10:56 PM
The killer hadn’t consciously decided to take her life. He didn’t say to himself, ‘Today’s a good day to murder’. He ogled the woman seated at the end of the bar. She wore her hair up, exposing her slender neck. There was something about the way she sighed into her drink that made him imagine how vulnerable her emotional state was. Had she been stood up? Would she be willing to leave the joint with him?
She looked up and her glassy eyes caught him across the bar. He sipped his beer, keeping focus on her. A lock of hair brushed her shoulder. She twirled it around her index finger then let it fall back into place.
He set his beer down and wandered over toward her. The killer plopped onto a stool, two away from her. “Would you like another drink?”
“No. I’m waiting for someone. Thanks.”
He smirked. She’d been sitting at the bar when he’d come into the place two hours ago. “You sure?”
“Of course, I’m sure.”
“It’s just that you’ve been sitting here all by yourself for hours.”
She shrugged. “So have you.”
“The difference is I’m not pretending to be waiting on anyone.”
Her jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Hey, I mean no disrespect. I’m alone too.” He wiped the corners of his mouth with his fingers. The cuff of his shirt slid back. His arm-sleeve tattoo peeked out.
“You’re not my type. So…” She waited for him to get the hint. Although he knew she wanted him to leave her alone, he wasn’t interested in doing that.
“So what? You can’t talk to me? Or do my tattoos offend you?”
“I’m not offended by tattoos.”
“What then? My hair, my clothes?” He narrowed his eyes on her.
“No. What’s with you? Just leave me alone.”
The killer snorted humorlessly. The vein in her neck pulsed. “All right. Have yourself a nice night.”
She sneered, stood, and put her coat on. The bartender came over with her bar tab. She handed the guy a twenty-dollar bill and told him to keep the change.
The killer watched her leave. He noticed she didn’t search her purse for her keys on the way to the door, as a lot of women tended to do.
As he swiveled back around, he caught sight of a set of keys lying the bar top where she had sat. Hers. He’d paid his tab earlier, so when the door closed after her, he headed outside. But first, he snagged the key chain.
The beginning of March always brought with it cold, damp nights. During the day the sun warmed the air, but after the sun slipped past the horizon, the icy temperatures returned. He put on the pair of black leather gloves that had been tucked into the inner pocket of his jacket. The woman’s heels clipped across the parking lot. She’d parked on the side of the building under a lamppost. He licked his lips as she rummaged through her bag. He stayed in the shadows under the bar’s eaves.
She swore under her breath. “Dammit, where are my keys?”
He stepped out from the shroud of darkness, dangling her keys from his gloved middle finger. “Missing these?”
Her lips parted and she gasped. “I-I didn’t see you there. T-Those are mine.” Her voice wavered and she swallowed hard. She reached out tentatively. “Can I have them, please?”
“Tsk, mmm…no.” The killer shook his head.
“Please, I just wanna go home.”
He stepped closer and she moved backward until she was pressed against her car. There was a point at which he knew she would scream, so he calculated his next more carefully. He lunged for her and wrapped his hands around her throat, completely encircling her neck. He quickly muffled her scream. He saw her eyes in the overhead light glistening with tears.
A couple of loud people came around the building in search of their cars. The woman in the killer’s hand went limp. She’d passed out. He eased his grip and kissed her until the men got into their vehicle. While she was still woozy from fainting, he used the fob to unlock her car door. He shoved her into the passenger seat. Her head lolled to the side. She would come around soon.
He sped out of the parking lot and hung a left away from downtown Webster. Unfortunately, this meant passing the police station Harry Hunter worked at. He slowed as he drove by, you never knew if a cop lingered nearby.
The woman stirred next to him. It didn’t take long before she became aware of her situation. He hit the child safety lock button. She pawed at the door, screaming. “Help! Help! Help me!” She yanked on the handle but it didn’t open, nor did the window roll down. “W-What do you want?!” The woman stayed as far away from him as she could.
The car jerked sideways as the killer reached for her. She slapped at his hand. “No!” He smashed her head into the window, shutting her up. They drove for a few more miles. He thought about her throat.
He banked a hard left onto the dead-end road where no one would see them. Above the tree line, smoke rose from the Hunter’s Lodge chimney against the moonlit clouds. Gravel beat the underside of her car when he slammed on the brakes and threw the car into park.
She frantically scooted into the corner of her seat, flattening herself against the door panel. He yanked her by the hair and dragged her over the center console. Once the killer was free of the car, he took a hold of one of her arms and wrenched her onto the hard dirt next to the car. She screamed wordlessly. One punch to her cheek quieted her again. She lay face down with her hands like claws, dug into the earth, blood trickling from her head wound. He brushed the blonde hair off her cheek and swept it over to one side of her neck. She moaned.
The killer left her on the ground. He searched inside the trunk of her beat-up car for a tire iron. Surely she must have tools to change a tire in there. Man, he wished had his car where he’d put the rock he’d used on the judge’s daughter. What had been the chances of that slut being related to a judge? If she’d been some ordinary cheap skank, the case would probably be deemed cold in a few months without any leads. He took the tire iron out and went around to the girl. She wasn’t where he’d left her. The bushes next to the road rustled.
“Oh, you’re not going anywhere.”
In the thicket, all he saw was her left ankle sticking out as she dragged her body along the ground. The heels she’d been wearing were gone. Sobs caught in the back of her throat. They always cried. Some women fought like a bag of cats, never escaping, no matter how many scratches they made in the plastic, until eventually suffocating. Some never fought at all, only accepted their fate. He didn’t know which type this woman was yet.
He dropped the tool and hauled her out from under the shrubbery. She screamed and clawed the dirt. The killer flipped her over and then licked his lips. Some more of her hair had come loose from her ponytail. The wound on her forehead had crusted over. Despite the shadows covering her face, her pale neck stood out, tinted blue from the moon’s rays. He straddled her hips, yet he didn’t pin her arms to her sides.
Will you fight me?
Did he want her to? Maybe he did. Heidi hadn’t fought him. The kill didn’t give him the same rush as the others had. She bucked underneath him, making a plea for dislodging him. Her strength surprised the killer. Strength. Now, that was a word. And he could spell the bitch too.
His head rocked back when she punched his chin with the heel of her right palm. She hit him again and this time his teeth clenched together hard, chomping into his tongue. He spat blood. “Muthafucker!” In the second he took to gather himself, she wrenched her body free of him.
She ran into the woods, toward the smoke. More than likely knowing these woods well, as did most of the area residents. If he was going to catch her, he’d have to move quickly, before she reached the Lodge.
He chased her, tree branches thwapping against his face and arms. She was a lot further ahead, and once again, her strength surprising him. She was winning the marathon and he was the out of shape man in last place. His breaths became ragged and he slowed. He told himself this was because she had made it to the Lodge, not due to his lack of endurance. But fuck, she moved fast. Adrenaline and a pure survival instinct had to be what propelled her legs. Kept her driving forward. He stayed in the shadows of the trees surrounding the bar. He panted and leaned against a large oak.
The woman ran up behind a car with their reverse lights shining bright red and white. It was a pick-up truck. A hoarse holler bled from her throat when the vehicle crashed into her. And then ended abruptly. The driver must have felt a thump, because his brakes squealed just before the truck stopped. He pulled forward and cut the engine. She lay on the ground partially under the truck, unmoving.
* * *
The killer returned to the woman’s car. A good thing about this part of the Midwest was an abundance of woods and places to ditch a car. He’d have to get rid of it soon, before the sun rose. He wasn’t positive the girl had died or not. An opportunity to lose the car made itself known. With a sharp right, he turned off the two-lane highway onto a dirt road that led to a national forest park. The area was famous for its off-roading intersecting two-tracks. A labyrinth of places with little to no traffic. It would be months until the car was found.
After ditching the car and making sure he left no traces of himself, he made his way back to the freeway. He traveled along the road on foot, hidden by trees. At daybreak he could hitch a ride from a trucker. He knew of an old A-framed hunting cabin tucked back far off the road near the bank of a lazy river about three hundred and twenty-five miles north of Webster. And a safe enough distance where no one would find him. The killer needed shelter and some food before deciding his next move. Hell, maybe he’d hide out at the cabin for a while, off the grid. The place was likely empty. He hoped.
He’d walked for hours. His feet and back ached. A few cars passed him on the side of the road. They likely wouldn’t stop, so he waited for the next semi. He turned and faced the traffic, walking backward with his thumb out. It didn’t take long before a big truck thundered up the road and pulled onto the shoulder. The killer opened the passenger door.
“Where you headed?” the trucker asked. He wore a blue t-shirt over his big belly, black suspenders, and jeans.
He estimated how many miles he’d already driven and walked. “Ah…north about eighty miles. There’s this old gas station by—”
“I know the one. Get in, and don’t try nothing. My Bertha and Smith and Wesson won’t like it.” The man jerked his head toward the back of the cab. A rust-colored hound of some sort lifted its head then settled again.
The killer climbed in. “I won’t give you any trouble.”
They didn’t talk much, so he slept. The truck eventually stopped and the air braking system woke him.
“This is where you get out, my friend.”
After thanking the man, the killer emerged from the truck, dropping onto the cement next to an abandoned and corroded gas pump. The kind of long ago with the analog numbers indicating the number of gallons and dollars spent. Across the road sat a newer station. The truck pulled away and headed there. The killer went into the woods behind him, in search of the river.
He followed the river for three miles until he spotted the tiny green-stained A-framed cabin. A weathered sign hung next to the front door, the letters so faded you couldn’t make them out anymore except for a letter “M.” He cupped his hands around his eyes and peeked through the window. White sheets covered the furniture like ghosts. He went around to the side window that was recessed into the slanted roof overlooking the kitchen area. Sliding it to the left proved too difficult, and he wasn’t interested in breaking the glass. From within his coat he pulled out a knife that had pieces of horn glued to the handle and flipped it open. He jammed the blade between the panes where the latch was and jimmied the window. It didn't glide smoothly through the track, and he had to work the thing over an inch at a time. He nearly gave up and was ready to smash the glass anyway with a piece of firewood stacked high at the end of the front porch in a round black metal stand.
Finally the window opened enough for him to crawl inside. A table sat beneath the window and he knocked several mason jars onto the floor. His boots crunched the glass when he put his feet down. He scanned the room, making sure there were no signs of recent activity. Knotty pine covered the walls and kitchen cabinets. Further into the cabin’s main room, he turned around and inspected the loft above the kitchen. He climbed the steep stairs. Two bare mattress twin beds had been pushed to either wall under the slanted ceiling. A trunk sat at the foot of one of the beds. He opened it. There was nothing except a few old wooden toys in it—a car with working wheels attached to a string and assorted Lincoln Logs in a plastic bag. For the briefest of moments, the killer flashed back to his childhood and his old man chucking his Lincoln Logs into the trash while he cried. After slamming the lid shut on the memory, he went back downstairs.
A small bedroom and bathroom with a stand-up shower took up the other side of the house. The glass-fronted gun cabinet stood between the rooms, a hunting scene etched on the front. He frowned in puzzlement from the lack of security. Under the rifles were two drawers he hoped stored the ammunition rounds. Guns weren’t his usual choice of weapon, but out here in the middle of nowhere, one needed protection from the wildlife.
He shattered the glass with a heavy molded metal ashtray he took from the coffee table and scraped the shards into the wall. Of the two, the killer selected the one on the right. He yanked open the drawers and found a box of rounds in the bottom one. He opened the chamber and inserted the shells, then cocked the gun and one slid into the chamber.
Inside the bathroom, he set the shotgun down, leaning it against the wall in the corner. He flushed the toilet and watched the green antifreeze swirl around and drain. He held his breath waiting for the tank to fill back up. It didn’t. Fuck! He punched the knotty pine wall then remembered passing a well with a square steel lid by the overgrown driveway. Fortunately, he’d been raised on a large property with a well and knew how to prime a pump.
He returned to the bathroom thirty minutes later. The sink faucet sputtered a few times before a steady stream flowed. The killer cranked on the shower and stripped out of his clothes. He stepped in and the water ran over the tattoos on his muscled back and down his body. Across his shoulders and dipping toward his ass was a cobra slithering out the jaws of a skull. He rarely showed the ink to anyone and couldn’t remember the last time. It was a part of his inescapable past that he couldn’t forget. The design had been a show of loyalty toward his former employers. The band of illegal firearms dealers had been broken apart by arrests and sting operations led by undercover ATF agents. The killer hadn’t been in the weapons side of things; he was the go-to guy for clean-up when deals got messy and someone wound up dead or needed to get dead. He’d thought nothing of setting ablaze entire buildings to cover up a killing. He been suspected and questioned for his crimes plenty of times. However, the law enforcement boys never had enough evidence to get an indictment. He was more than a murderer for hire though, he enjoyed what he did. But those days were over. He’d been trying to go straight for years. Except now his taste for blood had resurfaced with a vengeance, and wouldn’t let go.