Serial Uncut - J. A. Konrath [28]
“It’s Taylor. And I want to know, before I invite you into my truck, that you aren’t into some sick shit.”
“Define sick.”
“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 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