by Jack Kilborn
“Stay still, Candi. I’m going to try to break the hinge.”
I shot my leg out like a piston, striking the top of the stock once, twice, three times.
The stock stayed solid, the screws tight. And if I tried kicking any harder I’d break my heel.
“Don’t you have a gun?”
I ignored her, turning my attention to the trunk in the corner of the enclosure. I crawled over to see if there was anything inside I could use.
“Don’t leave me!”
“I won’t leave you. I promise.”
I found paper towels, paper masks, starter fluid, plastic bags, and a large Tupperware container. The lid had brown stains on it-dried blood-and I got an uneasy feeling looking at it. Fighting squeamishness, I pulled the top off.
It was filled with rock salt. But I could make out something brown peeking through. I shook the box, and it revealed a few of the brown things, small and wrinkled. They looked like prunes.
Then I realized what they were, and came very close to throwing up. I pulled away, covering my mouth. There had to be dozens, maybe over a hundred, of them in there.
That sick bastard…
“Did you find anything?”
“Nothing helpful,” I said, closing the lid.
“What’s in that box you were holding?”
Taylor was smart. He didn’t leave any tools, weapons, or keys lying around. I eyed the starter fluid.
“Candi, do you smoke?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you have matches on you? A lighter?”
“In my purse. He took it.”
Dammit. But starting a fire in the enclosed space probably wasn’t a good idea anyway. However, the chest itself had possibilities. It was made of wood, with metal reinforced corners. I picked it up, figuring it weighed at least fifteen pounds.
“What was in the box!”
I muscled the chest over to Candi and knelt next to her.
“Hold still,” I said. “If I miss I could break your leg.”
I reared back, clenched my teeth, and shoved the chest into the top of the stock. There was a loud crack, but both objects stayed intact.
I did it again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
My shoulder began to burn, and the corners of the chest were coming apart, but the hinge on the stock was bending.
Two more times and the chest burst open, spilling its contents onto the mat, the Tupperware container bouncing next to Candi.
I hit the stock one last time. The chest broke into several large pieces. I grabbed one of the slats used to make the chest, and wedged it in the opening I’d made between the top and bottom of the stock. I used it like a crowbar, levering at the hinge.
It was slowly giving… giving…
Then the stock popped open like a shotgun blast.
Candi sat up abruptly, grabbing her ankle to see her injury for herself. Then the tears hit, fast and hard.
“Ah shit… that fucker.”
“We need to find a way out of here.”
“My toe…” she sobbed.
“Candi! Focus!”
Her eyes locked on mine.
“We need to start rolling up the mats,” I ordered, “find the way out of here before they come back.”
She sniffled. “They? I only know one. Taylor.”
“He’s got a buddy now.” I made a face. “And they’re armed.”
I watched Candi’s face do an emotion montage. Anger, pain, despair, then raw fear.
“I have kids,” Candi whispered. “A boy and a girl.”
“Then we need to find the exit, fast. Start pulling up the mats.”
“What time is it? My man, Julius, he’ll come looking for me when I don’t report back.”
I thought about the pimp, running out of the diner with his teeth in his hand.
“Julius, uh, probably won’t be coming to the rescue. Do the mats. Now.”
She wiped her nose on her arm, and then reached for the Tupperware container.
“Candi…”
“I want to see.”
She popped off the lid and squinted at the objects in the rock salt.
“What are these things?”
“We need to look for the exit, Candi.”
“Are those… aw, Jesus… ”
“Don’t worry about that now.”
“Don’t worry? Do you know what these are?”
“Yes.”
“These are… nipples. ”
“I know, Candi. That’s why we need to get the hell out of here.”
That seemed to spur her to action. I joined Candi in pulling up mats, and we soon found the trap door. I pulled on the recessed handle.
Locked.
I tugged as hard as I could, until the cords on my neck bulged out and I saw stars.
It wouldn’t budge.
“We’re going to die up here.” Candi was hugging her knees, rocking back and forth.
I blew out a breath. “No, we’re not.”
“He’s going to bite off our toes. Then our tits, to add to his collection.”
I reached up overhead, tugging at the baffling stuck to the ceiling. Under it was heavy aluminum. I did a 360, looking at all the walls.
There was no way out. We were trapped up here.
Then we both felt it. The truck cab jiggle.
Oh, shit. They’re back.
9
Fran the waitress was happy to flip a coin for the two gentlemen who had tipped her so well.
“Tails,” Taylor called.
Fran caught the quarter, slapped it against her wrist.
“Tails it is. Congrats, handsome.”
Taylor gave her a polite nod, then turned to judge Donaldson’s reaction. There wasn’t one. The fat man’s face was blank. Taylor left the diner, his cohort in tow. It was still hot and muggy outside, and the lot was still almost full, but there weren’t any people around.
“Are we cool?” Taylor asked as they walked to his truck.
“Yeah. Fair is fair. You’ll let me watch?”
Taylor shrugged like it didn’t matter, but secretly he was thrilled at the idea of an audience.
“Sure.”
“And you’ll let me do her face?”
“Her face is all yours.”
“You should try it once. The face. You peel enough of the flesh away, you can see the skull underneath. I bet Jack Daniels has a beautiful skull.”
Taylor stopped and stared at him. “You’ve really got a hard-on for this cop, don’t you?”
“I’d marry her if she’d have me. But I’ll settle for a bloody blowjob after I knock her teeth out. Do you still have Jack’s phone?”
Taylor had pocketed her phone and wallet. He tugged the cell out.
“Does Officer Donaldson want to inform the next of kin?” Taylor grinned as he handed it over.
“That’s a possibility. Might also be fun to call up her loved ones while you’re working on her, let them hear her screams.”
“You’ve got a sick mind, my friend.”
“Thank you, kindly. Let’s see who our favorite cop talked to last. The winner is… Latham. And less than an hour ago. Shall we see if Latham is still up?”
“Put it on speaker.”
The phone rang twice, and a man answered.
“Jack? I was worried.”
“And you have good reason to be,” Donaldson said. “Is this Latham?”
“Who is this?”
“I’m the man about to murder Jack Daniels. She’s going to die in terrible pain. How do you feel about that?”
There was silence.
“What’s wrong, Latham? Don’t you care that…” Donaldson squinted at the phone. “Dammit, lost the signal.”
Donaldson hit redial. The call didn’t go through.
They stood there for a moment, neither of them saying anything.
“I hate dropped calls,” Taylor finally offered. “Drives me nuts.”
“Cops.”
“I hate cops, too.”
“Behind you.”
Taylor spun around and froze. A Wisconsin squad car rolled up next to them. Its lights weren’t on, but the driver’s side window was open and a pig was leaning out. White male, fat, had something on his upper lip that an optimist might call a mustache.
“Did you men happen to witness a disturbance in the diner earlier?”
Taylor thought fast. But apparently so did Donaldson, because he spoke first.
“What disturbance?”
“Seems an Illinois cop got into a tussle with one of the locals.”
“We’re just passing through,” Donaldson said. “Didn’t see anything.”
The pig nodded, then pulled up next to the diner. He let his fellow cop out, then began to circle the parking lot.
“I had to lie,” Donaldson said, “or else we’d have to give statements. I don’t want my name in any police report.”
“I’m with you. But now we’ve got a big problem. One of them is going to talk to our waitress, and she’ll mention us. The other is taking down plate numbers. He’ll find Jack’s car, realize she’s still here, and start searching for her.”
“We need to move our vehicles. Right now.”
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 p
icked 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.
Utah, One Week Later
1
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.
He felt a tinge of sadness about Taylor’s arrest. A shame, losing a kindred spirit like that. But if the man had been willing to share, he wouldn’t be in custody right now.
At least he kept quiet about me, Donaldson thought.
But that hadn’t stopped Donaldson from putting as much road between him and Wisconsin as he could. 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.