be done. But he still felt drained and regretful driving back to the city, without Carl, while listening to the dead man’s stereo playing in the background—anything to break the abyss of bothersome silence and keep him from feeling anything. Things were changing it seemed because it was getting harder and harder to do what he had to, or maybe he’d just stirred up some unaccustomed feelings because he’d had to spend so much time with this one. He didn’t usually know the names of most of the meat sacks that had been presented for his taking, but he knew Carl by name, and he even knew his wife’s name was Carol. That was the problem, he thought, knowing them. Gabe turned up the radio and smiled a knowing grin; it was satisfying finding out and exposing such a simple truth.
Next time I’ll make it a point not to know their fucking names before I kill them, he thought, it’s all just shit anyway . . . and in the end everything crumbles away!
Chapter Twenty-six
SOMEWHERE BETWEEN TWO and three in the morning, Christian’s phone rang, nearly causing him to break a toe racing for his cell, which he’d left on the living room table. It was Gabriel. In his head there was no doubt. No one else would call him in the middle of the night. Even if his father had slipped into a coma after a stroke and died suddenly, his mother would still wait until the morning to ring him up. “Well honey, it’s not like there was anything you could’ve done anyway. It’s all the same news, whenever you hear it,” she would say quietly. Probably still sipping from a Vodka Gimlet as she went about the task of making calls to inform the family members of her horrible news. But it wasn’t his mother. His heart racing in his chest told him that much, it was Gabriel, and he was calling to apologize, or tell him he was coming over.
The sting of jamming his toe forced him to limp over and grab up the phone before voice mail caught it.
“Yes . . .” he said, panting and holding one foot and trying to support himself from tipping over. “Church is that you?”
“Why are you outta breath, you okay?” Gabriel asked.
But before Christian could respond Gabriel began spattering out, obvious pangs of guilt dripping from every word and bringing a swell to Christian’s heart.
“I’m sorry for bouncing earlier, but even you gotta admit you can be a real douche bag sometimes?” There was a hint of something odd in his tone, and then Christian remembered the well-lubricated words of someone who’d had a few.
“You been drinking since you left me standing in the middle of the street?” he asked, forging past the apologies he would have savored.
“I went home first . . . but couldn’t sleep, so I hit the streets . . . and then a couple of bars. I decided before they made their last call, I’d make mine.” Even with a distance marked in miles, Christian could feel a sloppy smile creeping across Gabriel’s face.
“What’s this . . . a booty call?”
“Maaayyybee . . .” he said, drawing out every syllable hinting at his southern drawl.
“You say the cutest things, mister, but you wouldn’t like it over here—all the sex is downright consensual.” Batting his charm back to Gabriel, it was now his turn to have the man sense his infectious grin, and it lathered them both like a secret invitation with a carnal lace.
“Only if you’re willing to forgive me, that is,” Gabriel said, sidestepping Christian’s discreet inferences. “Not sure if I could perform though . . . been downing some fast drinks before everyone closed up. It’s raping my brain and might make it hard to rape you . . . or maybe not so hard.” He was slurring his words, but Christian knew the man well. He had to fight his desire to jump for joy at the fact that he was coming over. He wanted only to hold him in his arms, drunk or not.
“Door’s unlocked, I’ll be in bed,” he said before clicking the end button. He had just enough time for a quick rinse before crawling into bed and waiting for Gabriel to slip under the covers and make everything all right.
If there were questions rattling around in Christian’s skull about his time spent with Gabriel, or about the frustration of finally meeting someone special—one who turned out to be a serial killer—he was pushing those so far down they couldn’t be found. He felt ecstatic running the bar of soap over his body, the tingling anticipation of seeing a person he cared for deeply. He felt as if the scales had been lifted from his eyes, or that his earlier beliefs that he’d been a happy person had been, in fact, a lie. He’d just been blinded to what happiness truly was, and now it lay before him like a banquet set before the starving masses, and all he wanted to do was taste every morsel and fill his belly completely.
He didn’t care whether they fucked, because all he wanted was to lie next to the man and listen to that irregular heartbeat before the chance was snatched away by unseen hands. He didn’t have to think about hiding his fears, because in that instant, he didn’t have any. His chest was still thumping loudly as he stepped out of his shower and ran a towel down his body. He ran into the front room and plugged in a tiny nightlight into the wall socket before extinguishing all the other lights. He didn’t want Church to stumble and hurt himself in his inebriated state, like he’d done racing for the phone, but he wanted enough guiding light to draw him into the bedroom. Crawling under the covers, he waited with anticipation, feeling the blood plump up his resting cock.
Within ten minutes Gabriel was at his door. He listened to the sounds of a drunken man fumbling in the other room, a dark figure desperately navigating the hall as he struggled to wriggle out of jeans and boots. He hadn’t called out. Christian knew he thought he was moving quietly because in his head he couldn’t even sense the clatter he was making. He found himself smiling as he watched the shadow inching forward. Gabriel may have intended on creep
ing under the covers unnoticed, but he collapsed on the bed in an awkward attempt to find his footing. He was naked as he reached over and pulled Christian closer. The smell of alcohol was heavy on his breath, but Christian didn’t care. Their lips were magnetic, and they both found each other easily. Without ever speaking a word, their tongues had found other callings, and they kissed wetly as Gabriel gripped the younger man’s face tightly in his meaty hand.
They slept without ever even trying to screw. The night was reserved for close contact and soulful touching. Gabriel didn’t last long, the booze had tired him, and Christian noticed when his breathing became something labored and long. He curled up under Gabriel’s arm and snuggled in, his ears trained to hear the heartbeat that fascinated him so. It was strange that such a potentially deadly thing could be so soothing, but it was a rhythm he couldn’t match to his own heart, and that seemed accurate for many reasons swirling in his head.
By morning both men felt well rested, even though neither had gotten much sleep before Gabriel’s arrival. Gabriel’s eyes popped open about the same time as Christian’s, and again, without words, he pulled Christian closer, this time ready for performing as he hadn’t done the night before. It was not the usual sensual pleasures that Christian was accustomed to sharing with Gabriel. The man’s hands raked and pulled for his own amusements, tossing Christian on his front as Gabriel placed a powerful hand on Christian’s head and his thrusts became frenzied and brutal. The bigger man was driving like a hammer on penny nails, and Christian heard him utter the words, “I’m fucking almost there, partner . . . hang in there.”