SERIAL KILLERS UNCUT - The Complete Psycho Thriller (The Complete Epic)

by Blake Crouch

  “Aren’t you tired? You should rest, honey.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure. I’ll call soon with your location.”

  My human GPS unit hung up. I yawned again, and gave my head a little shake.

  On the plus side, my testimony had gone well, and all signs pointed to a conviction.

  On the minus side, I’d been driving for six straight hours, and I was hungry, tired, and needed to pee. I also needed gas, according to my gauge.

  Maybe Murray could take care of all my needs. Assuming I could find Murray’s before falling asleep, running out of fuel, starving to death, and wetting my pants.

  The road stretched onward into the never-ending darkness. I hadn’t seen another car in a while. Even though this was a major highway (as far as I knew), traffic was pretty light. Who would have thought that Northern Wisconsin at two in the morning on a Wednesday night was so deserted?

  I heard my cell phone ring. My hero, to the rescue.

  “You’re not on I-94,” he said. “You’re on 39.”

  “You sound annoyed.”

  “You went the wrong way when the Interstate split.”

  “Which means?”

  “You drove three hours out of the way.”

  Shit.

  I yawned. “So where do I go to get to you?”

  “You need some sleep, Jack. You can get here in the morning.”

  “Three hours is nothing. I can be there in time for an early breakfast.”

  “You sound exhausted.”

  “I’ll be fine. Lemme just close my eyes for a second.”

  “That’s not even funny.”

  I smiled. The poor sap really did care about me.

  “I love you, Latham.”

  “I love you, too. That’s why I want you to find a room somewhere and get some rest.”

  “Just tell me how to get to you. I don’t want to sleep alone in some cheap hotel with threadbare sheets and a mattress with questionable stains. I want to sleep next to you in that cabin with the big stone fireplace. But first I want to rip off those cute boxer-briefs you wear and… hello? Latham?”

  I squinted at my cell. No signal.

  Welcome to Wisconsin.

  I yawned again. Another billboard appeared.

  MURRAY’S FAMOUS TRUCK STOP. FOOD. DIESEL. LODGING. TRUCK WASH. SHOWERS. MECHANIC ON DUTY. TEN MILES.

  Ten miles? I could make ten miles. And maybe some food and coffee would wake me up.

  I pressed the accelerator, taking the Nova up to eighty.

  Murray’s here I come.

  -3-

  Taylor paused at the diner entrance, taking everything in. The restaurant was busy, the tables all full. He spotted three waitresses, plus two cooks in the kitchen. Seated were various truckers, two with hooker companions. Taylor knew the owners encouraged it, and wondered what kind of cut they got.

  He saw what must have been Candi’s pimp, holding court at a corner table. Rattleskin cowboy boots, a gold belt buckle in the shape of Wisconsin, fake bling on his baseball cap. He was having a serious discussion with one of his whores. The rest of the tables were occupied by truckers. Taylor didn’t see any cops; a pimp in plain sight meant they were being paid off.

  The place smelled terrific, like bacon gravy and apple pie. Taylor’s stomach grumbled. He located the emergency exit in the northeast corner, and knew there was also a back door that led into the kitchen; Taylor had walked the perimeter of the building before entering.

  With no tables available, he approached the counter and took a seat there, between the storefront window and a pudgy, older guy nursing a cup of coffee. It was a good spot. He could see his rig, and also see anyone approaching it or him.

  Taylor hadn’t been to Murray’s in over a year, but the printed card sticking in the laminated menu said their specialty was meatloaf.

  “Meatloaf is good,” the old guy leaned over and said.

  “I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

  “You were looking at the card. Thought I’d be helpful.”

  He examined the man, a grandfatherly type with thinning gray hair and red cheeks. Taylor wasn’t in the best of moods—one toe was barely an appetizer for him—and he was ready to tell Grandpa off. But starting a scene meant being remembered, and that wasn’t wise.

  “Thank you,” Taylor managed.

  “You’re welcome.”

  A waitress came by, wearing ugly scuffed-up gym shoes. Taylor ordered coffee and the meatloaf. The coffee was strong, bitter. Taylor added two sugars.

  “Showers are good here too,” his fat companion said.

  Taylor gave him another look.

  Is this guy trying to pick me up?

  The man sipped his coffee and didn’t meet Taylor’s stare.

  “Look, buddy. I just want to eat in peace. No offense. I’ve been on the road for a long time.”

  “No offense taken,” the fat man said. He finished his coffee, then signaled the waitress for a refill. “Just telling you the showers are good. Be sure to get some quarters. They’ve got a machine, sells soap. Useful for washing off blood.”

  All of Taylor’s senses went on high alert, and he felt himself flush. This guy didn’t look like a cop—Taylor could usually spot cops. He wore baggy jeans, a plaid shirt, a Timex. On the counter next to his empty cup was a baseball cap without any logo. A few days’ worth of beard graced his double chin.

  No, he wasn’t law. And he wasn’t cruising him, either.

  So what the hell does he want?

  “What do you mean?” Taylor asked, keeping his tone neutral.

  “Drop of blood on your shirt. Another spot on your collar. Some under your fingernails as well. You wiped them with ether, but it didn’t completely dissolve. Did you know that ether was first used as a surgical anesthetic back in 1842? Before that, taking a knife to a person meant screaming and thrashing around.” The man held a beefy hand to his mouth and belched. “‘Course, some people might like the screaming and thrashing around part.”

  Taylor bunched his fists, then forced himself to relax. Had this guy seen him somehow? Did he know about Candi in the sleeper?

  No. He couldn’t have. Tinted windows on his cab. No windows at all in the sleeping compartment.

  He took a casual glance around, trying to spot anyone else watching. No one seemed to be paying either of them any attention.

  Taylor dropped his hand, slowly reaching for the folding knife clipped to his belt. He considered sliding it between this guy’s ribs right there and getting the hell out. But first Taylor needed to know what Grandpa knew. Maybe he could lead him to the bathroom, get him into a stall…

  Taylor froze. His knife was missing.

  “Take it easy, my friend,” said the old, fat man. “I’ll give you your knife back when we’re through.”

  Taylor wasn’t sure what to say, but he believed everyone had an angle. This guy knew more than he should have. But what was he going to do with his information?

  “Who are you?” Taylor asked.

  “Name’s Donaldson. And you probably meant to ask What are you? You’ve probably figured out I’m not a cop, not a Fed. Thanks, Donna.” He nodded at the waitress as she refilled his coffee. “Actually, I’m just a fellow traveler. Enjoying the country. The sites. The people.” Donaldson winked at him. “Same as you are.”

  “Same as me, huh?”

  Donaldson nodded. “A bit older and wiser, perhaps. At least wise enough to not use that awful ether anymore. Where do you even get that these days? I thought ether and chloroform were controlled substances.”

  “Starter fluid,” Taylor said. This conversation was getting surreal.

  “Clever.”

  “So what is it exactly you do, Donaldson?”

  “For work? Or do you mean with the people I encounter? I’m a courier, that’s my job. I travel all around, delivering things to people who need them faster than overnight. As for the other—well, that�
�s sort of personal, don’t you think? We just met, and you want me to reveal intimate details of my antisocial activities? Shouldn’t we work up to that?”

  So far, Donaldson had been the embodiment of calm. He didn’t seem threatening in the least. They might have been talking about sports.

  “And you spotted me because of the blood and the ether smell?”

  “Initially. But the give-away was the look in your eyes.”

  “And what sort of look do my eyes have, Donaldson?”

  “This one.” Donaldson turned and looked at Taylor. “The eyes of a predator. No pity. No remorse. No humanity.”

  Taylor stared hard, then grinned. “I don’t see anything but regular old eyes.”

  Donaldson held the intense gaze a moment longer, then chuckled. “Okay. You caught me. The eyes don’t tell anything. But I caught you casing the place before you walked in. Looking for cops, for trouble, for exits. A man that careful should have noticed some spots of blood on his shirt.”

  “Maybe I cut myself shaving.”

  “And the ether smell?”

  “Maybe the rig was giving me some trouble, so I cleaned out the carburetor.”

  “No grease or oil under your nails. Just dried blood.”

  Taylor leaned in close, speaking just above a whisper.

  “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t kill you, Donaldson.”

  “Other than the fact I have your knife? Because you should consider this a golden opportunity, my friend. You and I, we’re solitary creatures. We don’t ever talk about our secret lives. We never share stories of our exploits with anyone. I’ve been doing this for over thirty years, and I’ve only met one other person like us. I’ve run across a few wannabes. More than a few crazies. But never another hunter. Like we are. Don’t you think this is a unique chance?”

  The meatloaf came, steaming hot. But Taylor wasn’t hungry anymore. He was intrigued. If Donaldson was what he claimed to be, the fat man was one hundred percent correct. Taylor had never talked about his lifestyle with anyone, other than his victims. And then, it was only to terrify them even more.

  Sometimes, Taylor had fantasies of getting caught. Not because he harbored any guilt, and not because he wanted to be locked up. But because it would be nice, just once, to be open and honest about his habits with the whole world. To let a fellow human being know how clever he’d been all these years. Maybe have some shrink interview him and write a bestselling book.

  How interesting it would be to talk shop with someone as exceptional as he was.

  “So you want to swap stories? Trade tactics? Is that it, Donaldson?”

  “I can think of duller ways to kill some time at a truck stop.”

  Taylor cut the meatloaf with his fork, shoved some into his mouth. It was good.

  “Fine. You go first. You said you don’t like ether. So how do you make your—” Taylor reached for the right words “—guests compliant.”

  “Blunt force trauma.”

  “Using what?”

  “Trade secret.”

  “And what if you’re too… aggressive… with your use of blunt force?”

  “An unfortunate side-effect. Just happened to me, in fact. I recently picked up a tasty little morsel, but her lights went out before I could have any fun with her.”

  “Picked up? Hitcher?”

  Donaldson sipped more coffee and grinned. “Didn’t you know about the dangers of hitchhiking, son? Lots of psychos out there.”

  Taylor shoved more meatloaf into his mouth, and followed it up with some mashed potatoes. “Hitchers might be missed.”

  “So could truck stop snatch.”

  Taylor paused in mid-bite.

  “Your fly is open. And I saw how you were measuring the resident pimp.” Donaldson raised an eyebrow. “Have you relieved him of one of his steady sources of income?”

  Now it was Taylor’s turn to grin. “Not yet. She’ll be dessert when I’m done with this meatloaf.”

  “And once you’re finished with her?”

  Taylor zipped up his fly. “I like rivers. Water takes care of any trace evidence, and it’s tough for the law to pinpoint the location where they were dumped in. You?”

  “Gas and a match. First a nice spritz with bleach. Bleach destroys DNA, you know.”

  “I do. Got a few bottles in the truck.”

  Taylor still couldn’t assess what sort of threat Donaldson posed. But he had to admit, this was fun.

  “Who was your first?” Donaldson asked.

  “Dad. Fucker had it coming.”

  “How’d you do it?”

  Taylor ate more potatoes. “Ran him over. He fucked up one of my shocks, too. Bones caught up under the suspension, did a real number on a tie rod end.”

  The older man chuckled. “That’s not something you can take to your local mechanic.”

  “Hell, no. Fixed it myself. Took three car washes and a rainstorm before that car stopped dripping blood. How about you?”

  Donaldson tipped his coffee cup. “Dad.”

  “No shit?”

  “I guess exceptional people like us think alike.”

  Exceptional. Taylor liked that term.

  “So how did dear old Dad meet his unfortunate end?”

  “Baseball bat.”

  “Never tried it. Fun?”

  “Yeah. But too hard to clean. Even the aluminum models. Not even bleach can get those stains out. And not east to ditch in an emergency.”

  Taylor finished up the last bite of meatloaf. It was good. A loose grind, so you could taste all the little parts that went into it. Taylor loved texture. Mouth-feel was even better than taste.

  “Had many emergencies?” he asked Donaldson.

  “A few close calls. Once I was even pulled in for a line up. But no arrests. You?”

  Taylor grinned. “I’m a law-abiding citizen. Worst thing on my record is a speeding ticket.”

  Donaldson slurped more coffee. “Never got a speeding ticket. Was pulled over for a broken taillight once. Had a guest in the trunk, and the little bitch kicked it out.”

  “She was in there when the cop stopped you?”

  “Indeed. And let me tell you, that will get your heart pumping.”

  Taylor had no doubt. “What’d you do?”

  “I turned around, shot her three times through the back seat, hoping it didn’t go through the trunk or that the cop saw me. Then I cranked open the windows to get the gunpowder smell out, pulled onto the shoulder, and hoped he didn’t notice the bullet holes in my upholstery. He didn’t. Let me off with a warning.”

  “Would you have killed the pig or let him take you in?”

  “I would have killed him,” Donaldson said. “I don’t like pigs.”

  “You and me both, brother.”

  “So, here’s the ten thousand dollar question,” Donaldson asked. “How many are you up to?”

  Taylor wiped some gravy off his mouth with a paper napkin. “So that’s where we stand? Whipping out our dicks and seeing whose is bigger?”

  “I’ve been at this a very long time.” Donaldson belched again. “Probably since before you were born. I’ve read about others like us; I love those true crime audiobooks. They help pass the time on long trips. I collect regular books, too. Movies. Newspaper articles. If you’ve done the same research I have, then you know none of our American peers can prove more than forty-eight. That’s the key. Prove. Some boast high numbers, but there isn’t proof to back it up.”

  “So are you asking me how many I’ve done, or how many I can prove?”

  “Both.”

  Taylor shrugged. “I lost count after forty-eight. Once I had one in every state, it became less about quantity and more about quality.”

  “You’re lying,” Donaldson said. “You’re too young for that many.”

  “One in every state in the lower forty-eight, old man.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “I kept driver’s licenses, those that had them. Probably don’t h
ave more than twenty, though. Not many whores carry ID.”

  “No pictures? Trophies? Souvenirs?”

  Taylor wasn’t going to share something that personal with a stranger. He pretended to sneer. “Taking a trophy is like asking to get caught. I don’t plan on getting caught.”