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

by Blake Crouch

  “Guts are okay, but don’t puncture the intestines. That smell takes forever to go away.”

  “I’m not into internal organs.”

  “How about rape?”

  Donaldson smiled. “I am into rape.”

  “I don’t want to see it. No offense, but naked guys are not a turn-on for me.”

  “That’s fair enough. We can take turns, give each other some privacy. My thing, as you put it, is to cut off their faces. One little piece at a time. A nostril. An ear. An eye. A lip. And then I feed their faces to them, bit by bit.

  Taylor could see the appeal in that.

  “How about you, Taylor?”

  “Biting. Toes and fingers, to start. Then all over.”

  “How long have you kept one alive for?”

  “Maybe two days.”

  Donaldson nodded. “See, that’s nice. I do all my work outdoors, different locations, so I never have time to make it last, savor it. You’ve got a little murder-mobile, you can take your time.”

  “That’s the reason I’m a trucker, not a courier.”

  Donaldson got a wistful look. “I’m thinking of renting a shack out in the woods. Out in the middle of nowhere. Then I could bring someone there, really drag it out. You remember that old magic trick? The girl in the box, and the magician sticks swords in it?”

  Taylor nodded. “Yeah.”

  “I’d love to build one of those. Except there’s no trick. Wouldn’t that be fun? Sticking the swords in one at a time?”

  Taylor decided it would.

  Donaldson peered through the binocs again. “Here she comes. Let’s get in position.”

  Taylor nodded. He felt the excitement building up again, but a different kind of excitement. This time, he was sharing the experience with another person. It was oddly fulfilling, in a way his dozens of other murders hadn’t been.

  Maybe tag-team was the way to go.

  He clenched the ether-soaked paper towels, crouched behind a bumper, and waited for the fun to start.

  -6-

  The burger was good. The coffee was good. The cheese curds were heavenly. I had no idea why they weren’t served in Chicago.

  I paid, left a decent tip, then tried calling Latham to tell him I felt good enough to keep driving.

  Still no signal. I needed to switch carriers, or get a new phone. It especially bugged me because I saw other people in the diner talking on their cell phones. If that Can you hear me now? guy walked into the restaurant, I would have bounced my cell off his head.

  The parking lot had decent lighting, but all of the big trucks cast shadows, and I knew more than most the dangers of walking in shadows. I pulled my purse on over my head and tucked it under my arm, then headed for my car while staying in the light. The last thing I needed was the pimp to make a play for me. Or that—

  “Lieutenant Daniels!”

  —fat guy from the diner, who approached me at a quick pace, coming out from behind one of the rigs. I stopped, my hand slipping inside my purse and seeking my revolver. Something about this man rubbed me the wrong way, and at over two hundred fifty pounds he was too big to play around with.

  He slowed down when I reached into my handbag—a bad sign. People with good intentions don’t expect you to have a gun. I felt my heart rate kick up and my legs tense.

  “Don’t come any closer,” I commanded, using my cop voice.

  He stopped about ten feet in front of me. His hands were empty. “I wanted to ask you for your autograph.”

  My fingers wrapped around the butt of my .38. Confrontation, even with over twenty years of experience, was always a scary thing. Ninety-nine percent of the time, de-escalation was the key to avoiding violence. Take control of the situation, be polite but firm, apologize if needed. It wouldn’t have worked on the pimp, who was showing off for the crowd, but it might work here.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t give autographs. I’m not a celebrity.”

  “It would mean a lot to me.” He held up his palms and took another step forward.

  I was taught that you never pull out your weapon unless you intend to use it.

  I pulled out my weapon.

  “I told you not to come any closer.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” Another step. He was six feet away from me.

  I pointed my gun at his chest. “Does it look like I’m kidding?”

  He put on a crooked grin. “Is this how you treat your fans, Lieutenant? I don’t mean any harm. You want to shoot an innocent civilian?”

  “I don’t want to. But I will, if I feel threatened. And right now I feel threatened. Where’s your buddy?”

  “My buddy?”

  He was lying, I could see it on his face, and I swirled around, sensing something behind me. I caught a flash of movement, someone ducking between two parked cars. I spun again, storming up to the fat guy, grabbing two of his outstretched fingers and twisting. My action was fast, forceful, and I gained enough leverage to bend his arm to the side and drive him onto his knees, my gun trained on his head.

  “Get on the pavement, face down!”

  He pitched forward, and I had to let him go or fall with him. Rather than face-first, he dropped onto his side and swung his leg at me.

  I should have fired, but a small part of me knew I could be killing a guy whose only crime was wanting my autograph, and I had enough of an ego to think I could still handle the situation. I side-stepped his leg and rammed my heel into his kidney, hard enough to show him this wasn’t a joke.

  That’s when his partner dove at me.

  He hit me sideways, knocking me off my feet in a flying tackle that drove me to the asphalt, shoulder-first. His weight squeezed the air out of me, his hand pawing at my face, a cold, wet hand covering my mouth and nose, flooding my airway with harsh chemicals. I held my breath, bringing my weapon up, squeezing the trigger—

  The trigger wouldn’t squeeze. The gun didn’t fire.

  Now the paper towels were in my eyes, the sting a hundred times worse than chlorine, making me squeeze my eyelids shut in pain. I felt my gun being wrestled away, and the small part of my brain that wasn’t panicking knew the perp had grabbed my .38 by the hammer, his grip preventing me from shooting.

  I still refused to breathe, knowing that whatever was on my face would knock me out, knowing when that happened I was dead. That made me panic even more, thrashing and pushing against my unseen assailant. I tried to kick my feet, get them under me to gain some leverage, but then they were weighed down the same as my upper body—the fat guy had joined the party.

  So I went for the fake-out, letting my body go limp.

  The seconds ticked by, each one a slice of eternity since I was oxygen-deprived. I could hold my breath for over a minute under ideal conditions. But terrified and with two psychos on top of me, I wouldn’t be able to last a fraction of that…

  One second at a time, Jack. Just don’t breathe.

  I felt that vertigo sensation in my head, my mind seeming to stretch out and twist around.

  “Is anyone coming?”

  “It’s clear.”

  Stay still. Don’t breathe.

  My eyes were stinging like crazy, and I wanted to put my hands to my face, rub the pain away.

  Don’t. Move. Don’t. Breathe.

  My chest began to spasm, my diaphragm convulsing and begging for air. In moments it wouldn’t be under my control anymore. I would breathe in those toxic fumes whether I wanted to or not.

  Hold it in don’t breathe don’t breathe DON’T BREATHE—

  “Too much and you’ll kill her.” The fat guy talking.

  The hand over my face eased up, the noxious rag being pulled away. I wanted to gasp, to suck in air like a marathon runner, but I managed to take a slow, silent breath through my nose.

  The fumes still clinging to my face smelled like gasoline, and by sheer will I didn’t sneeze or cough. I kept my breathing slow, like I was sleeping, even though my heart pounded so loud and fast I could hear it.
>
  “She’s out. Grab an arm.”

  I felt myself lifted into an upright position, my arms over their shoulders. Then I was dragged, my feet scraping against the asphalt, which tore at my bare toes like sandpaper. I bit my inner cheek. If I made a peep, they’d use the rag again.

  “Her feet! Watch her feet! I don’t want them messed up!”

  “Shhh! Lift higher.”

  Then I was completely off the ground. I tried to peek, to see where we were, but everything was blurry and opening my eyes made the pain worse. I could feel the weight of my purse still hanging at my side, and I had a dull throb in my shoulder where I’d hit the pavement, but it didn’t seem dislocated or broken.

  “It’s this one.”

  My body was shifted, and I heard the jingle of keys and a vehicle door opening.

  “I’ll get in first, pull her up.”

  “Check around for witnesses.”

  “We’re alone out here, brother.”

  Another shift, and then strong hands under my armpits, pulling me up, hands on my ankle, my right shoe coming off, and then…

  Something warm and wet on my big toe.

  Jesus… he’s got my toe in his mouth.

  His tongue circled it, once, twice, and then I felt the suction. Heard the slurping. Heard him moan.

  This freak is sucking my toe.

  Wet and sloppy, like a popsicle. I wanted to flinch. I wanted to scream.

  Stay still, Jack. Don’t kick him. Don’t move.

  His teeth locked on, scraping along the top and bottom, not enough to break the skin but enough to hurt, the pressure increasing…

  I felt a surge of revulsion unlike any I’ve ever experienced, and my muscles involuntarily locked and my stomach churned, threatening to upload the burger and curds. I was half-hanging out of a truck, and I couldn’t see, but I was going to take my chances and kick this bastard in the face, hopefully burying my shoe heel into his eye socket. It was two on one, and they had my gun, but I wasn’t going to let him chew my toe off without a fight.

  “Taylor, let’s hold off until we get her inside.”

  My toe was abruptly released, and then I was violently shoved upward onto the fat guy’s lap. I assumed he was sitting in the driver’s seat of a semi. I felt his hot breath on my ear, and then the clammy touch of his lips. One hand pawed at my chest, tugging at my bra through my shirt. The other slid up my leg.

  “Such a pretty lady,” he said, nuzzling my neck. “I’m going to love feeding you your face.”

  Breathe slowly, Jack. Don’t tense up and let him know you’re awake.

  When his lips touched my cheek it was like a taser shock, and my bile began to rise again.

  “Take her in the back,” Taylor said. “We’ll bring her up to the sleeper.”

  The fat man gave my knee a final squeeze, then grunted as he hefted me up in his arms and shifted his bulk. Once again I was lifted, tugged, and pushed. I chanced a peek, everything dark and blurry, wanting so badly to rub my eyes, and all I could make out was a ladder of some sort.

  “There’s a handle on the trap door. Turn it.”

  “Where?”

  “Right above your head.”

  I was shoved through an opening in the ceiling of the cab, then dropped unceremoniously onto a mat. It was hot. I smelled bleach, cheap perfume, and the copper-pennies stench of fresh blood. Also, underneath everything, was an odor that scared me to my core, an odor I recognized from hundreds of cases from more than twenty years of cases. A cross between meat gone bad and excrement that all the bleach on the planet couldn’t ever fully erase.

  The stink of dead bodies.

  People have died in this room.

  “Warm up here.”

  “When we get started, I’ll put the air conditioning on. I’ve also got recessed stereo speakers, for mood music, and an AC outlet up by the fire alarm, if you want to plug in any power tools.”

  “I like power tools.”

  “Give yours a tap, see if she’s awake yet.”

  I heard a slapping sound, skin on skin, and then a feminine whine.

  “She’s still groggy.”

  “She’ll be up soon. I know she’s not much to look at, but that really doesn’t matter once you get started, does it?”

  “Actually, Taylor, as grateful as I am to you for inviting me into your home, I’ve been reading about Jack Daniels for years. She’s every killer’s wet dream.”

  There was a long pause.

  “What are you saying?” Taylor said.

  “I’m saying I want the cop.”

  “We already agreed, she’s mine.”

  “You can have her feet. I want her face.”

  “Maybe I want the whole thing.”

  Donaldson laughed. “You know, you remind me of my younger brother. I miss that kid, so much that I sometimes regret killing him. But I remember something my father used to say when we were fighting over a toy. He said, If you can’t share, then neither of you can have it.”

  Then I heard the unmistakable sound of my .38 being cocked.

  -7-

  Standing on the ladder, with his upper half through the trap door, Taylor stared at the gun in the kneeling fat man’s hand. It was pointed at the cop’s head, but Donaldson’s eyes were focused on him.

  Goddammit, why did I let him grab the gun?

  Taylor felt himself go dead inside, like his body turned to ice. He chose his words carefully, keeping his voice even. “You know what, Donaldson? Maybe you’re right. Sharing seems like a fair thing to do, and it might even be fun. Besides, it would be a shame to deprive such a famous lady of either of our company. But I have to say that seeing you holding a gun makes me a bit nervous. We don’t want to make enemies of each other, do we?”

  Donaldson smiled, shrugged, and then uncocked the gun and shoved it into his front pocket. “I appreciate your generosity, Taylor. Really, I do. And normally I wouldn’t be so ungracious to a fellow traveler. But this woman just does something to me. I haven’t been this excited in years.”

  “I can see that.” Taylor was eye-level with Donaldson’s crotch. “Or maybe that’s the gun.”

  “So let’s have a meeting of the minds.”

  “Fine.”

  Taylor relaxed a notch now that the weapon was out of play, but he had no doubt Donaldson would use it again. His original fantasy of tag-team action had been replaced by the unpleasant image of Donaldson tying him up and feeding him his own face. When there are too many foxes in the henhouse, the foxes kill each other. A shame, because Taylor was starting to like the older man.

  “Since you agree to sharing,” Donaldson said, “would you be adverse to both of us going at her at the same time? You take the bottom half, I take the top?”

  Taylor reached a hand behind his back and touched the folding knife clipped to his belt—Donaldson had given it back to him in the parking lot. Killing him right now would probably be the best bet, but the guy was big, and the knife blade was short. Unless he died quick, Donaldson would fight back and be able to grab his gun.

  No, the knife wasn’t the way to go.

  But Taylor did have a sawed-off shotgun under his passenger seat. All he needed to do was jump down, lock the trap door, and grab it.

  “Sharing would be okay.” Taylor tried to look thoughtful. “But I want to look her in the eyes when I’m doing my thing. Be tough to do if her eyes were gone.”

  “They wouldn’t be gone. They’d be in her mouth.”

  Taylor shook his head. “That wouldn’t be good for me.”

  “I could leave her eyes alone. Maybe just take off her eyelids so she’d be forced to look. It could work. We could do a trial run on the whore, here.”

  Donaldson kicked Candi in her side. She moaned.

  Taylor figured there were three steps beneath him. He would need to grab the door and tug it closed before Donaldson pulled his gun. He didn’t know if the cop’s bullet would go through the half inch steel the sleeper was made out of, but
his shotgun slugs certainly would. Lots of damage, though, and it would make a lot of noise.

  “I’m not exactly keen on a two on one. If you promise to leave her eyes alone, and that she’ll stay conscious and not die on you, I could let you go first.”

  Donaldson’s face remained blank for a moment, then he raised his eyebrow.