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

by Blake Crouch

  “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 full-time. 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 picked 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.

  Serial

  So
utheast Utah, 2008

  -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.

  He’d finally found one standing in a Cracker Barrel parking lot. The kid had been obvious, leaning against the cement ashtray near the entrance, an oversize hiking pack strapped to his back. He was approaching every patron leaving the restaurant, practicing his grin between rejections.

  A ripe plum, ready to pluck.

  Donaldson tucked the cell phone into his pocket and got out of the car. He didn’t even have to initiate contact. He walked in to use the bathroom and strolled out with his car keys in hand, letting them jingle a bit. The kid solicited him almost immediately.

  “Excuse me, sir. Are you heading up north?”

  Donaldson stopped, pretending to notice the man for the first time. He was young, maybe mid-twenties. Short, reddish hair, a few freckles on his face, mostly hidden by glasses. His clothing looked worn but of good quality. Donaldson was twice his age, and damn near twice his weight.

  Donaldson rubbed his chin, which he knew softened his harsh features.

  “In fact I am, son.”

  The boy’s eyes lit up, but he kept a lid on his excitement. Any hitcher worth his salt knew to test the waters before sealing the deal.

  “I am, too. If you’d like some company, I can chip in for gas.” He hooded his eyes and quickly added, “No funny stuff. I’m just looking for a ride. I was hoping to get to Ogden by midnight. Got family up there. My name’s Brett, by the way.”

  Well played, Donaldson thought. Friendly, a little desperate, making clear this wasn’t a sexual hookup and that he had people waiting for him.

  As if any of that would keep him safe.

  “How do I know you’re not some psycho?” Donaldson asked. He knew that was pushing it, but he liked the irony.

  “There’s a gas station across the street. I can top off the tank, pay with a credit card. All gas stations have cameras these days. Credit card is a paper trail. If anything happens to you, that would link me to your car, and I’d get caught.”

  Smart kid. But not that smart.

  The really smart ones don’t hitchhike.

  “Won’t need gas for a few hundred miles.” Donaldson took off his Cubs baseball hat, running a hand over his gray, thinning hair. Another way to disarm the victim. No one feared grandfatherly types. “Until then, if you promise not to sing any show tunes, you got yourself a ride.”

  Brett smiled, hefted his pack onto his shoulders, and followed his ride into the parking lot. Donaldson unlocked the doors and the kid loaded his pack into the backseat of Donaldson’s 2006 black Honda Accord, pausing when he saw the clear plastic covers on the front seats.

  “My dog, Neil, usually rides up front with me,” Donaldson said, shrugging. “I don’t like him messing up the upholstery.”

  Brett flashed skepticism until he noticed the picture taped to the dash: Donaldson and a furry dachshund.

  “Sheds like crazy,” Donaldson said. “If you buy a dog, stick with short-haired breeds.”

  That was apparently reassurance enough, because Brett climbed in.

  Donaldson heaved himself into the driver’s seat, the car bouncing on its shocks.

  “Buckle up for safety.” Donaldson resisted the urge to lick his lips, then released the brake, started the car, and pulled onto the highway.

  The first ten miles were awkward. Always were. Strangers tended to stay strangers. How often did a person initiate conversation on a plane or while waiting in line? People kept to themselves. It made them feel safe.

  Donaldson broke the tension by asking the standard questions. Where’d you go to school? What do you do for a living? Where you headed? When’d you start hitchhiking? Invariably, the conversation turned to him.

  “So what’s your name?” Brett asked.

  “Donaldson.” No point in lying. Brett wouldn’t be alive long enough to tell anyone.

  “What do you do, Donaldson?”

  “I’m a courier.”

  Donaldson sipped from the Big Gulp container in the cup holder, taking a hit of caffeinated sugar water. He offered the cup to Brett, who shook his head. Probably worried about germs. Donaldson smiled. That should have been the least of his worries.

  “So you mean you deliver packages?”

  “I deliver anything. Sometimes overnight delivery isn’t fast enough, and people are willing to pay a premium to get it same day.”

  “What sort of things?”

  “Things people need right away. Legal documents. Car parts for repairs. A diabetic forgets his insulin, guy loses his glasses and can’t drive home without them, kid needs his cello for a recital. Or a kidney needs to get to a transplant location on time. That’s the run I’m on right now.”

  Donaldson jerked a thumb over his shoulder, pointing to the backseat floorboard. Brett glanced back, saw a cooler sitting there, a biohazard sticker on the lid.

  “No kidding, there’s a kidney in there?”

  “There will be, once I get it.” Donaldson winked at the kid. “By the way, what’s your blood type?”

  The kid chuckled nervously. Donaldson joined in.

  A long stretch of road approaching. No cars in either direction.

  “Sounds like an interesting job,” Brett said.

  “It is. Perfect for a loner like me. That’s why it’s nice to have company every so often. Gets lonely on the road.”

  “What about Neil?”

  “Neil?”

  Brett pointed at the photograph on the dashboard. “Your dog. You said he rode with you sometimes.”

  “Oh, yeah. Neil. Of course. But it isn’t the same as having a human companion. Know what I mean?”

  Brett nodded, then glanced at the fuel gauge.

  “You’re down to a quarter tank,” he said.

  “Really? I thought I just filled up. Next place we see, I’ll take you up on that offer to pay.”

  It was a bright, sunny late afternoon, clean country air blowing in through the inch of window Donaldson had open. A perfect day for a drive. The road ahead was clear, no one behind them.

  “So seriously,” Donaldson asked, “What’s your blood type?”

  Brett’s chuckle sounded forced this time, and Donaldson didn’t join in. Brett put his hand in his pocket. Going for a weapon, or holding one for reassurance, Donaldson figured. Not many hitchers traveled witho
ut some form of reassurance.

  But Donaldson had something better than a knife, or a gun. His weapon weighed thirty-six hundred pounds and was barreling down the road at eighty miles per hour.

  Checking once more for traffic, Donaldson gripped the wheel, braced himself, and stood on the brake.

  The car screeched toward a skidding halt, Brett’s seatbelt popping open exactly the way Donaldson had rigged it to, and the kid launched headfirst into the dashboard. The spongy plastic, beneath the veneer, had been reinforced with unforgiving steel.