by Matt Hilton
But as the saying goes, that was then and this is now. Almost twenty-four hours later, Cain was feeling rather pleased with himself.
For one, he was lying on a soft bed, wiggling his hot feet in the draft from a wall-mounted AC unit. Freshly showered and wearing clothes that weren't sticky with perspiration, he was a new man. Beside him on the bed was the quiet, still form of the Good Samaritan who'd brought him to this place.
She was dead, of course, not sleeping peacefully as her pose would suggest. Her hair was spread across the pillows like a sheaf of spilled corn, hiding her slack features. Deliberate posing so that her unnatural pallor wouldn't give the game away.
"Now, I'd appreciate it if you'd just lie there like a good girl," he said. "Like you're sleeping off the effects of a heavy party. It was a good party, believe me, and you certainly deserve a nap."
Cain prided himself on his expertise at covering his tracks. That was why he remained America's most prolific undetected serial murderer. Take George and Mabel, for instance: He'd rigged the explosion so that both of them would be so charred it would take a determined investigator to guess that they'd been murdered. Essentially, Mabel hadn't been too careful with the gas cooker when preparing their supper. Either the explosion or the subsequent fire would cover the fact that George was missing a couple of digits, while his wife had suffered numerous breaks to her limbs.
Here, though, it needn't be as dramatic as flames and carcassripping devastation. Subtlety was the order of the day. He'd cranked up the AC so that the growing stink wouldn't alert anyone too soon. And he'd tucked the comforter up to the woman's chin. That would help dissuade the blowflies from searching out the decaying matter as nurseries for their brood. By the time the proliferation of insect life made the room unbearable, he'd be many miles away.
The comforter served a threefold purpose. It absorbed the blood leaking from her body and would take a lot more before it showed. It also concealed the missing digits from her right hand. Ideally, Cain would've preferred to deliver her entire corpse to his repository in Jubal's Hollow; there were some nicely shaped bones under that alabaster skin of hers. For now, he had neither the time nor the inclination for further diversion. The fingers stripped from her hand would have to do. They were easily concealed in the pocket of his jacket, easily transported, and could be dropped off next time he visited his secret place.
It was like preparing for a school picnic. He'd wrapped the fingers in cellophane, packed like snack-sized hotdogs, and secreted them alongside the plastic bag holding George's thumbs. When he had time, he'd strip the flesh away and keep only the bones. He preferred them that way. Without the associated baggage of rotting meat. For now, he could content himself with fingering his souvenirs through their plastic casing without fear of getting her filth on his hands.
In his other pocket was a similar package. Fingers taken from the woman's boyfriend, who had kindly given Cain the fresh set of clothes and the keys to his VW Beetle. The boyfriend himself was in the shower, no more alive than the girlfriend was. Locked in the cubicle away from prying eyes, he would stay undiscovered for as long as the girl did.
Finally, Cain raised himself up. Bedsprings squealed in protest at the redistribution of weight. A creaking eulogy for the woman as she settled deeper into the mattress.
"I'd love to stay and chat a little longer," he said. The woman remained unresponsive beneath the bedsheets. "I'm not normally the type who just has his way with a girl, then makes off with hardly a thanks. It's just that I've got something that needs doing and time's a-wasting."
He sat on the edge of the bed amid further creaks and groans and pulled on a thick pair of hiking socks. He had some intense blisters on the balls of both feet, but the good-quality woolen socks alleviated some of the discomfort. Socks in place, he tucked the hems of his jeans into them before tugging on sturdy lace-up boots. Then he retrieved the lightweight anorak containing his souvenirs and pulled it over his checked shirt. A black baseball cap emblazoned with an American eagle completed the ensemble.
He paused to admire himself in the full-length mirror on the bathroom door. His fair hair and pale green eyes gave him a boyish air that he knew endeared him to the ladies. "Well, hello there." He smiled at his reflection. "Who is that ruggedly handsome guy?"
He'd entered this room the epitome of Joe College. He now looked like a seasoned hiker, exactly like thousands of others who passed along this highway day in and day out.
Before leaving the room, he wiped down all the surfaces he'd touched, as well as all those he couldn't remember touching. He used the cloth to wipe the door handle, then draped the cloth over it to prevent depositing fresh fingerprints when he finally left the room. "Pays to be extra careful," he told the woman.
Best that he didn't leave any incriminating friction ridges for a CSI person to find. That would really stir things up. He scanned the room for the minutiae he might have missed, but decided he'd been as thorough as ever. He wasn't concerned about hair or saliva, or even semen. His DNA wasn't on any police record. His fingerprints were another story. Twice in towns out east he had been caught with prostitutes in his car. Luckily, the cops had dirty minds; otherwise, they might have guessed his true motive for hunting the red-light districts, and he wouldn't have gotten off so lightly, with a fine and his prints taken— the old-fashioned way, thankfully, ink on cards.
A return to the bed allowed a straightening and tucking in of the comforter. A soft pat of his hand on the woman's head. "Now don't you worry. As long as I don't leave any prints, I'll remain anonymous. By the time the police get around to checking out a sample of DNA taken under warrant, I'll already be one of two things: famous or dead. Probably both. And by then it won't matter, will it?"
His old set of clothing was packed into the dead man's backpack, along with other articles that could come in handy. His utility belt for one. He slung the backpack over his shoulder, took one last look at the woman on the bed, winked at her, then slipped out of the room.
The early morning cool washed over him. Within hours this same place would be oven-hot, the air shimmering before his eyes. But now everything was calm, and he could see way off across the sand-blasted wastelands to an orange haze on the horizon. Not the dawning sun— it was on the wrong horizon. The light he could detect was artificial, half a billion streetlights tainting the skyline with their putrid glow. Toward those lights he must travel. For it was there he'd find fame.
Not to mention the thief who stole his knife.
The motel was your typical low-slung timber structure. A series
of cabins set out in two parallel rows behind the booking office. The office was in darkness, as were the other cabins. Not too many patrons had stayed the night. Drawn up in the parking lot were only four vehicles, one of which was his recently acquired VW Beetle. True to his sense of destiny, the VW was an orangey yellow color. Just like the one driven by the man born Theodore Robert Cowell on November 24, 1946. Cowell would later adopt his stepfather's surname and be known as Theodore Bundy. Ted Bundy, the talented serial killer who was soon to be eclipsed by the exploits of one Tubal Cain.
A quick reconnoiter of the area satisfied him that no other guest was out of bed. He walked toward the VW, jangling the keys in his hand. The aged car was more stubborn wreck than it was vintage model. A little temperamental to start, if memory served. Hopefully the chugging of the engine wouldn't alert anyone nosy enough to see him depart. But then again, why should that matter? By the time the bodies were discovered, he'd have arrived in one of the cities and acquired alternative transport. The Beetle would be a burned-out shell in some vacant lot.
Opening the door of the car, he slung the backpack onto the backseat. Surprisingly, the car started on his first attempt, and he disengaged the emergency brake and drove off without a look back. He drove without hurry, but with purpose. From his shirt pocket, he teased out a slip of paper, on it a handwritten telephone number. Beneath it, he'd written the address of the hotel.
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"Stupid, stupid thief." His laughter was as bitter as sucking on unripe lemons. "If you want to get into my kind of game, you have to learn the basic rules. First rule: Cover your tracks."
The amateur who'd hijacked him, taking his SUV and beloved Bowie knife, obviously hadn't thought of the consequences of wadding up the slip of paper and dropping it on the floor of his car. It had been a simple matter for Cain to ring the number and listen as a nasal girl had announced the name of the hotel in Santa Monica. The call didn't give him the thief's name, but that was academic. Cain knew where the thief planned to stay. A quick visit to the hotel itself would establish everything else he needed to know.
"Santa Monica, here I come," he said, laughing again. This time his laughter wasn't so bitter, the lemon rind sweetened with sugar. As he drove he shredded the slip of paper, depositing a tiny portion of it out the window every so often along the way.
A couple of hours would see him on the West Coast. Maybe he'd grab a little breakfast, see to the disposal of the VW, then go scout out the hotel. He'd locate the thief, then by tonight he'd be ready to move. He didn't care about regaining the SUV. It had served its purpose and would most likely have gone the way he was planning for the VW. But he did want his knife back.
Not to be sentimental about it, but the Bowie held a great number of satisfying memories. Some he liked to play back in his mind while holding the knife in his hand. He could soon buy or appropriate a replacement, but it wouldn't be the same. And besides, when he finally allowed the world to know his name, he wanted his arsenal right there beside him. The police should have the capacity to match the blade with each corpse it had been used on. He wanted the genuine knife to be kept as a museum piece documenting his infamy, not some secondrate, virgin chunk of metal.
Westward he drove. And despite appearances, the VW was a steady if plodding workhorse. He had only two complaints. First, the air-conditioning system was archaic, achieved by winding down the windows to promote a cross draft. Second, the facility for music was as outmoded as the AC unit.
He searched through the glove compartment, pulling out a couple of music cassettes. One of them, some inane hip-hop crap, he tossed over his shoulder onto the backseat. The second was more to his taste. Cain didn't recognize the band, but the bluesy guitar was to his liking. It wasn't as good as the swing music he preferred: playing air guitar wasn't as satisfying as imagining cutting away strips of flesh with a bandleader's baton.
The miles passed easily.
So did the gas in the tank.
Thirty miles short of his destination, he was forced to pull in to a gas station. Ten dollars' worth of gasoline would more than suffice. He would have paid his bill with the credit cards stolen from the dead couple back at the motel, but a credit trail would easily set the law on his path. It didn't irk him to have to use his own cash, not when it was so readily available to one who knew how to acquire it. The teller thanked him California-style and Cain smiled unashamedly. The girl—sun-bronzed and blond with a smattering of freckles on a cute nose—smiled back at him. Hey, it was good to be back on the West Coast.
Hungry, he purchased some prepacked sandwiches and a couple of Snicker bars plus a pint of chocolate milk. Skimmed milk, less than ninety-nine calories, he had a waistline to consider. He finished it before he was even out the door.
Outside the store, he stood for a while, watching traffic passing on the highway. Here the traffic flow was heavier than out in the desert. He watched vehicles sailing by like mirages through the shimmering heat, wondering what stories their occupants could tell. Where they were going, what they were doing. One thing he was certain of. None had a story to match his.
Beyond the gas station was a rest area. Picnic tables were set out on a patch of lawn so verdant it had to be fake. Bordering the grassy area, the land remained parched and gritty, the home of dust devils and windblown detritus. A family had set themselves up at one of the tables. Bottles of soda and food wrapped in tinfoil were laid out in front of them. Father was pointing out what the children should eat, while they ignored him and went straight for the potato chips. Mother sat on one of the benches, trying her hardest to coax some enjoyment out of a cigarette while squinting against blown dust and the highpitched squalling of the kids.
Cain shook his head.
"Family bliss," he said to himself. God, but he was happy he'd left those trappings behind.
He surveyed the remainder of the rest area. There was a public restroom abutting the gas station. With the pint of chilled milk forging toward his bladder, he decided a visit was in order before setting off.
Someone else had the same idea. A heavy-built guy with uncontrollable hair raced toward the door. His moon face was contorting as though he'd been caught short many miles distant. He was the epitome of desperation.
When Cain entered the restroom, the man had already disappeared behind a cubicle door. Cain could hear him struggling with his belt, issuing soft, urgent noises. Then there was the clunk of the seat followed by the indescribable sound of the man's very essence dropping into a porcelain bowl.
"Now that's either extremely gross or mildly amusing," Cain said to himself. The man's disembodied sigh decided the issue for him. "Extremely amusing."
Smiling, he unzipped at a urinal and relieved his own body of a growing urgency. That done, he could concentrate on another, more pressing ache that required assuaging.
The sink hadn't seen a cleaner's administrations in many an hour. He used a hot air blower to dry himself.
Water flushed and the fat guy came out of the cubicle and bustled directly for the exit door. Cain caught his eye and the guy, looking momentarily abashed, turned fluidly toward the sink to wash his own hands. Cain nodded at him. "Things a little desperate there, buddy?"
Embarrassed, the man shrugged.
"Better out than in, eh?" Cain quipped.
"You betcha." The man grimaced. "Must have eaten some green meat. Didn't think I was gonna make it to the can."
"Lucky for you that you did. By the sound of things you'd have made quite a mess of yourself," Cain said. "Best to stay clean, though, don't you think?"
"Cleanliness is next to godliness," the man quoted, humiliated at having been caught out, "even when you're in a hurry."
The man made a brief run of his hands under the water, then turned toward the filthy-looking towel hanging on the wall. He paused. Looked to Cain for guidance.
"Seems a little pointless, doesn't it?" Cain said.
"You're telling me," said the fat guy. His bulk formed a line of its own behind Cain at the automated hand drier. Energized by his need to get about his journey, he hopped from foot to foot in anticipation of his turn at the hot air.
Cain took his time dry-washing his hands to a point where his skin began to stick together. A tsk of frustration from the man. Cain was pleased. Finally he stood aside, gestured the man forward.
"It's all yours."
"Gee, thanks," said the fat guy, not really meaning it.
"My pleasure," Cain said. Not meaning it, either.
It would be nice to kill the fat guy. But in the end, he decided not to. Too dangerous. What if someone walked in before he was finished concealing the gross body in one of the stalls? He could obviously kill them, too, but then he'd be right back to square one. Last thing he wanted was to end up in a loop where the only guarantee was that he'd finally run out of places to conceal the dead. He would allow the man to live, but there was something he could do that'd bring him a modicum of fulfillment.
It was more than a friendly gesture as he patted the fat guy's shoulder. Two solid slaps of his hand. The man flinched at the contact, blinked at him.
"See you, friend," Cain said. He moved toward the exit. Happy.
"Yeah, see you," the fat guy intoned. Then, stupidly, he muttered something under his breath.
Cain turned and stared back at him. His look was that of a prowling leopard eyeing a wounded buffalo.
"You say somethi
ng, buddy?"
The fat guy blinked rapid-fire. His jowls hung slack, framed by long, wiry curls. "No, I didn't say a thing."
Cain stepped toward him, and a piece of grit crunched beneath his boot. The sound was more invasive than loud, an expression of Cain's aversion to the man before him. The fat guy reacted as though it was a gunshot. He reared back, lifting his chin in anticipation of avoiding a blow. Cain shook his head at the overreaction. He said, "That's funny. I'm sure I heard you call me an asshole."
Now the fat guy shook his head.
"Look, mister. I don't want any trouble, okay. I just want to dry my hands and get outta here. Wife and kids are waiting for me in the car. We're going down to see my wife's mother for a day or two is all. So I don't want any trouble with you. Gonna get enough of it off the mother-in-law if I'm more than a minute late."
Funny how people babbled when they were afraid.
"I was being polite to you," Cain said. His smile was mock whimsy. "Even looked after your health and well-being for you. Not many people would've bothered. Quite happily could've let you go and get back in your car with your wife and kids. Could've allowed you to spread all those nasty little germs to them. Take them on down to grandma's house, too, no doubt. But I didn't. I thought I'd be nice and remind you to wash your hands. No big deal?"