SERIAL UNCUT (11 page)

"
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 and 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!"

"
Shh! 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 or 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 focuses 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.