Truck Stop Read online

  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 examinedthe 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 hewant?

  “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 the weather.

  “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 never met another person like us. A few wannabes. More than a few crazies. But never another hunter. Like we are. Don’t you think this is a unique chance?”

  The meatloaf came, steaming hot. But Taylor wasn’t hungry anymore. He was intrigued. If Donaldson was what he claimed to be, the fat man was one hundred percent correct. Taylor had never talked about his lifestyle with anyone, other than his victims. And then, it was only to terrify them even more.

  Sometimes, Taylor had fantasies of getting caught. Not because he harbored any guilt, and not because he wanted to be locked up. But because it would be nice, just once, to be open and honest about his habits with the whole world. To let a fellow human being know how clever he’d been all these years. Maybe have some shrink interview him and write a bestselling book.

  How interesting it would be to talk shop with someone as exceptional as he was.

  “So you want to swap stories? Trade tactics? Is that it, Donaldson?”

  “I can think of duller ways to kill some time at a truck stop.”

  Taylor cut the meatloaf with his fork, shoved some into his mouth. It was good.

  “Fine. You go first. You said you don’t like ether. So how do you make your—” Taylor reached for the right words ”—guests compliant.”

  “Blunt force trauma.”

  “Using what?”

  “Trade secret.”

  “And what if you’re too… aggressive… with your use of blunt force?”

  “An unfortunate side-effect. Just happened to me, in fact. Just picked up a tasty little morsel, but her lights went out before I could have any fun with her.”

  “Picked up? Hitcher?”

  Donaldson sipped more coffee and grinned. “Didn’t you know about the dangers of hitchhiking, son? Lots of psychos out there.”

  Taylor shoved more meatloaf into his mouth, and followed it up with some mashed potatoes. ”Hitchers might be missed.”

  “So could truck stop snatch.”

  Taylor paused in mid-bite.

  “Your fly is open. And I saw how you were measuring the resident pimp.” Donaldson raised an eyebrow. ”Have you relieved him of one of his steady sources of income?”

  Now it was Taylor’s turn to grin. “Not yet. She’ll be dessert when I’m done with this meatloaf.”

  “And once you’re finished with her?”

  Taylor zipped up his fly. ”I like rivers. Water takes care of any trace evidence, and it’s tough for the law to pinpoint the location where they were dumped in. You?”

  “Gas and a match. First a nice spritz with bleach. Bleach destroys DNA, you know.”

  “I do. Got a few bottles in the truck.”

  Taylor still couldn’t assess what sort of threat Donaldson posed. But he had to admit, this was fun.

  “So, here’s the ten-thousand dollar question,” Donaldson asked. “How many are you up to?”

  Taylor wiped some gravy off his mouth with a paper napkin. “So that’s where we stand? Whipping out our dicks and seeing whose is bigger?”

  “I’ve been at this a very long time.” Donaldson belched again. “Probably since before you were born. I’ve read about others like us; I love those true crime audiobooks. They help pass the time on long trips. I collect regular books, too. Movies. Newspaper articles. If you’ve done the same research I have, then you know none of our American peers can prove more than forty-eight. That’s the key. Prove. Some boast high numbers, but there isn’t proof to back it up.”

  “So are you asking me how many I’ve done, or how many I can prove?”

  “Both.”

  Taylor shrugged. ”I lost count after forty-eight. Once I had one in every state, it became less about quantity and more about quality.”

  “You’re lying,” Donaldson said. “You’re too young for that many.”

  “One in every state, old man.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “I kept driver’s licenses, those that had them. Probably don’t have more than twenty, though. Not many whores carry ID.”

  “No pictures? Trophies? Souvenirs?”

  Taylor wasn’t going to share something that personal with a stranger. He pretended to sneer. ”Taking a trophy is like asking to get caught. I don’t plan on getting caught.”

  “True. But it is nice to relive the moment. Traveling is lonely, and memories unfortunately fade. If it wasn’t so dangerous, I’d love to videotape a few.”

  That would be nice, Taylor thought, finishing the last bit of meatloaf. But mytrophy box will have to suffice.

  “So how many are you up to, Grandpa?”

  “A hundred twenty-seven.”

  Taylor snorted. ”Bullshit.”

  “I agree with you about the danger of keeping souvenirs, but I have Polaroids from a lot of my early ones.”

  “Dangerous to carry those around with you.”

  “I’ve got them well hidden.” Donaldson stared at him, his eyes twinkling. ”Would you be interested in seeing them?”

  “What do you mean? One of those I’ll show you mine if you show me yours deals?”

  “No. Well, not exactly. I’m not interested in seeing your driver’s license collection. But I would be interested in paying a little visit to your current guest.”

  Taylor frowned. ”I’m not big on sharing. Or sloppy seconds.”

  Donaldson slowly spread out his hands. ”I understand. It’s just that… you know how it is, when you get all worked up, and then they quit on you.”

  Taylor nodded. Having a victim die too soon felt like having something precious stolen from him.

  “You don’t seem like the shy type,” Donaldson continued. “I thought, perhaps, you wouldn’t mind doing your thing when someone else was there to watch.”

  Taylor smiled. “Aren’t you the dirty old man.”

  Donaldson smiled back. “A dirty old man who doesn’t have the same distaste of sloppy seconds as you apparently have. I see no problem in going second. As long as there’s something left for me to enjoy myself with.”

  “I leave all the major parts intact.”

  “Then perhaps we can come to some sort of arrangement.”

  “Perhaps we can.”

  Donaldson’s smile suddenly slipped off his face. He’d noticed the same thing Taylor had.

  A cop had walked into the restaurant.

  Woman, forties, well built, a gold star clipped to her hip. But even without the badge, she had that swagger, had that look, that Taylor had spent a lifetime learning to spot.

  “Here comes trouble,” Donaldson said.

  And, as luck would have it, trouble sat down right next to them.

  -4-

  After filling my gas tank and emptying my bladder, I went in search of food.

  The diner was surprisingly full this late at night. Truckers mostly. And though I hadn’t worked Vice in well over a decade, I was pretty sure the only women in the place were earning their living illegally.

  Not that I judged, or even cared. One of the reasons I switched from Vice
to Homicide was because I had no problems with what consenting adults did to themselves or each other. I’d done a few drugs in my day, and as a woman I felt I should be able to do whatever I wanted with my body. So the scene in the diner was nothing more to me than local color. I just wanted some coffee and a hot meal, which I believed would wake me up enough to get me through the rest of my road trip and into the very patient arms of my fiancée.

  I expected at least one or two catcalls or wolf whistles when I entered, but didn’t hear any. Sort of disappointing. I was wearing what I wore to court, a brown Ann Klein pantsuit, clingy in all the right places, and a pair of three inchKate Spade strappy sandals. The shoes were perhaps a bit frivolous, but the jury couldn’t see my feet when I took the stand. I left for Wisconsin directly from court, and wore the shoes because Latham loved them. I had even painted my toenails to celebrate our vacation.

  Maybe the current diners were too preoccupied with the hired help to know another woman had entered the place. Or maybe it was me. Latham said I gave off a “cop vibe” that people could sense, but he assured me I was stillsexy. Still, a Wisconsin truck stop at two in the morning filled with lonely, single men, and I didn’t even get a lecherous glance. Maybe I needed to work-out more.

  Then I realized I still had my badge clipped to my belt. Duh.

  I quickly scoped out the joint, finding the emergency exit, counting the number of patrons and employees, identifying potential trouble. An absurdly dressed man in expensive boots and a diamond studded John Deere cap stared hard at me. He gave me a look that said he hated cops, and I gave him a look that said I hated his kind even more. While I tolerated prostitutes, I loathed pimps. Someone taking the money you earned just because they were bigger than you wasn’t fair.

  But I didn’t come here to start trouble. I just wanted some food and caffeine.

  I walked the room slowly, feeling the cold stares, and found counter space next to a portly man. I eased myself onto the stool.

  “Coffee, officer?”

  I nodded at the waitress. She overturned my mug and filled it up. I glanced at the menu, wondering if they had cheese curds—those little fried nuggets of cheddar exclusive to Wisconsin.