SERIAL UNCUT (8 page)

"
Because I didn't want you to get
lost."

A billboard was coming up on my right.
MURRAY'S - NEXT EXIT. That was nice to know, but I had no idea
what
Murray's
was, or how far
the exit was. Not a very effective advertisement.

"
My
interior
light works, Jackie. I could have used Mapquest."

"
Mapquest lies. And don't call me
Jackie. You know I hate it when people call me Jackie."

"
And I hate it when you say you'd be
here three hours ago, and you're still not here. You could have
left at a reasonable hour, Jack."

He had a point. This was my first real
vacation--and by that I mean one that involved actually travelling
somewhere--in a few years. Latham had rented a cabin on Rice Lake,
and he had driven there yesterday from Chicago to meet the rental
owners and get the keys. I was supposed to go with him, and we'd
been planning this for weeks, but the murder trial I'd been
testifying at had gone longer than expected, and since I was the
arresting officer I needed to be there. As much as I loved Latham,
and as much as I needed some time away from work, my duty to put
criminals away ranked slightly higher.

"
Your
told-you-so
tone isn't going to get you laid
later," I said. "Just help me figure out where I am."

Another sigh. I shrugged it off. My
long-suffering boyfriend had suffered a lot worse than this in
order to be with me. I figured he had to be incredibly desperate,
or a closet masochist. Either way, he was a cutie, and I loved
him.

"
Do you see the mile markers alongside
the road?"

I didn't see any such thing. The highway was
dark, and I hadn't noticed any signs, off-ramps, exits, or mile
markers since I'd left Illinois. But I hadn't exactly been paying
much attention, either. I was pretty damn tired, and had been
zoning out to AM radio for the last hour. FM didn't work. Sometimes
I wish someone would shoot my car, put it out of my misery.

"
No. There's nothing out here, Latham.
Except
Murray's
."

"
What's
Murray's
?"

"
I have no idea. I just saw the sign.
Could be a gas station. Could be a waterpark."

"
I don't remember passing anything
called
Murray's
. Did the sign
have the exit number?"

"
No."

"
Are you sure?"

I made a face. "The defense attorney never
asked me if I was sure. The defense attorney took me at my
word."

"
He should have also made you take my
GPS. You see those posts alongside the road with the reflectors on
them?"

"
Yeah."

"
Keep watching them."

"
Why should--" The next reflector had a
number on top. "Oh. Okay, I'm at mile marker 231."

"
I don't have Internet access here at
the cabin. I'll call you back when I find out where you are. You're
okay, right? Not going to fall asleep while driving?"

I yawned. "I'm fine, hon. Just a little
hungry."

"
Stop for something if it will keep
you awake."

"
Sure. I'll just pull over and grab
the nearest cow."

"
If you do, bring me a
tenderloin."

"
Really? Is your appetite back?"
Latham was still recovering from a bad case of food
poisoning.

"
It's getting there."

"
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?"