Crouch Blake

Birds of Prey

BLAKE CROUCH, JACK KILBORN & JA KONRATH

Birds of Prey - A Novella of Terror

Introduction

The original version of SERIAL, still available as a free ebook, was a 7500-word horror short story written as an experiment. In less than a year, that experiment was downloaded over 200,000 times, and has received over a hundred scathingly negative reviews, with many people claiming it was the most depraved, awful thing they’ve ever read.

SERIAL UNCUT was over 36,000 words, much of it brand new. Along with the insertion of additional material too extreme for the original version, it also had a vastly expanded beginning and ending, including an extended section that originally appeared in the novellas BAD GIRL and TRUCK STOP.

But even with this expanded version, there were still some loose ends to tie up, and some story left to tell.

Which brought us to KILLERS, the sequel to Donaldson’s and Lucy’s escapades in the desert southwest.

A now, finally, the lynchpin that ties it all together…BIRDS OF PREY.

Neatly bringing together characters from Crouch’s, Kilborn’s, and Konrath’s works, BIRDS OF PREY is a companion piece to SERIAL UNCUT, DESERT PLACES, LOCKED DOORS, BREAK YOU, ENDURANCE, FUZZY NAVEL, CHERRY BOMB, SHAKEN, STIRRED, SNOWBOUND, ABANDON, RUN, and DRACULAS.

If you can handle horrific thrills, proceed at your own risk.

But if you suffer from anxiety attacks, nervous disorders, insomnia, nightmares or night terrors, heart palpitations, stomach problems, or are of an overly sensitive nature, you should read something else instead.

The authors are in no way responsible for any lost sleep, missed work, failed relationships, or difficulty in coping with life after you have read BIRDS OF PREY. They will not pay for any therapy you may require as a result of reading BIRDS OF PREY. They will not cradle you in their arms, rock you back and forth, and speak in soothing tones while you unsuccessfully try to forget BIRDS OF PREY.

You have been warned…

Love,

Blake Crouch, Jack Kilborn, and JA Konrath

A Watch of Nightingales

Winston-Salem, North Carolina, 1969

“Get in here, boys!” Jeanette shouted. “It’s happening, and you’re missing it! Andrew! Orson! Come on!”

The eight-year-old twins raced each other down the hall and into the living room, where they skidded to a stop on the green shag carpet.

“You have to see this,” their mother said, pointing at the television screen.

“What’s wrong with Dad?” Orson asked.

Andy looked over at their father who sat on the edge of an ottoman, leaning toward the television with his forearms on his knees and tears running down his face.

“Nothing, son,” he said, dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief. “Just never thought I’d be alive to see something like this.”

“Can we go outside?” Andy said.

“It’s too late,” Jeannette said. “Ya’ll need to get ready for bed.”

“Aw, come on, Mom. Just for ten minutes,” Orson begged.

“Five minutes,” their mother said. “And don’t make me come out there looking for you.”

The boys rushed out the front door into the night, the screen door banging shut after them.

It was July and warm, lightning bugs floating everywhere like airborne embers, sparking and fading, sparking and fading.

“Look at me!” Andy screamed, running out into the long, cool grass in the front yard. “I’m floating!”

When the boy stopped, he glanced back toward the driveway, saw his brother lying on his back, staring up at the sky.

Andy moved back toward him in exaggerated hops, pretending to bounce along through reduced gravity.

He lay down on the warm concrete beside his brother, their shoulders barely touching, and stared up into the sky.

The gibbous moon shone with a subdued brilliance through the humid southern night.

“I can see them up there,” Andy said.

Orson glanced at him, brow furrowed. “Really?”

Andy smiled. “Of course not, I’m just kidding.”

“I knew that.”

They were quiet for a bit, and then Orson said, “I think there’s something wrong with me.”

“I know, my stomach always hurts after Mom’s meatloaf, too.”

“No, it’s not that.”

“What?”

“You ever feel different?” Orson said.

“Different? Like how?”

“Like from other people, stupid.”

“I don’t know. I don’t guess so.”

“Yeah, that’s because you’re normal.”

“So are you.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are, you’re my brother.”

“That doesn’t make me normal, Andy.”

“I know you and there’s nothing wrong—”

“But you only know my outside. You don’t know what’s inside. The thoughts I have.”

“What thoughts?”

“Just thoughts.”

“Normal ones?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Like what?” Andy asked.

“I don’t want to tell. They’re mine.”

“Tell me.”

Orson looked over at Andy. Now there were tears in his eyes. Glassy in the moonlight.

“You’ll tell Mom and Dad.”

“No, I won’t.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

Orson looked back into the sky.

“Everyone’s real excited about what’s happening.”

“I know.”

“But you know what I’m thinking?”

“How could I?”

Orson hesitated. Then: “No, I don’t want to say.”

“Orson.” Andy reached over and took hold of his brother’s hand. “You can trust me. Always.”

Orson blinked twice, and then said, “I wish Neil Armstrong would die up there.”

“Why?”

Orson shrugged. “I don’t know. But I wish his friend would leave him on the moon or the Eagle would blow up or a space monster that no one had ever heard of before would crawl out of a hole and eat him. Everyone would be sad, and I’d be….so happy.”

Andy stared at his brother, an airy fluttering in his stomach now, and it wasn’t his mother’s meatloaf.

“You can let go of my hand if you want,” Orson said, and that look on his face would never leave Andy—fear and defiance and rage and a deep, deep sadness.

The screen door banged open.

Their mother’s voice echoing through the woods across the street, calling for them to come inside and get ready for bed.

Andy squeezed his brother’s hand tighter.

A Day at the Beach

North Carolina Outer Banks, 1977

They were a happy, black-eyed family, and the day was perfect.

Late August.

The heat broken by the breeze coming off the ocean.

A few stray clouds way out over the Atlantic, but otherwise, the sky pitch-blue and already beginning to deepen toward evening.

Rufus Kite and his five-year-old son had started after lunch, and now, six hours into the project, it loomed over the beach like the ruins of a Scottish castle. They’d constructed a moat all the way around—two feet wide and a foot down to the water table. Luther had even put a crab inside as a standin for a real monster. The tide would be upon them anytime now, and already the noise of the surf was getting louder as it inched closer. Luther sat in the middle of the castle, surrounded by two-foot walls, digging trenches and passageways while his father dripped wet sand along the top wall. It looked like disintegrating masonry.

Ten yards behind the castle, Luther’s mother and sister reclined in beach chairs under the shade of an umbrella, Maxine tearing through the last fifty pages of a Ludlum novel, Katie curled up sleeping in her chair, the eight-year-old a deep bronze—the only member of the Kite clan who could catch a tan.

They’d driven onto the beach eight hours ago, the kids riding in the back of the old Dodge pick-up truck as Rufus drove all the way out to the southern tip of the island—a spit of sand jutting out into the sea.

At this time of day, they had it all to themselves.

A man had been fishing a few hundred yards up the beach for the last several hours, but he was gone now.

A fishing trawler loomed like a ghost on the horizon several miles out, nearly invisible through the haze.

“If we build it big enough,” Luther said as he packed the damp sand, fortifying the wall, “maybe the tide won’t knock our castle down?”

Rufus grinned at his son.

“If we built this thing taller than me, the ocean would still bring it down. There’s no stopping it.”

Luther scowled. “But we worked so hard. I like it. I don’t want it to fall.”

“Just enjoy it while you have it, son. By the way, that philosophy works for more than sand castles.”

Luther came to his feet just as a breaker crashed twenty feet away.

Sea water raced up the sand, stopping just shy of the moat.

He turned around, glanced back toward the dunes.

The sun was just sliding down behind the live oaks on Ocracoke Island.

Only a few hours of daylight left.

It had been such a perfect day, and Luther felt a glimmer of sadness at the thought of it coming to an end.

He could see the ocean beginning to swell again.

Another wave coming.

He looked up at his father, saw Rufus smiling down at him, sweat beading out across the man’s forehead under the jet-black bangs that stopped just above his eyes. The boy would always see his father like this, even in his old age.

Young. Fit. Strong and happy.

The breaker crashed ashore.

The sea foaming and fizzing like a bottle of spilt soda.

Rufus put his hand on Luther’s shoulder.

“Here comes the first attack, my boy. Man your battle station!”

Luther stepped up to the front wall and watched the water race toward them with a lump in his throat.

When the sun was gone, they got a bonfire going and roasted wieners over a bed of coals that Maxine had spread out in the sand.

Luther and Katie sat together eating hot dogs as the tide went out, the sound of the breakers now growing steadily softer.

When he was finished with supper, Luther leaned against his sister and stared into the flames, his belly full, watching the fire consume the wood of some ancient shipwreck. He could feel the accumulation of sunlight in his shoulders—a warm, subtle glow. His eyes were heavy.

“You tired?” Katie asked.

“No.”

“Yeah, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“It’s okay to be tired, Luther.”

“I know.”

She kissed the top of his head. “Sorry about your castle. You still sad it’s gone?”

Luther said nothing.

“It was really cool, buddy,” Katie said. She craned her neck and looked him in the eyes, must have seen the tears welling, shining in the light of the fire. “Luther,” she said, “you’ll get to make another one. I bet it’ll even be bigger next time.”

Luther glanced up through the flames at his father and mother, Maxine wrapped in a shawl and cuddled up between Rufus’s legs nursing a cold beer.

The heat of the fire felt good lapping at his face. He could’ve fallen asleep to it.

Gazing up into the sky, he watched the sparks rising toward the stars.

Smelled the residue of suntan lotion on Katie that the sand hadn’t worn away.

Coconut.

He filled with a sudden and profound warmth for his sister.

Only three years older than he was and yet she understood him better than anyone else. Better even than their mother.

He’d just started to reach for her hand when he noticed the light.

For a moment, he mistook it for a lightning bug—it had that floating, bouncy quality—but then he realized it was the bulb of a flashlight moving toward their fire.

Still thirty or forty yards away, and he couldn’t have known how often he would dream of that image. How thoroughly the fear of it would come to define him. So innocuous—just a speck of brilliance coming toward him in the dark.

His mother must have noticed the diversion of his focus, because she said, “What’s wrong, boy?”

Luther jutted his chin toward the light. “Somebody’s coming.”

“Probably just someone out for a late-night stroll,” she said.

“Can we spend the night here?” Katie asked.

“I don’t think so,” Rufus said. “I need a shower.”

Maxine chuckled. “And a soft bed, sweet-sweet.”

“Absolutely.”

“But it’d be fun!” Katie whined.

“Another time, princess,” Rufus said. “We didn’t even bring our sleeping bags.”

The light had nearly reached them now, Luther watching it approach and listening to the oncoming footsteps in the sand.

“They’re coming over here,” he said.

Now Maxine sat up and looked back over her shoulder.

Luther held up his hand to shield his eyes from the firelight.

Saw a man’s legs standing ten feet away—hairy and thick—that ended in a pair of muddy work boots.

Rufus was struggling to his feet now.

Luther heard his father say, “Hi, there.”

Luther glanced up into Katie’s face, didn’t like what he saw—an intensity, a concentration he didn’t fully comprehend. He was missing something. Events unfolding on some frequency beyond his experience.

His father spoke again, “Evening.”

“What are you folks doing here?”

The man’s voice sounded strange to Luther—southern but not local. Not friendly either. It contained a hard-edged, metallic rasp.

“Just having a campfire,” Rufus said.

“You live around here?”

“We live on Ocracoke. How about you? You visiting?”

The man laughed as if Luther’s father had made a joke. “Yeah. That’s it. We’re visiting.” The man came forward three steps and turned off his flashlight. In the firelight, Luther studied him. He wore a heavily-stained white tee-shirt covered in a thousand tiny rips. The man’s substantial body odor was evident even from ten feet away. He hadn’t shaved in weeks, his jaw covered in a salt-and-pepper stubble. His eyes shone wild and glassy and they didn’t stay on one object for more than several seconds at a time.

“Well,” Rufus said, “we were actually just getting ready to shove off, so—”

“I didn’t say anything about you leaving.”

The man’s statement festered in the air for what seemed ages.

No sound but the surf and the crackle of driftwood in the flames.

Maxine came to her feet, stood behind Rufus.

“Ya’ll best sit down now,” the man said.

Maxine wrapped her hands around Rufus’s left arm. “Let’s go.”

Rufus shot a quick look over at Katie. “Get you and Luther in the back of the truck. Right now.” He turned back to the man.

Katie jerked Luther onto his feet.

“We’re gonna take off,” Rufus said. “I got my kids here. I don’t want any trouble with you. You understand that, right? We were just out here having a day at the beach, and now we’re going home.”

Katie pulled Luther toward the Dodge.

The man said, “You ain’t going nowhere.”

“What’s happening, Katie?” Luther whispered.

“I’ll tell you later. Hop into the—”

“Young lady!”

Katie froze.

“Did you not just fucking hear what I told your daddy? Get your ass back where you was sitting, or by God—”

“Don’t you dare speak to my—”

Luther saw the man swing his flashlight into the side of his father’s head.

Rufus’s knees buckled, hit the sand, blood streaming out of a gash above his left eye.

The man drove his knee into Rufus’s face, and when Maxine rushed forward he caught her with a right hook that snapped her head around.

His mother fell facedown in the sand, out cold.

Rufus climbed back onto his feet.

Luther realizing the warm sensation he felt was piss running down the inside of his legs.

“He hit mom,” Katie said, crying. “Why’d he hit mom?”

Rufus flung a handful of sand into the man’s face and rushed him as he clawed at his eyes, scooping the man under his massive thighs and slamming him down on his back in the sand.

Luther had never seen his father this consumed with rage, watching as Rufus hit the man six times in the face, his knuckles getting bloody.

Rufus finally rolled off him into the sand, gasping for breath.

The man lay moaning on his back, his face a purple wreck.

Maxine was sitting up now, holding her jaw which looked swollen.

Rufus grabbed her by the arms and hoisted her up onto her feet.

“My teeth,” she moaned, spitting a tooth out into the palm of her hand.

Rufus hawked a lugie of blood and helped Maxine toward the truck.

“Get in!” he yelled at Luther and Katie.

Luther grabbed the side of the truck and stepped up onto the rear tire.

Katie let out a brief scream, Luther on the verge of asking what was wrong when he saw the second man standing on the other side of the truck bed, grinning at him.

He was tall and wide-shouldered. Had eyes so vividly green Luther could see their color in the lowlight. Wore a blue linen shirt with a long number across the lapel pocket. Dark stains down the front of his shirt.

“Been watching you all afternoon,” he said. “That was some sand castle you and your daddy built.” His eyes cut to Rufus and he swung a pump-action shotgun toward him. “You can stop right there. I swear to God. You all right, Ben?”

The man Rufus had hit was trying to sit up.

“Motherfucker hit me.”

“I saw. That was embarrassing.”

“I’m gonna kill him.”

“Plenty a time for that.” The man with the shotgun stared at Luther. I want you over by the fire like you was.”

“Sir, we just want to go home,” Rufus said.

The man smiled. “I’ll bet you do.”

“Let my wife take our kids. They don’t need to be a part of any of this.”

The man laughed. “How am I supposed to fuck her when she ain’t here? That make any sense to you?”

The man named Ben rose to his feet, wiping blood out of his eyes.

“Ben, you hear this guy?”

“I heard him. Dumb fuck, is what he is.”

Luther stepped down off the truck and looked up at his father.

“Dad?” he said. “Is it gonna be okay?”

Rufus’s hands shook.

“No, little man,” Ben said. “It ain’t gonna be okay. Get your ass over there like I told you.”

Luther looked at Katie.

His sister had tears in her eyes.

“I’m scared,” he said.

“Come on, Luther.”

She took him by the hand and led him back over to the fire.

They sat in the sand.

The man named Ben started toward Rufus.

“There’s some rope in the truck bed,” his partner yelled.

“Bring it, Winston.” He stopped a foot away from Rufus and Maxine, and shovel-punched Rufus in the gut.

Luther’s father doubled over.

Maxine clutched his back, trying to soothe him.

Winston walked over with the shotgun and a coil of rope that Rufus had used just three weeks ago to stabilize a bureau he’d bought in an antique store in Hatteras for Maxine’s thirtieth birthday.

Winston stopped several feet away, leveled the shotgun on Rufus and Maxine, and tossed the rope at their feet.

“What’s your name, cutie?” he asked Maxine.

“Please,” Rufus said, still gasping for air, a tremor moving through his lower lip. “You guys can clearly do whatever you want. We’re at your mercy. I recognize that. And I am begging you to let us go. You have that power.”

Winston swept his long, greasy hair back behind his shoulders.

“But we been watching you all day, laying up there in the bushes behind the dunes. If you’d gone home with everyone else, our paths would never have crossed. But you didn’t go home like everyone else. You stayed. So you know what I think that means?”

“What?”

With the tip of the shotgun’s barrel, Winston slid the shawl off Maxine’s shoulder, and smiled at the yellow bikini underneath, at her washboard stomach.

“That this is fate. Now what’s your name, bitch? Don’t make me ask again.”

“Maxine,” she said. “Please don’t hurt my children.”

“Maxine, I want you to take that rope and tie your husband up. I’m gonna check when you’re done, and if it ain’t picture perfect and tight as fuck, there’s gonna be hell to pay. Even more than what’s already on the schedule.”

Luther watched his mother lift the rope.

Crying and trembling, she wrapped it around Rufus’s waist and started to bind his wrists together.

“It’s gonna be okay, Max,” he said. “Don’t cry. We’ll get through this.”

Winston tugged a pocket knife out of his pants and cut a ten-foot length of rope which he tossed to Ben.

“Tie them.”

With his knife, he motioned to Luther and Katie.

Ben lumbered over to the rope and snatched it up. When he smiled at Luther, there was still blood stuck between his teeth.

Luther watching, a sinking jolt of terror flooding through him.

A siren wailing between his eyes.

Knowing on some base level what he could not allow to happen.

The man was three steps away when Luther jumped to his feet and took off toward the trees at a dead sprint, his bare feet kicking bursts of sand in his wake, the men shouting as he scrambled up the dunes, Winston screaming at Ben to catch the little fucker.

Luther glanced back, saw Ben galloping toward him, Katie crying, his parents screaming at him to run, don’t stop, while Winston held them at bay with the shotgun.

Luther tore down the island-side of the dune and ran for the line of trees in the distance.

He could see the lighthouse a mile away in the village of Ocracoke , its beacon shining just above the treetops.

Another glance back.

Ben ten steps behind.

A sharp burn spread down out of Luther’s stomach and into his legs.

Lungs on fire.

He couldn’t keep running like this.

He punched through the treeline into a wood of live oaks, roots and thorns ripping at the soles of his feet, branches tearing at his bare arms and chest.

Much darker here in the trees with the starlight obscured, and Luther could only make out the profile of Ben pushing after him through the shrubs.

The boy veered off the straight trajectory he’d been running and shot up the low-hanging branches of a live oak.

Ten feet off the ground.

Panting.

His feet eviscerated.

For thirty seconds, he couldn’t hear a thing over the pounding of his heart and the desperate intake of oxygen.

When he finally caught his breath, he strained to hear the sound of Ben’s footsteps.

Sweat trickled down the bridge of his nose, burning his eyes.

He clung to a fat, knobby branch with one arm and plucked a series of thorns out of the back of his leg with the other.

There it was—forty, maybe fifty feet away—brittle leaves crunching under footsteps.

Winston yelled something from the beach.

Ben was moving toward Luther’s tree now—he could hear the man forcing his way through bushes, the occasional crack of a branch breaking.

“Boy!” he yelled. “I don’t hear your footsteps anymore. You ain’t that fast, which means you’re somewhere close by, hiding behind some tree, or in some goddamn bush.”

Luther spotted him—twenty-five, thirty feet away—standing absolutely still. A bit of moonlight had wandered in through the branches and it lit Ben’s face with a pale and ghostly glow.

“I’m gonna make you a deal right now, little man. You come out from wherever you’re hiding, I won’t hurt your sister.”

Luther squeezed his eyes shut with such a fierce intensity the tears could only leak out.

“But let me tell you what I’m going to do if you ain’t standing in front of me in the next thirty seconds. I’m gonna borrow Winston’s knife—you saw it right?—and go to work on her pretty little face. You’ll hear her screams all the way from the beach.”

Ben started walking again.

The sweat on Luther’s hands made it almost impossible to grip the bark, and he had to squeeze his thighs against the steep branch to keep from sliding.

“You’re a little chickenshit, ain’t you? Run off and hide to let your family suffer alone.”

Ben stepped directly under Luther’s branch and stopped.

Luther’s chest pounded against the bark, his muscles cramping, tears and sweat stinging in his eyes.

“Ten seconds,” Ben said. “Then I’m walking back out onto the beach. Come out right now like a good little boy, I’ll spare your sister. Won’t make no other promises about nothing else, but she’ll live. I am a bad, bad man, but I ain’t no liar.”

A mosquito wailed into Luther’s ear.

He didn’t flinch.

Let it land just inside the canal. There was a brief, cutting itch, and then numbness.

“All right,” Ben said. “You’re making this decision, little man. Nobody but you. Hope it haunts you the rest of your days. You change your mind, you know where to find me. Just follow the screams.”

Ben turned and started back through the trees.

Luther craned his neck to watch him go, the man passing in and out of patches of moon-and starlight until he reached the treeline and vanished.

For a long time, Luther clung to the branch and cried.

Mosquitoes swarmed him.

He asked God to stop this from happening.

Kept shutting his eyes and opening them again, telling himself every time that it was only a nightmare. That he’d wake up in his bed on the third floor of their stone house on the sound and none of this would be real. He’d walk down the hallway into Katie’s room, crawl into bed with her and snuggle close until the after-fear was gone.

Five minutes after Ben had left him, it started.

Three voices—his mother crying, his sister screaming, his father begging.

All merging into a cacophony of grief, pain, and terror.

Luther scaled down the tree and ran.

He could barely see through the tears, the thorns in his feet sending stabs of pain up his legs.

At last, he broke out of the trees.

Saw the bonfire in the distance, flames twisting in the wind like braids of orange hair.

The sand felt better than the forest floor. It still held some warmth from a day of baking under the sun.

Luther sprinted, the noise of his family getting louder.

He collapsed at the foot of the dunes and crawled through sea grass to the top, where he lay breathless.

The bonfire raged thirty yards away.

Katie was hogtied and writhing like an earthworm, screaming incomprehensibly, Rufus right there beside her, screaming, “Please! Please! Please!” in a guttural expression of absolute horror.

Maxine didn’t make a sound.

Luther couldn’t see anything but his mother’s swollen face, and he didn’t understand what Winston was doing to her.

The man’s pants were pulled down to his knees, and he was lying on top of Luther’s mother, moving back and forth, back and forth.

Maxine wasn’t even crying.

Her eyes were wide and she looked like she was someplace else entirely.

In a daydream.

Another world.

Years later, he would catch her staring off into space with that same catatonic emptiness, and wonder if she had returned to this moment.

“Mama,” Luther whispered. “Oh, Mama.”

The man who’d chased him into the woods stood over Rufus and Katie, pointing the shotgun at them, but watching Winston and Maxine, his meaty face sweaty and smiling in the firelight.

Luther grabbed a handful of sand and squeezed, his knuckles blanching, but it didn’t do a thing to temper the fire that had begun to smolder in his belly.

Winston hit his mother in the face and told her to make some pretty noise.

Luther crying angry tears now.

His mother said something that caused him to hit her again, and this time, she cried out and made a strange noise.

Winston didn’t hit her again, just moved over her faster and faster.

Rufus said, “Close your eyes, Katie. Go someplace else.”

Ben said, “Little girl, if you close your eyes, I’ll fucking cut you out of your skin.”

Luther clambered to his feet, took two steps down the dune, and stopped.

He turned around, went back to his hiding spot.

Wept bitterly into his shirt.

If he ran down to the bonfire and tried to stop this from happening, he’d only get hurt, tied up, maybe even killed.

He was five years old.

Tiny.

Weak.

Slow.

He couldn’t stop anything.

Couldn’t save his family from these terrible men.

The complete helplessness crushed him under terror and shame—a weight he would never be rid of.

Luther looked back toward the bonfire.

Winston was on his feet now, pulling up his trousers.

“Sorry about the sloppy seconds, brother,” Winston said, taking the shotgun from Ben.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I plan on breaking new ground.”

“Excuse me?”

Ben pointed at Katie.

“Oh…all right then.”

“You son of a bitch!” Rufus cried. “She’s eight!”

Ben smiled. “That’s what I call a selling point.”

“I’ll kill you,” Rufus said.

Ben squatted down in front of Luther’s father. He cocked back his fist and swung down, hitting Rufus in the face with a blow that cracked bone.

Luther couldn’t stop himself, couldn’t just sit there and watch this happen for another second. Anything, maybe even death, would be better.

He crawled down the front side of the dune, the voices getting louder and clearer.

“Let me tell you what’s about to happen,” Ben said to Rufus. “This is your last hour of living. In that hour, you’re gonna watch me hurt your little girl. Hurt her so good. And you better watch every fucking second. And then—”

“Why?” Rufus screamed. “What have we ever done to you?”

“Didn’t you hear what Winston told you? It’s fate. All your miserable lives you been racing toward this moment. Toward this awful end. And now it’s here.”

Rufus was hysterical, blubbering. “We’re a good family. We’re decent people. We’ve never hurt anyone. Why?”

Maxine lay unmoving in the sand, and as Luther crawled closer, he wondered if she was dead.

“‘Cause we like it, you stupid fuck,” Ben seethed.

Then he stood, pulled out his pocket knife, and flicked open the blade.

Luther crawling faster and faster through the sand.

Ben stared down at Katie.

“I don’t think I got your name, sweetheart.”

Katie squirming, trying to scoot away.

Rufus said, “I’ll do anything you want. Anything. Please don’t do this to my little girl.”

“I’m Ben,” Ben said to Katie, kneeling down beside her.

Luther was twenty feet away.

Ben grabbed Katie by the back of her shirt and dragged her toward him through the sand.

He rolled Katie over onto her back, her wrists bound, arms pinned underneath her.

She was crying, and Rufus begging, and Maxine still trapped in her horrified daze.

Luther stopped.

Ten feet behind Ben.

Hidden in shadow just outside the ring of illuminated sand.

As Ben cut into the side of Katie’s yellow swimsuit, the girl began to hyperventilate.

Luther telling himself to get up, run full speed at the man, claw his eyes, hit him, just do something to make this stop—

“Ben, you hear that?” Winston said.

Ben looked up and down the length of the beach.

It took him a moment, but Luther heard it too over the constant crush of the breakers—the low rumble of an engine.

In the distance, a pair of headlights appeared, and then another.

Winston walked over to Rufus and put the barrel of the shotgun against his throat.

“Where are the keys to the truck?”

“In the ignition.”

“Maybe they won’t even stop,” Ben said.

“Maybe they fucking will. Maybe there’s a half-dozen people coming to crash the beach party. We’ll never get off this island if word gets out.”

Ben closed his knife, slipped it into his pocket. Then he scooped Katie up and threw her over his shoulder.

“No!” Rufus screamed.

“What are you doing?” Winston asked.

“Taking a little something for the road.”

The twin growl of the approaching trucks was getting louder—fifty, maybe seventy-five yards away and closing fast.

“Kill ‘em,” Ben said, stumbling toward the truck.

He dropped Katie in the bed and climbed in behind the wheel.

“No,” Winston said. “If the trucks don’t stop, we’ll come back.”

Winston rushed around to the passenger-side door as the Dodge grumbled to life.

The tires slung a stream of sand and the Dodge whipped around and sped off into the darkness like a phantom—no headlights, no taillights.

Rufus screaming after his daughter.

The oncoming trucks roared past, one on each side of the bonfire, and in that half-second of firelit illumination, Luther saw the truck beds crowded with teenagers hollering and drunk, beer bottles raised to the sky.

A midnight race down the beach.

Luther got up and started toward the bonfire.

Rufus still screaming from the bottom of his soul, “My baby girl! My baby girl!”

Maxine was coming to her feet, and when she saw Luther, she said, “Darling! You’re alive!”

He ran into his mother’s arms and she held him tight for five seconds.

Shaking.

Sobbing.

Then Maxine went over to Rufus and tore at his knots until the rope came loose.

“We have to go,” she said. “They’ll come back.”

“We can’t leave,” he said, sitting up. “Not without Kate.”

“They were going to kill all of us, Rufus. They’ll finish the job if they come back and we’re here.”

“I’m not leaving my little girl!”

Maxine stared north up the beach, the noise of the trucks steadily dwindling away.

“I’m taking Luther, and we’re going to the sheriff’s house. Stay if you want.”

Rufus stared at his wife.

“Are you okay, Max?”

He reached out to touch her face but she swatted his hand away.

“What do you think?” She took Luther by the hand. “We have to run, boy.”

From the southernmost tip of the island, they could either bushwhack through the live oaks for a mile to the village of Ocracoke, or stay on the beach for two until it lead them to the access road that joined Highway 12.

They started jogging up the beach.

“We have to go faster,” Maxine said, panting.

“I can’t go any faster, Mama.” He was crying. “My feet hurt.”

Maxine stopped and collapsed in the sand.

“I’m tired too, Luther, but we have to reach the sheriff. Do you understand what will happen if those men get on the ferry tomorrow morning with Kate?”

He shook his head.

“We’ll never see her again.” She squatted down with her back to Luther. “Get on and hold on.”

Luther climbed onto his mother’s back, and she came to her feet and started jogging again.

The trucks had long since gone.

No sound but Maxine’s bare feet pounding at the tide-smoothed sand and the endless white noise of the sea.

Luther watched the breakers and the starry sky and the dunes scrolling slowly past.

He thought about his sister, tied up in the back of the truck.

He didn’t know how long his mother had been running when she finally collapsed.

Maxine hunched over on all fours and threw up in the sand.

Luther pulled her hair out of her face.

He patted her back.

“It’s okay, Mama,” he whispered.

In the weak starlight, he could see the black blood running down the inside of his mother’s thigh.

Another image to haunt his dreams for all time.

“Are you hurt, Mama?”

“I’ll be okay. Just climb back on.”

Luther snapped back into consciousness.

His arms were draped over his mother’s shoulders, and she stood in the middle of an empty, two-lane highway, bent over and trying to catch her breath.

“Luther, you awake?”

“Yes.”

“I need you to walk for awhile.”

He slid down her back and eased his shredded feet onto the pavement.

Felt like standing on a bed of razor blades.

“How much longer?” he asked.

“Just a half mile up the road to Dom’s place.”

“Is Katie okay, you think?”

“I don’t know, son.”

Maxine started jogging and Luther followed along down the double-yellow lines.

He couldn’t stop crying and every step left a bloody footprint in his wake, but they kept on, half-jogging, half-limping, until the first buildings of Ocracoke appeared in the distance.

The driveway leading to the home of Dominick James was a long, single lane framed by live oaks dripping with Spanish moss.

When she saw the saltbox in the distance, Maxine accelerated to a sprint, Luther calling out for her, begging not to be left, but she didn’t even look back once.

Luther came to a full stop and sat in the middle of the gravel road, watching the shadow of his mother running toward the house.

He wrapped his arms around his knees.

He’d been apart from Katie before—when she’d spent the night at a friend’s house, when she started school three years ahead of him—but it had never felt like this.

Like he’d left a core, integral piece of himself behind.

Like he wasn’t Luther apart from her.

He was less than. Or some new version of himself he didn’t know or understand.

In the distance, he could hear his mother banging on the screen door, her voice shouting, echoing through the live oaks, descending back into hysterics.

Ten seconds later, the porchlight winked on.

Maxine’s legs gave out.

She was crying, screaming Katie’s name over and over.

Sheriff James stood over her in a dark-colored robe, and as he reached down and put his hand on Maxine’s shoulder, Luther heard him say, “We’ll find her, Max. We’ll find her. I promise you we’ll find her.”

The next morning, one of the half-dozen deputies sent out to scour the island found the Kite’s Dodge pick-up truck abandoned in front of the Tatum dock on Silver Lake Harbor.

The Tatum’s Island Hopper had been stolen during the night.

Thirty-six hours later, the Tatum boat was discovered beached in the swamps east of Swan Quarter, on the mainland of North Carolina.

No Winston.

No Ben.

No Katie.

The going theory was that the two convicts, now escapees from a South Carolina prison, had crossed the Pamlico Sound under cover of darkness and fled into the mainland of North Carolina.

They’d be caught, probably within the week, Sheriff James assured Rufus and Maxine as they sat in their living room like a pair of broken figurines in clothes they hadn’t changed in five days, staring at the lawman standing before them with his hat in hand and a somber intensity in his eyes that belied the optimism he was trying so desperately to sell.

Nearby, Luther crouched in the darkness under the staircase, beside the little door that led into the basement, listening to every word.

But days and weeks and months crept by.

Then years.

They didn’t find Winston and Ben.

They didn’t find Katie.

And a dark cloud came down upon the House of Kite.

The One That Stayed

Gary, Indiana, 1983

“Don’t leave,” Alex Kork said, tugging on her brother’s shoulder.

The cramped bedroom was warm, and the August heat brought a funky smell. The only light came from the bedside lamp, which was shadeless, its thirty-watt bulb making the siblings look jaundiced.

The battered, thrift-store suitcase on the bed was half-filled with meager possessions, all belonging to Charles.

A pair of jeans with a hole in the knee.

A striped necktie, ten years old and twice as wide as the fashion of the day.

Black leather dress shoes, another Good Will purchase, half a size too small.

A lonely, bent toothbrush.

Tube socks, gray from repeated washings.

Half a box of salt.

Rubber gloves.

Duct tape.

A straight razor.

A soldering iron.

A cheese grater.

Needle nose pliers.

Alex eyed the pliers and felt herself shiver, remembering the first time she and Charles had used them.

Uncertain times. Good times.

Charles smiled. His hair was a bit longer than the current trends, and the faint mustache on his teenaged upper lip reminded her of Father.

“There’s a whole wide world out there, Alex. I wanna see it. Don’t you?”

Alex did. More than anything. But she wasn’t ready yet. Charles was comfortable with himself. Unlike Father, whose every waking moment was wracked by worry and guilt, Charles owned his identity. Proudly. Unabashedly.

“I’m scared,” Alex said.

“Of what? We’re the ones people need to be scared of.”

Alex didn’t want to tell him the truth. That the thing that scared her most was herself. Of what she was capable of. This shithole town was like a cage. Small. Defined. Everyone knew everyone else. Easy to get into trouble, so Alex and Charles had to restrain themselves.

There would be no such restraint Out There.

It was an exciting thought. A sexy one. To be able to unleash their appetites on complete strangers. People who wouldn’t be missed. Who wouldn’t leave trails for the cops back to their front door.

“You want to be a mole your whole life, Alex?” Charles said. “Like Father? Or do you want to be a lion?”

They called Father a “mole” because he hid from people. Constantly caught in worry and doubt. Always self-loathing. Burying his shame and his nose in the dirt. Yes, he killed. But he spent so much time planning, and then later hating himself. He was a slave to his own urges. They owned him, when Charles insisted it should be the other way around.

In contrast, lions killed their prey out in the open, stalking and slaughtering with pride and freedom. They occupied the top of the food chain, and knew it.

“I want to be a lion, Charles. But I’m not ready yet.”

Charles stared at her, hard.

After a few seconds of silence, he nodded. “When you’re ready, look me up.”

Alex felt an urge to throw her arms around him, to kiss him, to beg him not to go. But instead she reached into the suitcase and grabbed the pliers. The tool gave her strength.

“Remember how Mother screamed when you used those on her?” Charles said.

Alex nodded. Her breath quickened, and her throat went dry. She brought the tips to her nose, but only smelled the faint traces of rubbing alcohol used to clean them. Unable to stop herself, she touched the tip of her tongue to the metal.

Cool and tangy.

“Keep ‘em,” he said.

Now Alex did hug him. So tight he grunted.

“Easy, Sis. You’re gonna break a goddamn rib.”

Alex eased off, but kept holding her brother’s hands.

“What if you get caught?” Alex said. She knew she was talking like Father, but the fear was real.

Charles smiled. “The cops will never catch me. Like that kiddie book. I’m the Gingerbread Man.”

He winked at her, then closed his suitcase and walked out of the room.

Alex fought down her sadness, but she couldn’t control her anger.

Storming through their ramshackle house, weaving through the stacks of garbage piled everywhere, she reached Father’s bedroom and threw open the door.

Father was sitting on his bed, naked, the sheets under him dotted with blood. He had a pin cushion in one hand. In the other, he held a needle, which he was sticking into his pale, flabby inner thigh.

“He’s gone,” Alex said.

Father stared at her, his eyes glassy, tears glistening in his stubble.

“I’m a sinner, Alex,” he said, voice quavering.

“Yes you are. You’re a very bad man, and you should be punished.”

Without being told, he assumed the position, getting on his knees, making a temple of his hands in some obscene parody of prayer. His back was a patchwork of old scars and new scabs.

Alex went to the cabinet, looked at all the implements, and chose a leather riding crop.

“I’m a murderer, Lord,” Father moaned. “Help me atone for my sins.”

Alex didn’t believe in God. Though part of her still feared Father, and the things he’d done to her and others, he was weak.

Their kind shouldn’t be weak. They shouldn’t be afraid or ashamed.

Their kind should rule.

But what, exactly, was their kind?

Alex had once heard a term in a movie that fit, that neatly described what she and Charles and Father were.

Serial killers.

Charles had embraced it. Father shunned it.

Alex wasn’t sure which way she’d go. But she was sure of one thing.

Hurting others was the best high in the world.

Father trembled.

Alex raised the riding crop.

The first slap of leather across flesh was exciting.

The fiftieth slap…ecstasy.

A Night at the Dinner Table

North Carolina Outer Banks, 1984

Christmas Eve.

Luther Kite watches as his mother, Maxine, carries the last casserole dish of candied yams up the staircase to the third floor cupola of the ancient house. The long table is candlelit, moonlit. Through the west wall of windows, a thin moon lacquers the sound into glossy black. Through the east wall of windows, the Atlantic gleams beyond the tangle of live oaks and yaupon. The tourists gone, the island silently twinkling, the evening is cold and glorious and more star-ridden than any night in the last three years.

Maxine sets the yams down on the tablecloth beside a platter of steaming crab cakes. Then she takes a seat at the end of the table, opposite her husband, and releases a contented sigh. “Mrs. Claus” is spelled out in rhinestones across the front of her bright red sweater.

Dressed up as Santa Claus, Rufus Kite occupies the head of the table.

At Rufus’s right sits Luther, who also wears a Santa hat, but isn’t happy about it.

“Beautiful,” Rufus says, addressing his wife, “I think I speak for everyone when I say this looks absolutely scrumptious.”

It’s a dream, Luther thinks.

But it can’t be.

Because it’s real.

Luther stares down the length of the table and sees…

Katie.

My sister.

His father called it the miracle.

Luther still remembers the flutter in his stomach when Rufus brought her home.

“We found her, son! We found her!”

Seven years older. Seven years lost.

But healthy.

And now…safe.

Fifteen and safe and finally home.

“I’d like to propose a toast,” Rufus says, raising a wineglass filled with sweet tea. “To my little girl. What it feels like to have you home again…” His eyes shimmer with tears. “…I am…at a loss to express.”

Tears are running down Katie’s cheeks, too.

They pass around the side dishes.

Luther fills his plate with raw oysters on half shells. He lifts one after another, shaking a few drops of Tabasco sauce onto the meat, and sucking it down his throat like a swallow of briny, spicy snot.

As Rufus tears into a hushpuppy, he glances at Luther, “Boy, I know it’s strange to have her back, but make her feel welcome. This is hard on her, too.”

“Katie,” Luther begins, twelve years old, and his prepubescent voice on the cusp of making the turn toward manhood. “How, um, does it feel to be home?”

She doesn’t answer.

“Tell her how much you missed her,” Rufus says.

Luther looks at his father, to Katie, then back to his father.

“Tell her!” Rufus roars, slamming a fist down on the table, silver and glassware trembling.

Luther turns back to Katie.

“Every day, I…I thought about you. I wondered if we’d ever find you.” His voice breaking. “I had forgotten what you looked like. I would think back to all the happy times, and I could remember your clothes and sometimes even your smell, but your face was always blurry.”

Luther stares across the table at his mother.

Seven years of grief have crept in and stolen away with her looks. Maxine has lost that striking softness he loved in his early years. Lost her perfect figure. Acquired those first few wrinkles near her mouth and hard edges and a gleam in her eyes that he’s learned to be wary of, to not set off.

“I don’t know what else to tell her, Mama.”

“Do you still love her?”

He nods.

“Why don’t you tell her that.”

Luther looks over at his sister, trying so hard to conjure the image of that eight-year-old girl who’d been his best friend in the most important years of his life.

Days they spent playing on the beach.

Or down on Portsmouth.

Or their favorite game of all…throwing chunks of stale bread to the cormorants who chased the ferry between Ocracoke and Hatteras.

“You were my best friend,” Luther says. “I loved you so much. Remember the time the hurricane hit and we lost power and it blew down the trees in the front yard, and we had to hide in the closet all night with the wind howling? And we pretended it was an army of ghosts trying to get us, but as long as we were in the closet, we were safe?”

“Boy,” Maxine says, “tell her you love her.”

He doesn’t want to say it, and he isn’t sure why.

Maybe because too many years have passed.

Because of the audience.

Because he’s been told to.

Because this is all very, very confusing to him.

Thinking it will be better to say it when he truly feels it. In a quiet moment when all is normal again.

“Goddamn it, Luther!”

“I love you, Katie,” he says.

“What a beautiful sentiment,” Rufus says, leveling his gaze on his daughter. “Anything you’d like to share, darling? We just laid our souls bare to you. I understand this is a difficult transition, but we always were an open family. Never held back our feelings. I happen to think that made us as strong as we were.”

Tears stream down her face.

She is visibly shaking.

“Please, Katie. Talk to us.”

The teenage girl wipes her eyes.

“I wanna go home. Please.”

“Honey,” Maxine says. “You are home.”

“Why do you keep saying that?” Katie screams.

“Katie, just listen, please—”

“That isn’t my name!”

The girl jumps to her feet and her chair topples back as she rushes past Maxine and Rufus and out of the cupola.

Her steps pounding down the squeaky staircase.

Rufus shakes his head.

“I told you,” Maxine says, “this is gonna happen every time if you don’t duct-tape them to the chair. Are the doors and windows locked?”

“No.”

“No?”

The girl’s footfalls growing faster but softer as she descends toward the first floor.

“No, Beautiful.”

“She’s gonna—”

Rufus smiles, “She isn’t going any—”

A scream explodes up out of the foyer and Luther hears something crash hard to the floor.

“OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod, oh…my….God!”

Maxine scowls at her husband.

“Rufus…what did you do?” She says it like she’s scolding a dog.

He plucks an oyster off Luther’s plate, sucks it down, and stands.

“Come see,” he says.

Luther scoots back in his chair and follows his parents out of the cupola and down the staircase.

The girl’s screams getting louder and louder as they descend.

The corridors of the House of Kite masked in shadow.

Lanterns mounted to the walls casting only the dimmest splotches of firelight on the old hardwood floors.

Every year since that day on the beach, the house had seemed to grow darker, to let a little less of the light of the world slip in.

Up ahead, Luther sees that his parents have stopped at the top of the flight of stairs leading down to the foyer.

By the light of the Christmas tree in the living room—strands of tiny, white lights—Luther sees the girl in three pieces.

Her legs below the knees still standing on the third step up from the bottom.

The rest of her crawling toward the front door, a wide puddle of blood expanding in her wake.

Rufus glances down at Luther.

Runs his hands across the boy’s head.

“Come help your old man get her stowed away?”

“Sure.”

“Make you a deal, Sweet-Sweet,” Maxine says. “You boys clean up that mess, I’ll clean the dinner table.”

“You got a deal.”

Rufus and Luther start down the steps.

The girl has gone quiet, lost consciousness.

“Now you watch yourself, son,” Rufus warns as they approach the bottom. “That string of razorwire runs over the third step up. You see it?”

Luther does.

Not the wire itself, but the blood glistening on the blades in the soft, white light of the Christmas tree.

Into the underbelly of the house, and down the dirt-floored passageways the Kites have only begun to explore, Rufus and Luther drag the girl into a musty-smelling room of old, stone walls.

“You already dug the hole?” Luther asks.

“No, I made her do it yesterday when I started to get the feeling she wasn’t going to work out. Here, help me. One…two…three.”

They swing her toward the hole and let go.

“From downtown!” Rufus says.

“What are you talking about?” Luther asks.

“Basketball? Like we just made a shot?”

“Oh.”

Rufus kicks her arms in and the one leg still hung up on the lip of the grave.

“You can finish this up, son?”

“Yes.” Luther tries to hide the sniffle.

“What’s wrong, buddy? You look sad.”

Luther wipes his eyes, nodding slowly as he stares at the other mounds of dirt that mark the three other graves. There’s only room for one more, maybe two if they make perfect use of the space.

“I miss her, Dad.”

“I know. Me, too. Tell you what. January first, we’ll take the ferry over to Hatteras and drive up the coast to Nag’s Head. Think of all the families vacationing over the holiday. Celebrating. Ringing in the New Year.” Rufus grabs the shovel leaning against the wall, puts the handle in Luther’s hand. “Look at me son. I promise you. We’ll find the perfect Katie.”

Cuckoo

North Carolina Outer Banks, 1986

“Hit him again, son.”

“Dad—”

“Right now. Hit him in the head.”

“But Dad—”

“Hit him in the head!”

Tears streaming down the boy’s face.

“What are you waiting for?”

Luther looked down at the man—bound, bleeding, gagged, his eyes begging for mercy.

He strained to raise the sixteen-pound sledgehammer.

“Hit him in the FUCKING HEAD!”

Luther hit the man in the head.

And liked it.

A Wake of Buzzards

Sublette County, Wyoming, 1991

Donaldson contemplated pulling over, but there was no place to pull over to. The desert road that ran straight off into the horizon as far as he could see was nothing more than two, faint tire tracks.

He pressed the brake pedal and eased to a gradual stop, not concerned about blocking traffic, because he hadn’t seen another car in over an hour.

The falling sun threw chevrons of red and orange over the burnt landscape, sagebrush fringed with light and glowing like they were ablaze.

A tumbleweed tumbled across the dirt road, thirty yards in front of the bumper.

Donaldson squinted at the fold-up map he’d bought at a gas station in Rock Springs, seventy miles south. He’d thought of it as a bumblefuck town at the time, but it was Manhattan compared to this.

The road he was on was represented by a faint, yellow dash—mapspeak for an unimproved piece of shit. He glanced at his odometer, attempting to judge how far he’d come, and wondering if he should turn back. Open spaces made him wary—and he’d never seen anything like this.

But the money for this particular job was good. So good, that Donaldson was suspicious about his cargo. Drugs maybe. Or guns. But he couldn’t check—they made you sign a contract upon hiring at the delivery service, attesting that you would never, under any circumstance, inspect the cargo you were delivering. A violation of customer confidence, they’d called it, or some shit he couldn’t have cared less about if there hadn’t been the implied threat of getting fired over the slightest customer complaint.

He eyed his rearview mirror, scoping the box in the back seat, sealed with yellow tape along every edge and corner to discourage tampering. It was maybe a foot long, a few inches in diameter.

He thought, for the hundredth time, about opening the box. But Donaldson liked his current gig as a courier, and didn’t want to lose it over something as stupid as curiosity. Being paid to travel was like having a license to kill folks nationwide. He knew that serial killers got caught because they left trails. But cops from different states didn’t compare notes. Hell, cops from different towns in the same state didn’t even talk to one another. Since taking the job six months ago, he’d disposed of bodies in four different time zones. No one would ever link his victims together, and Donaldson wanted to keep it that way.

Still, something about that box, and this job, was suspect. And it didn’t help matters that he’d been driving for almost four hours and still had no idea how close he was to his destination. Whatever was in that box must be worth a fortune. The delivery fee alone was almost three hundred.

He wiped his forearm across his sweaty brow—even the air conditioning couldn’t keep the desert heat at bay—and drained the dregs of lukewarm coffee from his thermos. Dispatch had instructed Donaldson to bring a jug of water in the event his car broke down, and Donaldson was beginning to realize he should have listened. Especially since he hadn’t been able to raise Dispatch since leaving Rock Springs. This place was so remote not even radio waves got through. Donaldson had considered investing in one of those cellular phones, but it probably wouldn’t have coverage way out here either. Besides, they were too big. He’d heard of a case in Chicago where a female cop escaped from a recreational killer by bashing him in the face with his own phone. Donaldson wanted to wait until the technology got better, and the phones got smaller.

He punched the gas.

The eddies of dust kicking up behind his rear tires looked like afterburners in the rays of fading sunlight. Ten more miles, and if he wasn’t there by then, he’d turn the hell around, and tell his boss the client was a no-show. Or maybe arrange for a pick-up in the nearest town. Might cut into some of the profit, but there was a little shit-kicker bar in Pinedale that Donaldson had passed through a few years ago, and he was certain he could pick up some little honey who wouldn’t be missed.

It had been three weeks since his last murder, and Donaldson was feeling the itch.

The sun was blinding in the rearview mirror.

Another scalding day in hell.

But he loved hell.

Through the windshield, he watched the Wind River range growing impossibly larger as he approached at forty-five miles per hour.

God, he couldn’t wait.

Three months ago, he’d placed the order.

Three. Long. Months.

He almost hadn’t sprung for it. $600 was half a month’s salary at Woodside College. Almost half of that was the delivery fee, due to the illegality of the contents. But this was worth it.

In the distance, he saw a cloud of dust.

That had to be his package.

Right on time, too.

He wondered how closely the delivery drivers of Failsafe Transportation were tracked.

It’d be so much fun to use what was coming on the driver. Bring him (or her) back to the shed. Getting rid of the car would be easy enough, though if the driver never showed back up for work, they’d probably trace them back to this western Wyoming desert. To his or her last delivery. But he’d paid with an anonymous money order and had used a false name. If a cop came to question him, he could simply play dumb. Say the driver never showed. But was it worth the risk? On the other hand, how often had someone actually driven themselves to him? Placed their life at his feet?

Never.

Definitely worth consideration.

Funny thing about the urge. Unlike a big meal, or even sex, where it would sustain you for a while, a good long murder session was more akin to a drug. Even though you’d just had some, you still wanted more. A better buzz. A longer high. For the party to go on and on and on.

The sun glinted off the chrome and glass of the approaching car, which was still a half mile out.

He checked his face in the mirror—still a few scratches from the previous night’s guest, but nothing too—

Shit.

He glanced down.

He’d forgotten to change, and the front of his tee-shirt was caked with day-old blood. It reeked, too, and not body odor reek.

Dead guy reek.

The sweet, rotting aroma of blood exposed to a hundred five degree heat.

He’d already driven three miles out from the cabin, but he wondered if he should go back, change into fresh clothes. Last thing he needed was to throw a red flag by smelling like decomp.

But chances were, the delivery driver had already seen him, or at least his dust trail.

Might follow him back to the cabin, and that would be a true disaster.

Fuck it.

He pulled his tee-shirt over his head and tossed it in the backseat.

He still stunk, but now it was just good old fashioned BO.

No crime in that.

When Donaldson saw the car approaching, he let his foot slide off the gas and brought his sedan to a stop. He sat for a moment, thinking.

If it’s a woman, maybe I’ll take her.

But the truth was, he wouldn’t really even have to take her anywhere. Could do her right here, out in the great wide open, under them skies of blue, just like the new Tom Petty song said. No one would hear her screams except him and the cacti.

Donaldson thought about the toolbox he had in the trunk. And the Polaroid. Supposedly the final rays of sunshine were considered the magic hour for photographers.

Donaldson had never seen how blood photographed in the twilight.

Okay, a woman, and she’s mine.

Or a man. If he’s okay-looking.

Donaldson fidgeted in his seat, watching the car approach.

Fuck it. As long as it’s human and has a pulse, I’ll take my shot.

He turned off the engine and climbed out into the blistering desert heat, patting the folding knife in his back pants pocket.

A crusty-brown Buick sped down the dirt road toward him, rocking along on its shocks.

The Buick drew closer and closer, and for a moment, Donaldson thought it wasn’t going to stop, but then he heard the sound of its tires locking up.

The car skidded to a halt, ten feet from the front bumper of his sedan.

Its engine died and a cloud of dust and dirt swept over him.

Donaldson coughed, his eyes burning, and for a moment, he couldn’t see a thing.

A car door squeaked open and slammed.

Footsteps crunched in the dirt.

The first thing Donaldson saw was a pair of snakeskin boots, coated in dust, and then a pair of well-worn Wrangler jeans.

The customer was a bare-chested, bronze-skinned man.

Late-twenties.

Muscular and slim.

A well-proportioned face with a mop of short brown hair and bangs that hung in his eyes.

Tasty, Donaldson thought.

But at the same time, an element of this man was off.

There was something—familiar—in those piercing blue eyes. The way they flicked this way and that, focusing on Donaldson, behind him, the car, the road, back to him, taking in his whole body, head to foot. Donaldson felt like he, and everything around him, was under intense scrutiny. He recognized this, because he was doing the same thing. No one in the man’s car, no one on the road behind him, no apparent weapon bulge in his jeans, just a thumb tucked into his belt near his rear pocket.

Which is how Donaldson had his hand, because it was near his knife.

The man smiled. “Find the place all right?”

“You Miller?” Donaldson asked.

“That’s what the bill says, right?”

Donaldson wasn’t sure how he knew it, but he’d bet anything that this man’s name wasn’t Miller.

Donaldson spread his feet slightly, letting his soles dig into the dirt. A defensive stance.

“So, I believe everything’s been paid for?” the man said.

“Ain’t too often I get a delivery out in the middle of nowhere.”

“Well, this is the middle of nowhere. Beautiful, don’t you think?”

Miller, or whatever his name was, had the setting sun behind him. Another thing that gnawed at Donaldson, because it was an old combat trick.

“Your package is in the back seat, if you’d like to come on over and grab it.”

Miller said, “You drove this package all the way down from Montana. Now I paid good money for this delivery. So why don’t you get it out of the backseat and bring it to me?”

He kicked the ground with his black snakeskin boots, sent a twirling, mini-tornado of dust Donaldson’s way.

Donaldson smiled. “Yes, sir, right away, sir.”

Keeping one eye on Miller, he opened the door to his back seat and snatched up the cardboard box.

“I gotta say, driving with this package for so long, I’ve been dying to know what’s in it.”

“Dying, huh?”

Donaldson bumped the door shut with his hip, reaching around and grasping the knife in his back pocket.

“Any chance you’ll tell me what it is?” Donaldson asked.

“Maybe I’ll show you.”

Donaldson walked sideways, out of the sun’s glare. “Yeah. Maybe you will.”

Five paces away, Donaldson stopped.

Letting the knife fall from his palm into his hand, he thumbed the blade open.

Miller began to laugh. Which wasn’t the response Donaldson had been anticipating.

Two seconds later, he caught the joke.

Miller held a knife, too. Folder, with a serrated blade.

Hell, it looked like the same damn model as Donaldson’s.

“So, what are you planning on doing with that knife, fat man?” Miller asked.

“I was going to cut off little bits of your face and feed them to you. You?”

“Slice your medial collateral ligaments….you know the ones behind your knees? Then take you back to my place. I’ve got a shed filled with all sorts of goodies.”

“Nice. Stop me from running?”

“Stop you from doing any fucking moving at all. What’s your name?”

“Donaldson. What’s your real name?”

The man hesitated, just for a beat, and then said, “Orson.”

“I see you got some splashes of blood on your jeans, Orson. You reek of it, too. Was that one of your ligament specials?”

“Oh, no. Just a special friend I met last week in Casper. Or what’s left of him. Why don’t you put your knife back in your pocket, maybe I’ll do the same.”

Donaldson licked his lips.

They were so dry it was like running his tongue over sandpaper.

“I’ll make you a deal. I count to three, and we both drop our knives. One…two…three.”

Neither man dropped his knife.

Both men smiled.

Faint shadows moved across the desert floor in their general vicinity, and Orson must have noticed the break in Donaldson’s attention, because he said, “Buzzards.”

Donaldson ventured a quick glance up into them skies of blue, saw two shadows with massive wingspans circling high above.

“You think they know something we don’t?” Orson grinned.

“I think you and I are experiencing some trust issues, Orson.”

“Okay. Truth. I’m wondering if it would be more fun to disable you and take you back to the shed, or whether it wouldn’t be more fun for you and I to take a road trip down to Rock Springs, pick up some young ranch hand drunk off his ass at one of the watering holes, and bring him back up here for a few days of fun and games. You got anyplace special to be in the next week?”

“I’m still wondering what’s in this box.”

“Why don’t you do the honors?”

Donaldson couldn’t help but smile.

He cut the yellow tape with his knife.

“Careful now,” Orson said.

Donaldson drew his blade slowly across the box like an artist painting the finest line on virgin canvas. The top opened easily, and he withdrew a box constructed of some dark wood—walnut perhaps—with a masterfully-crafted ivory inlay.

Staring down at it made Donaldson feel both excited and a touch apprehensive.

He played his fingers across the top.

“No wonder you had it specially delivered. Ivory is illegal.”

“It gets better. Go on. Open it.”

Orson watched as Donaldson flipped the brass hasps and slowly opened the box.

Only when Donaldson’s eyes lit up, did he charge.

Five steps covered in the blink of an eye.

Driving his shoulders into the man’s stomach, scooping him up under his fat thighs, and slamming him to the desert floor.

Orson felt the breath rush out of Donaldson as he crushed the man’s knife hand under his knee, pinning it to the ground.

Then he grabbed his brand new toy from the velvet-lined interior of the walnut box.

The knife felt exquisite in his hand.

The ivory hilt was cool, and it fit perfectly to his grasp.

He touched the pristine, unblemished blade to Donaldson’s throat.

“Carbon steel. Three millimeters thick. I’m more than a little tempted to try it out on you, fat man. Ever heard a scream in the desert? The echo goes on forever. Should I show you?”

Donaldson grunted, his face pinched. “Sweet talk like that turns me on. How much was the blade?”

“Three hundred seventy-five dollars. Plus a very reasonable shipping fee.”

“Promise me something. If you let me live, let me know where you got it. I want one.”

Orson gazed down into the man’s eyes. There was fear there, sure, shining up through the chubby cheeks and the doughy fat. But something else, too. Something unexpected.

Excitement.

Maybe even arousal.

Orson sighed.

“What?” Donaldson asked. “Either shit or get off the pot, brother.”

“I don’t know, but this feels…wrong.”

“Wrong?” Donaldson shifted his bulk, giving Orson a bit of a bounce, reminding him, incongruously, of the first time he and Andy had ridden horses.

They’d been nine.

Sweet Andy. I still miss you, brother.

“Killing my own kind,” Orson finally said, “that’s what feels wrong.” But still he pushed the blade a few microns deeper into the flesh of Donaldson’s throat, imagined that last layer of skin beginning to split under the pressure of the blade. “How many like us do you think are wandering around out there?”

“More than you’d think.”

There was a snicking sound, metallic and unmistakable.

Orson felt something spear into his bare ribs.

He grinned.

“You had a second blade. Ankle holster?”

“Smaller than the one you have right now, but enough to puncture a lung. Ever seen a lung punctured?”

“Of course.”

Donaldson’s face softened. “I love that half-gasp, half-flapping sound.”

“I love the wet, gurgling noise of someone taking a deep breath while their lungs are filling up with blood.”

“I have an idea,” Donaldson said.

“Hit me.”

“We’re never gonna trust each other.”

“True.”

“And even if we become the best friends in the world, we’d probably always want to kill each other.”

“True.”

“Maybe it’s best we go our separate ways.”

Orson considered this. “Two lions passing each other in the dark?”

“Exactly. And we both live on to kill another day.”

“Or we could cut each other to shreds. Blaze of glory and all that.” Orson winced, feeling Donaldson’s blade nick his rib cage. “But separate ways sounds cool, too. I want to still be doing this when I’m seventy.”

A line of blood had begun to bead out across Donaldson’s throat, Orson wondering how much of the fat man’s head he’d be able to cut off before his lung collapsed, and if he could then make it into town to the hospital before he bled to death.

“Count of three,” Orson said. “And we disarm.”

“That didn’t work out so well the last time.”

“Second time’s a charm. One…two…three.”

Neither man so much as flinched.

“Why don’t you be the bigger man, Donaldson, and throw your knife away first? I am the customer, after all.”

“I’m not feeling that so much. How about you go first? As a gratuity for the one who carried your new toy so many miles to its new home.”

Dust swirled around them.

Out of the corner of his eye, Orson noticed a jackrabbit racing through the sagebrush.

“It gets awful cold out here when the sun drops,” Orson said. “Coyotes come out. Can I trust you?”

“Probably not. Be a helluva way to die, getting eaten by coyotes.”

Orson eased the pressure of the blade, just a hair. “Your turn. We’ll do this in baby steps.”

Orson felt Donaldson’s blade pull away from his ribs.

Orson lifted the blade completely from the surface of his neck.

Donaldson followed suit.

And then Orson rolled off the man onto the ground and jumped to his feet. “Need a hand up?”

“I can manage.”

Orson smiled, watching Donaldson struggle onto his feet like a bloated elephant. “That was graceful.”

“Nice takedown earlier.” Donaldson widened his stance. “Want to try it again?”

“If I want to take you down, you’ll be the last motherfucker to know about it. Look, I gotta get home, and if you want to be out of this desert before nightfall, you’d better hit the road.”

Orson backed away, moving toward his car.

“Hold it, asshole.”

Orson paused.

“The knife.” Donaldson pointed at Orson’s blade. “Where’d you buy it?”

“Custom knife maker in Montana. Works out of Bozeman. Last name’s Morrell.”

Donaldson nodded.

Then he folded up both of his knives, pocketed them, and backed away toward his sedan.

Out in the desert, a coyote mourned the sun as it slipped under the horizon.

The pair of buzzards had flown on, nowhere to be seen.

As Donaldson opened his car door, Orson called out, “So what’ll you do to blow off all this steam we just built up?”

Donaldson shrugged. “Probably take it out on a hitchhiker.”

“Just be sure and watch yourself,” Orson said. “Never know who you might pick up.”

A Brood of Hens

New England, 1992

“Historians typically delineate four manifestations of the Inquisition.”

He hated this class.

“The Medieval Inquisition.”

He hated the professor.

“The Spanish Inquisition.”

But more than anything…

“The Portuguese Inquisition.”

…he hated the subject.

“And the Roman Inquisition.”

Hated history. Hated looking back on things, hated dwelling on events long-since passed and people long-since dead.

“Can anyone tell me the purpose of the Inquisition? No takers? Okay, how about you?”

He was only twenty years old, but he’d made it his life’s work to live in the present. To occupy the moment.

“Excuse me…Mr. Kite?”

Shit.

Luther looked up from his desk on the back row of Room 107 in Howard Hall.

Professor Parker had stepped out from behind the lectern to stare a hole through him from across the room. The guy was young—couldn’t have been much older than thirty—but he dressed like a crusty old coot in a beige wool suit, red bow tie, and green suspenders. Parker probably hadn’t had a moment of fun in his entire life.

“Mr. Kite? Yoo-hoo! You with us? Terribly sorry to wrench you up out of your nap, but we’ve kind of got a class going here.”

Luther cleared his throat and straightened up in his desk, felt his face growing hot with a deep, scarlet flush.

“Sorry.”

“Care to take a shot at answering my question?”

“Could you repeat the question please?”

Professor Parker smiled. “Of course. Be thrilled to. Can you tell me the purpose, the objective if you will, of the Inquisition?”

Luther hadn’t read the assigned pages. In fact, he hadn’t even cracked the book that had cost him, his parents actually, a hundred twenty dollars in the student bookstore. He hadn’t wanted to come to this stupid college in Vermont to begin with, but his father had insisted, and now, only half a semester in, he was flunking every one of his classes.

“The purpose?” Luther asked.

Parker smiled. “Yes, the purpose.”

“Um…”

“Did you read the assigned pages?”

“Not really.”

“Not really. Okay. Would you like me to answer the question for you?”

“Sure, that’d be great.”

A ripple of laughter spread through the classroom. Had he caused that? He wasn’t trying to be funny. In fact, he was fairly certain he’d never made anyone laugh in their entire life. Just wanted this moment to be over.

He didn’t like the way Parker was watching him across the room. Luther had disappointed all of his professors during his underwhelming two-month tenure at Woodside College. He knew they hated him, wanted him out of their classes, but none of them had stared at him quite like this. Maybe he was imagining things, but it was almost like Parker wanted to hurt him.

“The objective of the Inquisition, Mr. Kite,” Parker said, returning to the lectern and adjusting his gold, wire-rim glasses, “was to combat heresy, and in this regard, the Inquisition only had jurisdiction over baptized members of the Church. Maybe I’ll throw Mr. Kite a softball now. Mr. Kite?”

“Yes?”

“By what means did the Inquisition examine, interrogate, and punish heretics?”

“Um…torture?”

“Very good, Mr. Kite. Excellent. Yes, the Inquisition is perhaps best known for its sadism and unrelenting cruelty. After all, it gave us the Pear, the Garotte, the Wheel, the Spike, Punishing Shoes, Heretic’s Fork, the Boots, the Hanging Cage, Head Crusher, Judas Cradle, Iron Maiden, and that most brilliant method of inflicting revelatory, false-confession-inducing pain, the Rack.”

Luther sat just a bit straighter at his desk.

One of the jocks a few rows down raised his beefy arm.

Parker called on him.

“Is the Rack that thing where they string you up outside and leave you for the crows?”

“No, not even close.”

Parker removed his glasses and smiled at the class.

“The Rack…” He stopped himself. “Do any of you scare easily?”

Luther glanced around. No one raised their hands, but he thought he noticed a few of his female classmates shifting uncomfortably in their seats.

“No one?” Parker said. “Great. Okay, the Rack…it was a wooden frame, with rollers at both ends, one bar to which the legs were fastened, and another bar for the wrists. The heretic’s limbs were gradually pulled as tension was added to the chains connecting the bars to the rollers. This brought upon excruciating pain as the joints became dislocated. Eventually, separation occurred. Cartilage ripping. Complete muscle fiber failure. The noise of snapping bones and ligaments was often used as an intimidation device for onlooking heretics, waiting their turn on the Rack.”

Luther had been watching the horrified and sickened expressions of his classmates, loving it, but as he turned to look back toward the lectern, he saw something even better.

Parker.

My God.

He was really enjoying this.

Relishing it even.

Soaking in his students’ disgust and horror like a cool breeze.

He hated each and every one of them, and as Luther realized this, he couldn’t stop the smile that was slowly spreading across his face.

He’d misread this man completely.

He was one of the bad guys.

A Glaring of Owls

The North Carolina Outer Banks, 1993

Orson

It was early summer on the island, and the place was crawling with tourists. He hadn’t reserved a room, and since everything was booked to capacity, he’d taken to camping out on the beach out of the back of the van he’d rented two weeks ago in Rock Springs, Wyoming.

It had taken him a day to find the stone house on the sound, tucked back a few quiet streets away from the village.

The first time he’d laid eyes on it, the dark, penetrating sadness of the place had overwhelmed him.

Three stories of scarred stone.

Dark windows.

An overgrown lawn that hadn’t seen care in years.

He’d had to wait all day, hiding out in the bushes, to see the person he’d come for—that tall, pale kid with long, black hair who’d flunked out of Woodside College last fall—and it was after ten o’clock at night when Luther finally emerged.

Orson had followed him from forty yards back as his former student strolled the live oak-lined streets into the village.

Luther took a walk around the harbor, stopping once at a public dock to people-watch, before heading home again.

Hopefully this is a nightly habit, Orson thought as he headed back to his van on the beach.

Because if it was, tomorrow night, he’d take Luther.

Luther

The next evening, Luther stepped outside into the muggy night, cicadas filling the air with their incessant clicking.

He pulled his hair back into a long ponytail and started down the drive.

His father had sent him out again to try and pick up a tourist.

Last night, he’d struck out. Sure, he could’ve taken some chances, gone out on a limb, but their first rule on the rare occasions when they hunted on their own, small island, was to Take No Risks.

The downside was that visitors predominately kept to the touristy parts of the island and rarely ventured into the quieter—

He abruptly stopped walking, and a smile crept across his lips.

There was someone moving toward him thirty yards ahead. Of course it was still too dark to see, but he could bump into them, strike up a conversation, find out if they were visiting, maybe where they were staying. It was always important to check dead guests out of their motels and get their cars off the island, make sure they didn’t have any family who would stick around and ask troublesome questions.

The person was approaching, now only twenty feet away.

Tall, broad-shouldered. Definitely a man.

Not ideal, but workable.

If he didn’t bring someone home tonight, Rufus was going to yell at him again.

Or worse.

“Hello,” Luther said as the stranger approached.

The two men stopped in the middle of the street, in a dark spot out of reach of the surrounding streetlamps.

“Nice night,” the stranger said.

“Yeah, definitely. Out for a stroll?”

“Not exactly.”

Luther was about to step a little closer, see if he could tease out some info about where the man was heading, but half a breath later he was on his back, the world spinning, a bee sting pinch in the side of his neck.

“Don’t fight it, Luther,” the man said, his voice strikingly familiar as he held a hand on his chest and put his weight on it.

Luther did fight it, thrashing out his arms and legs, but a languid blackness began to seep into his peripheral vision, eventually blurring out his focus and forcing him into unconsciousness.

Orson

“I…I know you.” Luther was still doped up, his head lolling on his neck, a line of drool escaping his pale lips.

“You should,” Orson said. “You flunked out of my class.”

Luther was sitting up against a metal pole, to which he was attached by a bright and shiny length of chain. His hands were free, and he was in some sort of a shed. “You do this to all the students who flunk your class?”

Orson laughed, giving Luther a slap on the shoulder. He felt good about this one.

“Lemme ask you something. When you were approaching me on the sidewalk. Were you actually shopping?”

“Shopping?”

“I got the feeling you were sizing me up.”

Luther stayed quiet.

“You hard up for money, Luther? What were you going to do? Try and take my wallet?”

“Something like that,” Luther grunted.

“Most people I bring here look scared. Are you scared, Luther?” Orson asked.

“Of what? You? You gonna give me another of your boring lectures?”

Orson walked over to the door and pulled it open. A waft of cool, dry air swept into the shed, coupled with the spicy scent of sagebrush and something else. He grabbed the handles and headed back inside, pushing a man who’d been strapped to a wheelchair with fifty feet of barbed-wire.

“I thought I smelled blood,” Luther said.

Orson grinned. “Oh, we’re going to do the brave thing? All right. I’ll play along.” He pushed the young man into the middle of the shed.

He was naked, eyes bugging out, still stunk of alcohol.

Orson said, “This is Juanito. Six hours ago, he was drinking beers down in Rock Springs. He passed out on the bar, woke up in the parking lot. Unfortunately for our friend, I picked him up.”

Juanito’s chest started rising and falling, his stomach bulging and retracting, the barbs digging into his gut with every expansion.

Luther said, “You might want to—”

Orson quickly removed the man’s ball-gag and he spewed what must have been a gallon of sour beer onto the floor.

“Too much cerveza?” Orson asked, laughing.

The man launched into a stream of Spanish that sounded to Orson like quite a bit of begging so he jammed the ball-gag back into his mouth.

“You remember that time we went for coffee back in Vermont?”

Luther nodded.

“I thought I saw something in you then. Something in your papers, too. They were god-awful, don’t get me wrong, but I think you’ve got…potential.”

“For what?” Luther asked.

Orson smiled and pulled his Morrell knife out of a leather holster attached to his jeans.

It was a beautiful weapon. He took a moment to appreciate the view, how it felt in his hand.

He set it on the concrete floor of the shed within range of his student, and then took a step back.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Orson said. “This is a test.”

“Your tests were always too hard,” Luther said.

“Well this one is a little outside the curriculum. Go on. Pick up the knife. You should be able to reach it.”

Luther leaned forward, the chain allowing him to move four feet out from the pole.

“Pretty blade,” Luther said as he lifted it.

“Now I’m wheeling Juanito over,” Orson said, pushing the wheelchair within range. “Here’s what I’d like you to do. Get a good grip on that beautiful ivory handle and—”

Before Orson had finished his sentence, Luther sprang to his feet and thrust the blade into Juantio’s throat, twisting it so violently it cocked the man’s head at a funny angle.

The arterial spray was spectacular, and Orson was still laughing uncontrollably by the time it had diminished to an irregular spurt.

The wheelchair had rolled back after the initial blow, just out of Luther’s reach.

He was straining desperately, the knife still in his hand, to deliver another thrust.

Orson clapped as he walked back over to Luther.

“I swear I had a feeling about you,” Orson said.

“Yeah, well, it was mutual. Ever since that day in class when you lectured on the Inquisition, I thought you might have the Darkness, too.”

“The Darkness?”

“It’s what my father calls it.”

“Calls what?”

“Whatever you and I are.”

Somewhere out on the desert, a coyote yapped.

Orson was still smiling.

“Luther, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

A Murder of Crows

Indiana, 1995

Charles Kork had seen movies where a character got a flat tire and was so mad he kicked it. That had always seemed pointless and stupid until now. Staring at the shredded tire and ruined rim on his Honda Accord, Kork didn’t just want to kick the damn thing. He wanted to take out his hunting knife, stab the fucker about a hundred times, and then toss it into a bonfire while imagining its screams of agony.

And of course he didn’t have a spare, because that was currently serving as one of the front tires, which had chosen to pop a week prior. Some asshole mechanic had warned him, last oil change, that his tires were bare and constituted a hazard. It had turned out to be prophetic. While the first flat was just a slow leak, this one had been a full-force blowout at sixty miles an hour, causing him to spin the car in a complete circle before fishtailing onto the shoulder alongside the road. Lucky he didn’t flip the car.

But that wasn’t the worst part.

The worst part was that Kork had the mutilated body of a stripper in his trunk.

He kicked the tire a few times, swearing into the empty, mid-afternoon sky, and then stepped away and tried to think.

Middle of goddamn nowhere.

But he’d seen a state patrol car an hour ago. Even on lonely country roads like this, cops patrolled. Eventually, one would pull over, offer to call a tow truck.

What were the odds that he could buy a new tire without anyone knowing about the body?

Worst of all, he’d bought the car using his real name, and his goddamn fingerprints were all over it.

Kork took a deep breath, let it whistle out through his clenched teeth, watching his breath steam. He knew what he had to do. And it had to be fast, before a cop—or just as bad—some nosy motorist, stopped by with a big cornfield smile and a “got you a flat tire there, friend?”

Kork looked up and down the road. Indiana had to be the flattest fucking state in the country. He could see for miles in either direction. In all directions. He might as well have been on stage at Woodstock. Anyone coming would see him immediately.

And the fucking crows!

They were everywhere.

Circling and dive-bombing the fields. Scavenging for missed ears of corn.

So he’d better hurry.

It was a fall day. The morning had been colder than shit, a hard freeze overnight, but the sun had burned through the cloud cover and now it blazed down onto his face. He could feel the early pressure of a headache building.

Fumbling for his keys, Kork walked around the rear of the car to the trunk. He popped it, staring at the blue plastic tarpaulin, recalling all of the fun things he’d done to the whore only a few hours ago. His new favorite toy, a propane torch, lay next to the body. He’d gone through a whole fourteen ounce cylinder on the girl. It not only prompted screams so loud they made her throat bleed, but it smelled positively delicious.

Charles didn’t go there, of course. Cannibalism was for psychos. But he could admit to salivating a bit. Barbeques would be a lot more fun if the pigs and chickens were alive when you cooked them.

The same smell wafted up at him now, making him wish he’d stopped for lunch earlier. All he’d had was a few handfuls of popcorn from a jumbo bag he’d bought at a gas station last night.

Kork reached for the body, ready to lift it out, and got a pleasant shock when the bag jerked.

“Holy shit. The bitch is still alive.”

Charles had been pretty sure the whore was dead when he wrapped her up. He’d slit her throat pretty deep.

“You’re a fighter, I’ll give you that,” he said, hefting her out of the trunk and onto his shoulder. Moving quickly, he carried her ten yards into the cornfield and dropped her squirming body onto the cold, plowed earth.

He kicked at a clod of dirt, his work boot bouncing off without it budging an inch.

Frozen. Fucking frost.

Charles had a little hand shovel in his tool kit, but it wouldn’t be enough to bury a body. Especially with the ground so cold.

But leaving her exposed was just asking for trouble. He’d been planning on dumping the body in a river. Water washed away a lot of trace evidence. Creepy-crawlies nibbled at the feet and fingers. And with new DNA technology, where the cops could get a genetic fingerprint from a strand of hair or a drop of saliva, he had to be extra cautious.

Genetic fingerprint? Hell, she was probably covered with his actual fingerprints. This whore’s body was basically a billboard that read CHARLES KORK KILLED ME.

He took another quick look around, wondering what the hell he was going to do. Still no cars. Nothing but empty fields and those fucking crows.

Those fucking crows…

Jogging back to the car, Kork grabbed the bag of popcorn from the passenger seat. Plenty left. He walked out to the body and then reached down, unrolling the tarp.

The hooker looked like a slab of raw flank steak.

She twitched and moaned, obviously in shock.

Kork sprinkled the popcorn over her body.

“Dinnertime! Come and get it, you bastards!” he shouted.

He took a few steps back so he didn’t spook the birds.

The first one landed a few seconds later, attacking the popcorn.

And then something happened, prompting Kork to smile.

The crow’s beak began to stab down faster and faster.

Ravenously.

Because it had realized that there was something even tastier under the popcorn.

Soon, the whore’s body was covered in a thick blanket of crows, flapping and squawking and peck-peck-pecking away all the physical evidence.

Kork was still watching, still smiling, when a car came into view about a mile up the road.

Grabbing the tarp, he hurried back to his Honda and locked the blood-stained covering back in the trunk.

He looked at the crows, still feasting. While they were doing the intended job, they were also quite the spectacle, impossible to miss.

Kork felt even more exposed than he had earlier.

He squinted at the approaching vehicle, wondering if he should go for the gun he kept in the glove compartment. The car was a sedan, white. Possibly a cop.

If it was a cop, he’d have no choice. Have to take him out. But there was no damn place to run to. Killing a pig would lead to a nationwide manhunt. Maybe just taking him hostage would be smarter. But even then, Kork would have to leave his car behind. His car, in his name, covered in his fingerprints.

Why did killing a whore have to be so goddamn hard?

Kork went for the gun, checked the clip, and held it alongside his body, keeping his arm straight down.

The sedan was slowing.

Kork shot a nervous glance back at the crows, saw a glimpse of pink.

That damn whore was holding up her arm, trying to wave.

Fuck! Die already, you stupid bitch!

The car continued to slow.

It wasn’t a cop. No cop drives a Lexus.

Still, Kork couldn’t kill them. It would lead back to him. But what choice did he have if they saw the whore?

Even though it was a chilly autumn afternoon, Kork wiped some sweat off his brow.

Come on, keep going, keep going you nosy fucker. Nothing to see here.

But it rolled to a stop, fifty yards away.

For what seemed an eternity, no one got out.

Kork squinted to catch a glimpse inside, but the windows had a slight tint, making it impossible to see the driver.

He glanced back at the crows, squawking and fighting over their afternoon meal.

Looked back toward the car.

Still no movement there.

Had they seen the crows? They must have. The air was thick with them now, as if they could communicate by telepathy and were calling in their siblings, cousins, and buddies from out of state to join in the hooker feast.

Kork gave a short wave and a nod to tell them he was fine, everything fine, I don’t need any help, and then started for his driver-side door. He would need a ride, eventually, but maybe the time for that ride would be when two hundred crows weren’t devouring a half-dead whore ten yards away.

He opened the door and climbed in behind the wheel.

All’s well here, feel free to move right the fuck along.

Kork checked the rearview mirror.

Goddamn it.

Now the front passenger-and driver-side doors of the Lexus were swinging open, two men stepping out.

One was tall and thin, wearing bib overalls. His lanky hair hung over his gaunt, pale features like a black spiderweb. The other was shorter, muscular, tanned the color of old leather. Or maybe he just looked tan in comparison to his partner, who was paler than a newborn baby’s ass.

What do I do? Wait for them to approach? Meet them halfway?

He jerked his eyes back at the crows. The whore was waving both arms now, and above the cacophony of caws and squawks, Kork thought he heard a thin, keening wail.

Fuck, fuck fuck….people always died too soon. He was always losing control, accidentally killing them prematurely. Who the fuck was this whore? Superwoman?

Kork didn’t have to jack a round into the chamber of his .45—there was always one in the chamber. He thumbed off the safety and exited his car, keeping the gun behind him.

An outrageous thought entered his head: killing these two, dragging them to the crows, then another car coming by, and another, until there were fifty cars parked along the shoulder and a giant pile of corpses in the field.

“Got a tow truck coming,” he said, not bothering to be friendly. “Don’t need any help.”

“Did we offer any?” the shorter man said. He was grinning.

They stopped on the shoulder, fifteen feet apart. Kork glanced back—no cars coming at the moment.

“Got yourself a right fine murder there,” said the tan man.

Kork raised an eyebrow, his heart skipping a beat. “Excuse me?”

“Crows. Group of crows is called a murder. There are lots of strange names for bird groups. An unkindness of ravens. A pitying of turtle doves. A watch of—”

Kork raised his weapon, pointing it at the talkative one. “So what do they call a group of two dead assholes?”

This inexplicably widened the tan man’s smile.

“You think this is a fucking game?” Kork asked.

The younger, paler of the duo stared at the crows with obvious interest.

“What are they eating?” he asked.

“Hey! Dipshit! I’m pointing a fucking gun at you, too. That’s more important than a flock of goddamn crows.”

“Murder,” the tan one said. “Not a flock. And I’m curious too.”

The tan man’s eyebrows suddenly arched.

“Uh oh. You see that?” the tan guy elbowed his friend and pointed down the road. “Can’t hear it over the crows, but I think that glint is the sun reflecting off an approaching car. He should definitely shoot us right now.”

Kork fought the urge to turn around and look. There was too much happening at once, too much to process. He needed time to think…

Then an idea came to him.

Kork wasn’t exactly a sharpshooter, but he could damn sure put a few rounds center mass into both of these clowns. Let the crows have them. Then maybe he could start his own car on fire to eliminate the evidence, and take theirs. It was nicer anyway.

Yeah, that was a plan. A good plan. Once the other car passed, he’d make it happen.

But what if it didn’t pass? What if it stopped like these two assholes?

“He might have time to drag us back behind our car before the next car passes,” the tan guy went on. “I figure he’s got about twenty seconds. No big deal if he doesn’t make it. I’m sure whoever drives by has seen plenty of dead bodies being dragged off the side of the shoulder. Probably speed right on by. Hell, I would. Unless…”

Why was the tan guy smiling now?

“Yep….unless it’s a police car. Like the one coming up behind him.”

“Bullshit,” Kork said.

“Might be smart to lower that .45.”

The tall, pale one slipped a hand into his jacket. The tan one had his thumb hooked into the back pocket of his blue jeans.

Kork wanted to look back over his shoulder, wanted to badly, but these guys were too calm, too odd, and he refused to take his eyes off them. They could easily both be packing.

“I’m really not kidding,” the mouthy one said. “Put the fucking gun down or it’s going to be bad for all of us.”

Kork didn’t like being told what to do, and his finger tightened on the trigger. But something in the tan man’s voice, something in his eyes, reminded Charles of Father. Not Father when he was crying, simpering, begging for forgiveness while Kork or his sister Alex beat him with belts and whips. But Father when the darkness overcame him, when he’d checked his conscience at the door and lived to cause pain, when he was the most frightening creature to ever walk the earth.

Kork lowered the gun, tucking it into the back of his pants.

He turned and looked down the road.

Holy shit. It was a cop car approaching.

When Charles looked back at the two men, they were already walking toward him.

“Get the fuck back! What are you doing?”

“I’m thinking it might be smart to pretend we’re changing your tire.”

The noise of the cop car’s engine was loud as hell now—he could actually hear it over the birds—and the two men were standing right in front of him. The tan one knelt down by the left rear tire and glared at Charles. “Let me do the talking. You seem to have some temper issues that could escalate the situation.”

“Fuck you! No, I don’t!”

“He might pass right on by,” the pale one said.

They all looked at the approaching car now.

It was definitely slowing down, but nothing strange about that. Everyone slowed down to look at a broken-down car on the side of the road. Even cops.

Then its light bar lit up, flashing blue and red.

The cop crossed over the yellow line and pulled onto the shoulder in front of Kork’s Honda, its tires crunching over the gravel.

Kork saw him get on his mike, no doubt calling in his plates.

Fuck fuck fuck.

“Keep calm,” said the tan one. “You aren’t the only one with things to hide. We don’t want this cop to stop any more than you do. So let me do the fucking talking, or we’re all going to be screwed.”

The cruiser was a Crown Vic, and as the trooper swung open his door, Kork could see the blue and white Indiana State Police logo emblazoned on the black paint of the door.

The trooper must have been six-five. He was corn-stalk thin. A miracle he could even fit in the cruiser. He wore blue pants, a long-sleeved black button-up, and a straight-brimmed hat that hid the color of his close-cropped hair.

He strode up to the driver-side door of Charles’s car, his attention divided between the three men near the flat tire and the veritable swarm of crows just off the road. His right hand rested on his holster, the leather safety snap already unbuttoned for a quick draw.

“Afternoon, Officer,” said the tan one.

The officer stared at them through a pair of reflective Ray-Bans. “Everything okay, sir?” he asked.

“Just getting a workout, changing this flat.” The tan one patted the shredded rubber.

“Is this your car, sir?”

“No, Officer. We’re just being good Samaritans. Helping out a fellow traveler in need.”

“It’s my car,” Charles said. He felt ready to jump out of his skin, and fought not to pull his piece and fucking shoot all of these assholes.

“You’re lucky these gentlemen stopped to give you a—”

His voice trailed off, the trooper’s attention once again distracted by what was happening in the field.

The crows were screaming bloody murder.

“You ever see so many crows in one place?” he asked.

“Damnedest thing, ain’t it?” said the tan one. “We checked it out before you came. Dead coyote. They’re having a good, old chowdown on the poor critter.”

The trooper smiled—a flash of perfect, straight-white teeth. “It’s like that Hitchcock movie,” he said. “God, I can’t remember the name of it. You know the one I’m talking about. All these birds go crazy and start killing people.”

“Psycho?” the pale one said. “Loved that one.”

“What’s your name, sir?” the trooper asked the pale one.

The immortal whore was waving an arm again, and Kork could swear he heard her screaming, but it was almost impossible to pick out amid the cries of the feasting crows.

“I’m Luther,” said the pale one. “That’s Orson.”

“So that must make you Charles Kork.”

Kork panicked for a split-second, then realized the cop must have gotten his name from his license plates.

“Yeah.”

“You staying out of trouble, Mr. Kork?”

“Doing my best,” Kork said through clenched teeth. The gun pressing into the small of his back felt enormous, and he ached to pull it out and start shooting.

The trooper said, “Well, that’s all we can do, brother. Our best. Lord knows.”

He looked over at the crows again and tugged his sunglasses down, squinting in the afternoon light. The field seemed to stretch on forever. Silos loomed several miles away and the sweet, rotting scent of a dairy farm was on the breeze.

“A coyote?” he said finally. “No, that looks too big to be a coyote.” Then he turned and walked around to the front of the Accord, shielding his eyes from the sun as he gazed with a heightened intensity into the field.

Charles felt the moment slipping out of his control, a mad rage building inside his head, a sound like white noise getting louder and louder, demanding an explosion of violence.

The trooper said, “Could it be a dog?”

“Looked like a coyote to us,” Orson said.

“If it’s a dog, maybe I should check the tags. Could be someone’s pet.”

The trooper had begun to walk off the shoulder into the field.

Charles looked at Orson, who gave him a little nod. Charles reached back, put his hand on the .45.

The trooper walked ten steps into the field and stopped.

He stood just a short distance back from the crows, so many of them now that Charles could only see fleeting glimpses of the purple and red underneath.

The trooper unholstered his firearm

What the fuck?

Raised it toward the sun and fired a shot.

The crows dispersed in a riot of squawking and flapping, like a black cloud rising into the sky.

Orson walked around to the front of the car, motioning for Charles to follow.

The trooper stood with his back to them, staring down at what the crows had left.

He was shaking his head, saying, “That is positively the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen.”

Kork stared, too.

The whore was unrecognizable as anything human. Especially with her insides pulled out and strewn over the cornfield like a massacred piñata.

But she must’ve been delicious.

Because almost as quickly as they’d fled, the crows descended upon their meal again, blanketing the body in an instant.

“If you want to go hunting through that mess for a dog collar, you’re a braver man than I am,” Orson said.

The trooper looked indecisive, chewing his bottom lip.

Radio chatter squeaked through the mike on the trooper’s lapel.

He tucked his chin into his collarbone, said, “Roger that.”

The cop turned and headed back toward his car. “You need me to call a tow truck for you, Mr. Kork?”

“I think we got it under control, Officer.”

“Then you gentlemen have a good day.”

Kork watched the trooper climb into his cruiser and crank the engine.

It whipped around in a one-eighty, slinging dust and gravel, and then the tires bit into the pavement and it screamed off down the road, the deepest tones of the turbo-charged V8 audible long after the car had disappeared from view.

Orson smiled at Kork.

“Well played. So, Charles, why don’t you tell us about the coyote out there in the field. The one with the human arms and legs.”

Kork pulled the .45, pointing it at Orson’s face.

Simultaneously, Luther pulled a gun of his own.

“I’ll bet,” Orson said, “that when you were a kid, you were the type of little shit who played in his own corner of the sandbox and didn’t share his toys with anyone. Am I getting warm?”

Kork didn’t like having a gun pointed at him, but it did have the effect of capping his boiling temper. “Who the fuck are you?”

“We’re just a couple of guys heading to a mystery book convention in Indianapolis. Looking for a little fun on the way. To be honest, we were kind of hoping your name was Ben. Because we have Ben’s partner in the trunk.”

Kork couldn’t tell if Orson was kidding or not. The man was seriously hard to read. “You’ve got a man in your trunk?”

“Well, I’m not sitting him in the back seat where he’ll bloody up the leather.”

“You’re bullshitting me.”

Orson raised an index finger and drew an X across his chest. “Cross my heart. Winston and Ben were a couple of predators. Like Luther and I. And like you, judging from the corpse in the field. Only they made the mistake of hurting Luther and his family when he was a kid. So now Luther’s exacting a bit of well-deserved revenge.”

A faint smile curled across Charles’s mouth. “Prove it.”

Orson nodded to Luther, who walked to the rear of the Lexus.

“Keys,” Luther said.

Orson slowly took a key ring out of his pants and tossed it to the pale man. Luther caught the keys and tucked the gun away. Kork walked over, covering Orson, who had his hands at his sides.

Luther popped open the trunk.

“Fuck me,” Kork said.

Inside the compartment lay a man, completely naked, his body wrapped tightly in cellophane, all except for his head. His lips bulged wide around a ball-gag. He was older, in his fifties, white and hairy. His green eyes were wide with fear.

“Think those crows are still hungry?” Luther said, his mouth twitching.

Kork lowered his gun. He wondered what the chances were of running into these two kindred spirits in the middle of Indiana. Then again, he’d heard that the FBI estimated there could be as many as five hundred active serial killers in the U.S., so maybe the odds weren’t as high as he might have guessed.

Luther walked around to the rear passenger door on the shoulder-side of the Lexus and pulled it open. He fumbled around for a moment inside, and then returned to the trunk.

“You want in on this, Kork?” Luther asked.

Kork was staring at the wide-eyed man, thinking that aside from wrapping him in cellophane, it didn’t appear that they’d so much as laid a finger on him yet.

Fresh, untouched meat.

“Kork?”

“Yeah. For sure. You guys planning on doing him right now? Right here?”

“That’s up to Luther. I know he’s been itching to get to it ever since we picked Winston up in Gary.” Orson looked at Luther. “Luther, you sure you’re all right with bringing him in on this?”

Luther stared at Charles. He had eyes like black pits.

“As long as he shuts the fuck up, and doesn’t do anything until he’s offered the chance.”

“Charles?” Orson asked. “You cool with that?”

Kork had killed many people on his own, but the ones that were most memorable, and the most fun, were the ones he did with his sister, Alex. Orson had nailed it when he said Charles didn’t like to share. But with murder, it was different. Sharing made it more exciting.

“So when you pulled over to help me,” Kork said, “were you thinking I’d wind up in your trunk as well?”

“It crossed our minds,” Orson said. “We hate to pass up low-hanging fruit. How about that body in the field?”

“Blow torch versus whore.”

“I thought I caught a whiff of BBQ in the air. So do you want to join in the fun?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.”

Luther seemed distracted. He was kneeling against the back bumper, leaning over the terrified man wrapped in plastic, staring down into his eyes with a brutal, predatory intensity.

“What you did to my family,” Luther whispered. “To my sister…” He pulled something out of his pocket. “…is something you’re going to pay for with more pain than anyone could endure.”

“What’s he doing?” Kork asked.

“Just give him a moment,” Orson said.

Luther’s face was inches from the man in plastic. “You killed my sister, didn’t you?”

The man wildly shook his head.

“No? So you deny it?”

Wild nodding.

“That just made it worse for you.”

Now Luther held up whatever he’d taken out of his pocket—a small, metal cylinder with six tiny blades on the end.

“This is called an artificial leech. Old-school medical instrument. It’s for poking holes in skin.”

Orson put a hand on Luther’s shoulder. “Not in the trunk.”

“Help me get him…Winston…out.”

The two men wrestled the package from the trunk, one at the head, the other at the feet. Charles joined in, cinching an arm around the wiggling man’s waste. He was screaming around his ball gag, and Kork felt himself becoming aroused.

They set him down on the shoulder-side of the car, and Luther sat on top of him.

“Look at me, Green Eyes,” he said. “I still dream about your eyes, about your friend walking up the beach at night toward our bonfire. You’re going to tell me the truth. Do you understand that?”

Frantic nodding.

“If I take out your gag, you’ll tell me the truth?”

Nodding.

“And do you know what will happen if you tell me the truth?”

Shaking.

“I’ll let you go. I just want to hear you say what happened to my sister. I never saw her again, never heard from her again after that night you and Ben came along and destroyed my family. I just want to know what you did to her. Are you ready?”

The man nodded.

Luther reached around behind his head and unstrapped the ball-gag.

Winston’s chest rising and falling.

The man’s gray hair slicked back with sweat.

“Please,” he said, “please don’t do this—”

Luther silenced him by simply holding up a finger.

“I don’t want to hear a single word come out of your mouth except for your explanation of what happened to my Katie.”

“Katie?”

Kork saw Luther shut his eyes for a moment, then open them again.

“Winston, this is your last chance. Then I’m going to stick you with this artificial leech about five thousand times and feed you to the crows.”

“Just tell me what it is you want me to say. I’ll say it. I’ll say anything.”

The wind was whipping Luther’s long, black hair around his face.

He tucked it back behind his ears.

“What did you do to my sister?”

“I…I…I’m sorry.”

“Where is her body?”

“It’s…I don’t know.”

“You don’t remember?”

“No.”

“Did you kill her?”

Tears streamed out of the man’s eyes.

“Did you kill her, Winston? Tell me you killed her and how you did it, and I won’t kill you.”

“I…I did it.”

“You did. Okay. How?”

“With um…with a knife.”

“You killed my eight-year-old sister with a knife?”

He nodded.

“Did you rape her first, Winston?”

“I…”

“Like you raped my mother. Tell me if you raped her before you killed her.”

“No…I didn’t…”

“You didn’t rape my sister? Or my mother? Because I saw you, Winston. I watched you do it. Don’t you fucking lie to me.”

“If I tell you…admit…that I raped her, you won’t kill me?”

“That’s right. I won’t kill you.”

“Yes,” Winston said. “I did it.”

“Do you know where Ben is?”

“Ben?”

“You’re partner. Tell me where Ben is.”

“I…I don’t know…”

Luther sighed. He pinched the man’s cheeks together and jammed the ball-gag into his mouth and snapped it back into place around his skull.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Luther said, “but I didn’t lie. I have no intention of killing you. I’ll let the crows take care of that. But first, we have to let them know there’s something yummy inside of you.”

The man was still trying to speak through the ball when Luther stabbed him with the artificial leech. Blood appeared beneath the plastic and the man screamed through his gag, the sound racing out across the cornfield.

“All you had to say was the truth,” Luther said, and he stuck him again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

Andagainandagainandagainandagainandagainandagainandagainandagainandagainandagainandagainandagainandagainandagainandagainandagainandagainandagainandagainandagainandagainandagainandagainandagainandagainandagainandagainandagainandagainandagain…losing control, wild stabbing thrusts, until sweat poured down his face.

Orson grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him back.

Luther was crying.

He wiped his eyes, breathless, screamed, “That son of a bitch took everything from me.”

“I know,” Orson said. “I know.” The man was screaming and choking under the gag, blood leaking through the puncture holes in the plastic onto the pavement. “But let’s give our new friend a turn.”

By this time, Kork was fully aroused, and he didn’t even bother hiding it.

The tiny sting of embarrassment overwhelmed by his urge, his need.

“Would you like some private time with Winston, Charles? We could cut away the plastic if you want to have a go at it. Turnabout is fair play, they say.”

“Don’t need you to take off the plastic.” Charles removed a folding knife and placed it above Winston’s flabby stomach, looking for a spot where he could cut deep. “I can make my own hole.”

“This must be like the best day ever to be a crow in Indiana,” Orson said.

There were at least four hundred birds perched on top of Winston, who had finally stopped struggling after an hour of being dined upon.

Several cars had driven by in the interim, and a few had even slowed down.

But no one stopped.

The sun was already halfway between its apex and the horizon, and the first hint of the hard freeze that was coming nipped at the tips of Orson’s ears. He and Charles were sitting on the shoulder, leaning against the Lexus, watching the show.

Luther sat out in the cornfield, just a few feet away from the hungry birds, absolutely still save for his black mane of hair that the wind was blowing back behind his shoulders.

He looked like some terrible scarecrow.

“So your buddy finally got his long-awaited revenge,” Kork said. “How did you find old Winston after all this time? You said Luther’s family was attacked, what? Almost twenty years ago?”

Orson grinned mischievously. “Want to hear a secret?”

“Sure.”

“That man out in the field? He’s the fourth Winston we’ve found in the last two months. Whenever Luther sees a man with green eyes, he sees Winston again.”

Kork laughed. “So that poor fucker wasn’t Winston?”

“Nope. Just some poor fucker. Winston’s partner, Ben, was short and stocky. We’ve killed a few short and stocky guys, too. It’s all a healing process, and I’m doing what I can to help.”

“You mind giving me a ride to the nearest gas station? Still gotta get my car fixed.”

“Of course. We wouldn’t leave a fellow traveler stranded. Birds of a feather, and all that.”

“It’s been good meeting you, Orson. Maybe we’ll bump into each other again sometime.”

“It’s a small world, Charles. Anything can happen.”

The One That Got Away

Hinsdale, Illinois, 2001

-1-

“You’re fucking kidding me.” Alex Kork crossed her arms, unable to believe the words that had just breached her brother’s lips.

Charles Kork’s mouth formed a thin, colorless line, making him look like Father.

“Tell me you’re joking,” Alex demanded.

“You’re being an asshole,” Charles said. “I need your support on this.”

“I’m being an asshole? Are you serious? You’re fucking getting married, for chrissakes.”

Alex turned away. The anger raging inside her was quickly being overtaken by another, more frightening emotion. Fear.

“It doesn’t change anything between us.” Charles put a hand on her shoulder, which she quickly shrugged off.

“Do you love her?” Alex asked, surprised by the tremor in her voice. She couldn’t comprehend even asking him that question.

“Of course not. It’s a disguise. So I don’t draw attention. I don’t want to go to jail again, and with all the crazy shit we’ve been doing—”

Alex spun around, jabbing a finger into her brother’s chest. “Don’t fucking drag me into this. You’re not doing this to protect me.”

“Then let’s do it at your place next time. You take the risk.”

Alex felt mad enough to spit in his face. “Laws? You’re getting married because you’re afraid of breaking some goddamn laws? What we have, Charles, is a lot bigger than any law. We have something special…”

“I know,” Charles said, looking grim. “And I don’t want that to end. But I also don’t want to get caught.”

“So instead, we’re going to do it in your house, with your wife home?”

“She’s an airhead. She won’t ever suspect a thing.”

Alex searched her brother’s dark, pitiless eyes. She wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe that things could go on just like they had been.

But deep down she knew the world wasn’t suited for people like them. They were brother and sister, and the things they did together not only broke the law, but also caused knee-jerk revulsion in the majority of the population.

That shouldn’t matter though. Alex knew, fucking knew, she and Charles were above the rest of the world. Better than they were. Stronger. Superior in every way.

And now he wanted to hide that superiority in a cloak of normalcy.

“What’s next?” she asked, bitterly. “You going to knock the bitch up?”

“Can we discuss this later? Let’s just go downstairs and—”

“You think I’m just going to forget this and go downstairs with you? Are you crazy?”

“Why not? Things don’t have to change, Alex. Maybe we won’t be able to do this as much, but we won’t ever have to stop.”

Alex shook her head. “You’re an asshole.”

“Come on.” He reached out, stroking her arm. “We’ve got the rest of the night. Let’s have some fun, forget all of this.”

Alex pulled away, refusing to cry. “I’m leaving. You can go downstairs by yourself. Have fun with your whore.”

Then she got the hell out of there.

-2—

A steel crossbeam, flaking brown paint.

Stained PVC pipes.

White and green wires hanging on nails.

What she sees.

Moni blinks, yawns, tries to turn onto her side.

Can’t.

The memory comes, jolting.

Rainy, after midnight, huddling under an overpass. Trying to keep warm in hot pants and a halter top. Rent money overdue. Not a single john in sight.

When the first car stopped, Moni would have tricked for free just to get inside and warm up.

Didn’t have to, though. The guy flashed a big roll of twenties. Talked smooth, educated. Smiled a lot.

But there was something wrong with his eyes. Something dead.

Freak eyes.

Moni didn’t do freaks. She’d made the mistake once, got hurt bad. Freaks weren’t out for sex. They were out for pain. And Moni, bad as she needed money, wasn’t going to take a beating for it.

She reached around, felt for the door handle to get out.

No handle.

Mace in her tiny purse, buried in condoms. She reached for it, but the needle found her arm and then everything went blurry.

And now…

Moni blinks, tries to clear her head. The floor under her is cold. Concrete.

She’s in a basement. Staring up at the unfinished ceiling.

Moni tries to sit up, but her arms don’t move. They’re bound with twine, bound to steel rods set into the floor. She raises her head, sees her feet are also tied, legs apart.

Her clothes are gone.

Moni feels a scream building inside her, forces it back down. Forces herself to think.

She takes in her surroundings. It’s bright, brighter than a basement should be. Two big lights on stands point down at her.

Between them is a tripod. A camcorder.

Next to the tripod, a table. Moni can see several knives on top. A hammer. A drill. A blowtorch. A cleaver.

The cleaver is caked with little brown bits, and something else.

Hair. Long, pink hair.

Moni screams.

Charlene has long pink hair. Charlene, who’s been missing for a week.

Street talk was she’d gone straight, quit the life.

Street talk was wrong.

Moni screams until her lungs burn. Until her throat is raw. She twists and pulls and yanks, crying to get free, panic overriding the pain of the twine rubbing her wrists raw.

The twine doesn’t budge.

Moni leans to the right, stretching her neck, trying to reach the twine with her teeth.

Not even close. But as she tries, she notices the stains on the floor beneath her. Sticky brown stains that smell like meat gone bad.

Charlene’s blood.

Moni’s breath catches. Her gaze drifts to the table again, even though she doesn’t want to look, doesn’t want to see what this freak is going to use on her.

“I’m dead,” she thinks. “And it’s gonna be bad.”

Moni doesn’t like herself. Hasn’t for a while. It’s tough to find self-respect when one does the things she does for money. But even though she ruined her life with drugs, even though she hates the twenty-dollar-a-pop whore she’s become, Moni doesn’t want to die.

Not yet.

And not like this.

Moni closes her eyes. She breathes in. Breathes out. Wills her muscles to relax.

“I hope you didn’t pass out.”

Every muscle in Moni’s body contracts in shock. The freak is looking down at her, smiling.

He’d been standing right behind Moni the whole time. Out of her line of sight.

“Please let me go.”

His laugh is an evil thing. She knows, looking at his eyes, he won’t cut her free until her heart has stopped.

“Keep begging. I like it. I like the begging almost as much as I like the screaming.”

He walks around her, over to the table. Takes his time fondling his tools.

“What should we start with? I’ll let you pick.”

Moni doesn’t answer. She thinks back to when she was a child, before all of the bad stuff in her life happened, before hope was just another four-letter word. She remembers the little girl she used to be, bright and full of energy, wanting to grow up and be a lawyer like all of those fancy-dressed women on TV.

“If I get through this,” Moni promises God, “I’ll quit the street and go back to school. I swear.”

“Are you praying?” The freak grins. He’s got the blowtorch in his hand. “God doesn’t answer prayers here.”

He fiddles with the camcorder, then kneels between her open legs. The torch ignites with the strike of a match. It’s the shape of a small fire extinguisher. The blue flame shooting from the nozzle hisses like a leaky tire.

“I won’t lie to you. This is going to hurt. A lot. But it smells delicious. Just like cooking bacon.”

Moni wonders how she can possibly brace herself for the oncoming pain, and realizes that she can’t. There’s nothing she can do. All of the mistakes, all of the bad choices, have led up to this sick final moment in her life, being burned alive in some psycho’s basement.

She clenches her teeth, squeezes her eyes shut.

A bell chimes.

“Dammit.”

The freak pauses, the flame a foot away from her thighs.

The bell chimes again. A doorbell, coming from upstairs.

Moni begins to cry out, but he guesses her intent, bringing his fist down hard onto her face.

Moni sees blurry motes, tastes blood. A moment later he’s shoving something in her mouth. Her halter top, wedging it in so far it sticks to the back of her throat.

“Be right back, bitch. The FedEx guy is bringing me something for you.”

The freak walks off, up the stairs, out of sight.

Moni tries to scream, choking on the cloth. She shakes and pulls and bucks but there’s no release from the twine and the gag won’t come out and any second he’ll be coming back down the stairs to use that awful blowtorch…

The blowtorch.

Moni stops struggling. Listens for the hissing sound.

It’s behind her.

She twists, cranes her neck around, sees the torch sitting on the floor only a few inches from her head.

It’s still on.

Moni scoots her body toward it. Strains against the ropes. Stretches her limbs to the limit.

The top of her head touches the steel canister.

Moni’s unsure of how much time she has, unsure if this will work, knowing she has less than a one-in-a-zillion chance but she has to try something and maybe dear god just maybe this will work.

She cocks her head back and snaps it against the blowtorch. The torch teeters, falls onto its side, and begins a slow, agonizing roll over to her right hand.

“Please,” Moni begs the universe. “Please.”

The torch rolls close—too close—the flame brushing Moni’s arm and the horrible heat singeing hair and burning skin.

Moni screams into her gag, jerks her elbow, tries to force the searing flame closer to the rope.

The pain blinds her, takes her to a place beyond sensation, where her only thought, her only goal, is to make it stop make it stop MAKE IT STOP!

Her arm is suddenly loose.

Moni grabs the blowtorch, ignoring the burning twine that’s still wrapped tightly around her wrist. She points the flame at her left hand, severs the rope. Then her feet.

She’s free!

No time to dress. No time to hide. Up the stairs, two at a time, ready to dive out of a window naked and screaming and—

“What the hell?”

The freak is at the top of the stairs, pulling a wicked-looking hunting knife out of a cardboard box. He notices Moni and confusion registers on his face.

It quickly morphs into rage.

Moni doesn’t hesitate, bringing the blowtorch around, swinging it like a club, connecting hard with the side of the freak’s head, and then he’s falling forward, past her, arms pinwheeling as he dives face-first into the stairs.

Moni continues to run, up into the house, looking left and right, finding the front door, reaching for the knob…

And pauses.

The freak took a hard fall, but he might still be alive.

There will be other girls. Other girls in his basement.

Girls like Charlene.

Cops don’t help whores. Cops don’t care.

But Moni does.

Next to the front door is the living room. A couch. Curtains. A throw rug.

Moni picks up the rug, wraps it around her body. Using the torch, she sets the couch ablaze, the curtains on fire, before throwing it onto the floor and running out into the street.

It’s early morning. The sidewalk is cold under her bare feet. She’s shaken, and her burned arm throbs, but she feels lighter than air.

A car stops.

A john, cruising. Rolls down the window and asks if she’s for sale.

“Not anymore,” Moni says.

She walks away, not looking back.

An Unkindness of Ravens

Gary, Indiana, 2003

Javier Estrada

Javier had been transporting a package west out of Pennsylvania en route to meet his drop-off in Boise—a fat-assed trucker named Jonathan—when he started seeing the billboard advertisements.

The early ones, those just over the Indiana state line, were vague.

GOT BABGAKS?

By Richmond, the billboards were advising him to….

GET BABGAKS!

…and he was becoming angry—some bullshit American marketing scheme. All this fucking country did was try to sell you shit.

But by the time he reached the west side of Greenfield, the acronym had revealed itself, literally:

BABGAKS = BULLETS AND BABES GUN AND KNIFE SHOW

Jav’s anger melted, just a tad.

A gun show.

Hmmm.

In theory, he hated them. Or rather, he hated the people who attended them. Small-dicked redneck pieces of shit who had no concept of the beauty and function of a perfectly-constructed weapon. Crackers who didn’t have a drop of the inner-steel it took to use them for their true purpose.

It wasn’t shooting mangy-looking deer, and it wasn’t shooting targets at the range.

But despite this, he could feel himself coming to the gradual realization that he kind of wanted to go. The billboards said the show was being held at the Indianapolis Merchandise Mart, which was right off I-70, not even ten miles ahead. He’d driven all night out of Pittsburgh, and he was already well-ahead of schedule. Even better, since his Escalade was in the shop for a new sound system install, he’d rented a brand new 2003 Infiniti G35 sedan for this job.

Which had a trunk.

Which was where his cargo currently slept in a blissful black tar dream. He could simply redose her, hit the gun show for several hours, and see if there was anything special that caught his eye.

Porter

Leo Porter, of Porter’s Guns and Ammo, surveyed the customers milling about in his eponymous shop and frowned. He was busy, but not busy enough. Unless he started selling some big ticket merchandise, and plenty of it, he was never going to be able to repay the loan.

The loan, eleven thousand bucks, had been given to him by Sal Dovolanni, a Chicago wiseguy who wanted the principal, plus an outrageous thirty percent interest, by noon tomorrow. Porter had taken the loan to bid on hosting the annual Bullets and Babes Gun and Knife Show. The BABGAKS traveled around the country, and Sal had done well as a vendor during the past years. But he’d been told the big money was in sponsoring the event. If Sal did that, the vendors would pay him, and he’d be able to offer his entire inventory for sale, rather than just the limited amount of firearms he could cart from state to state.

So he’d taken the loan, convinced that he’d make the money back and plenty more besides. And actually, he’d more than doubled the loan. But he’d forgotten something extremely important.

The majority of his sales were by credit card. Porter wouldn’t see that money until next week, when it was direct-deposited into his bank account.

Dovolanni wanted cash. Wanted it right fucking now. And Porter only had 5k in the safe, maybe another few hundred in the register.

He’d realized his mistake that morning, but a frantic call to Dovolanni for more time had been met with derision. Sure, Porter could be late. But he’d get two broken legs just the same.

So earlier that day, Porter began offering drastic discounts for cash. In some cases, he was actually losing money by selling below cost. But he liked his legs as they were, functional and unbroken. Years ago, he’d dislocated a finger. That had been agonizing. He couldn’t imagine the pain of a larger bone being broken. If it came down to that, he’d seriously consider eating a bullet first. Porter knew plenty of guys who’d been shot. Supposedly, it didn’t hurt that much.

“How much is this box of 7.62 shells?” The question came from a guy in fatigues with SWANSON stenciled on his breast pocket. Two other matching wannabes named MUNCHEL and PESSOLANO flanked him. Porter knew they were wannabes because they called the ammo shells instead of their proper name, cartridges. He would have bet all the cash in the safe that none of them had a shred of military experience.

“Price is on the box, like all the other cartridges you asked about,” Porter said. These guys had been in his shop for over an hour and hadn’t bought a single thing.

“Right,” said Swanson, “but you said there’s a twenty percent discount for cash.”

“Yeah.”

“So how much?”

Porter fought not to shake his head, and instead explained, with infinite patience, as if speaking to a brain-damaged child, how to calculate twenty percent off.

The moron put the ammo box back anyway.

Porter turned away and sighed, wondering if he should run for the border now, or at least wait until closing time.

He decided to ride it out. Occasionally, miracles happened.

Maybe he’d stumble into one today.

Jack

Cops and guns went together like cops and donuts. While I’ve never been partial to donuts, except for an occasional Boston Crème, I did respect and appreciate guns.

Last year, the Bullets and Babes Gun and Knife Show had been in Chicago, and I’d attended with my partner, Herb Benedict, for the express purpose of buying a semi-automatic.

My carry gun, a .38 Colt Detective Special, held six cartridges and weighed twenty-one ounces. It was no longer being produced, and I was becoming the butt of ageism jokes around the station. The latest was a Photoshopped pic of me wielding a wooden club with the caption: “Lt. Daniels Finally Upgrades Her Weapon.”

I liked revolvers, because they never jammed—one of my first cases almost ended in my death because I’d been relying on a semi-auto. But last year I’d been tempted by a Heckler & Koch P2000, which weighed the same as my Colt, and held a clip of ten .357 Sig rounds. I liked how it fired, how it felt, how it didn’t jam even though I put two hundred rounds through it on the practice range, and I’d been very close to sealing the deal when Herb was overtaken with a particularly terrible bout of food poisoning, publicly erupting at both ends. Which, coincidentally enough, came from eating donuts. I took him to the ER, intending to return to the show, but didn’t have the chance. And while Illinois had its fair share of gun shops where I could order an HK P2000, real life had gotten in the way and I never got around to it.

But my Captain had forced me to take a day off, and so I drove out to Indiana for this year’s BABGAKS, with the intent to pick one up. It didn’t hurt that the gun dealer from last year was easy to look at. Though I was currently living with a guy, things had been going poorly, so it didn’t hurt to keep my options open. My boyfriend was the reason for my recent tendency to put in more hours at work. Better to stay at the Job than try to deal with our growing dissatisfaction with one another.

The show took place under a gigantic tent, in a parking lot adjacent to Porter’s Guns and Ammo. Half of it was apportioned to the vendors, the other half to speakers for various demonstrations. Even though it was cold outside, the body heat generated by the number of people inside provided so much efficient heating, I regretted not leaving my Donna Karan jacket in my car.

The crowd was 90% men, most of them carrying. You’d think there’d be strict regulations about bringing in ammo for fear of a disagreement that ended in a shooting, but in fact the opposite seemed to be true. When everyone was armed, people tended to stay on their best behavior.

The remaining 10% of the crowd consisted of young girls in bathing suits—the promised Babes. They strutted around in high heels, passing out vendor fliers and presentation schedules.

In the background, some speaker droned on about the velocity, energy, and stopping-power differences between .40 S&W and .357 Sig rounds, and since I was planning on going with the .357, I gave him partial attention as I weaved through the throng of armed men. Using a vendor map supplied by one of the Babes, I located the booth I was looking for—Theel Firearms. After three minutes of walking, and two more checks of the map, I arrived at my destination.

Except it wasn’t manned by the cute guy from last year. It was manned by another cute guy, several years my junior.

And by “several years” I meant “at least ten, maybe fifteen.” But he had a strong chin, the rugged good looks of a cigarette model, and kind eyes. He also wore a uniform with a patch across the heart in the shape of a badge. It read, “DEPUTY OF THE SHERIFF’S OFFICE – LA PLATA COUNTY, COLORADO.”

He was in discussion with another cop, a portly Sheriff in green khakis with a tan shirt. Name badge read D. EISENHOWER. This man was bald, and had a round, doughy face.

“I’ve never been asked that before,” said the cute guy. “All rounds fired at a human being are going to cause some bleeding. I don’t know which ones would cause the least amount.”

“I’d go with a steel jacket, use fewer grains for a lower velocity,” I chimed in. “The round exits the body with minimal target damage, minimal expansion.”

They both looked my way.

The cute one had no name tag.

“The lady is right,” he said, giving me a fast wink. “We don’t carry anything like that, but if you load your own, I could set you up with some equipment.”

D. Eisenhower grunted, hitched up his pants, and walked off without another word.

“Odd fella. More than a passing resemblance to that Pillsbury mascot.”

“I’m looking for Chester,” I said.

“Chester’s not here today. I’m his little brother, Clayton. Call me Clay.”

He didn’t offer his hand, but his smile was inviting, and he leaned over the table just a bit to get closer.

“Hi, Clay. I’m looking for an HK P2000.”

“Replacement carry, Detective?”

“Lieutenant,” I corrected. “Yes. My team is giving me shit for my current carry.”

“And what would that be?”

“Detective Special.”

He nodded. “Colt. A classic. May I see it?”

I tugged the revolver out of my shoulder holster. Clay had correctly deduced I was a cop because we were the only ones allowed to carry concealed. Since I was in plainclothes, he had incorrectly assumed I was a detective. But then, I could forgive the assumption—I liked to think I looked too young to be a Lieutenant. I released the cylinder, spilled the bullets into my hand, and gave him the weapon.

His eyes narrowed with focus as he studied it.

“I see a lot of use, but this is in great shape. I like a woman who takes care of her weapon.”

“I admire the same thing in a man,” I said.

“Nice butt.”

“Thanks. I work out.”

His smile widened. “I meant the grip. Older guns, the wood sometimes cracks. You looking to sell this? I’d make you a good deal.”

“No, thanks. Do you have the P2000?”

“Sure do.”

He handed my gun back, and while I reloaded and holstered it, he ducked under his table and took out a metal gun box. When he flipped open the top, I was staring down at an HK with a spare clip, each nestled in foam.

Clay removed it, did a customary check of the slide to confirm it was empty, and handed it over. “Chambered for .357 Sig rounds.”

I noticed a thin sheen of oil on the piece. “Brand new?”

“A virgin,” he said.

“I like mine with a little experience.”

“We could work something out. My other brother, Remy, is taking over in a few minutes. If you’d like, we can go to the range at Porter’s next door. Try before you buy.” His eyes flicked down to my hands. Checking for a wedding ring, maybe?

“That would be great, Clay. Thanks.”

“I didn’t get your name, Lieutenant…?”

“Daniels. Jack Daniels. Call me Jack.”

His eyes lit up. “Your reputation precedes you, Jack. Even as far west as Colorado. I watched that TV show based on you. You’re much better looking than that chubby actress, if I may say so.”

“You may. And you just did.”

It felt good to flirt with a cute guy, especially since my current romantic interest had been treating me so icily I could see his breath when he spoke.

“Here comes my bro, Remy. Remington, this is Jack Daniels.”

Remy nodded at me. He looked even younger than Clay, though not nearly as cute.

“Chester, Clayton, and Remington?” I said.

“Dad said he wanted a ton of kids,” Remy said, shrugging.

“Remy, I’m going to take Jack and Alice to the range, see if she’s interested in buying our P2000.”

“Alice?” I asked.

Clay smiled, and from under the table removed the biggest revolver I’d ever seen. It was nickel-plated and had RAGING BULL engraved on the barrel.

“This is Alice. A Taurus .454 Casull.” He beamed like he was watching his son score a winning touchdown.

“You named your gun Alice?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said, putting his hand on the table and vaulting over it. “Haven’t you named your Colt?”

“No.”

“Well, let’s see how she fires,” Clay said, winking and cocking out his arm for me to take. “Maybe we’ll think of something.”

Mr. K

The man known in law enforcement circles as Mr. K walked past the attractive woman and the cop she was flirting with, and approached a booth occupied by Morrell’s Edges. Morrell was an older man, sturdy, his red cheeks separated by a black mustache, known to be one of the finest custom knife makers in the country, if not the world.

Mr. K had come to pick up a custom piece, something that he needed for his line of work. He made a living committing very bad deeds for very bad people for very good money. Often, those very bad things involved detail work.

Try cutting off someone’s eyelids with an over-the-counter pocket knife, for example. Or slicing off their fingernails with a serrated folder. Fulfilling special orders like that required a precision device, and Morrell was the man to see about such cutlery.

Already at the table stood a familiar, pudgy gentleman with distasteful armpit stains.

The pudgy man was arguing with Morrell.

“I’m telling you, it was a custom piece. I saw it maybe ten years ago. Guy said it came from you. Most beautiful knife I’d ever seen. Handle made of ivory. Long, heavy blade, also had some serration. Could shave the skin off a newborn child, if you know what I’m saying.”

“You’re welcome to look through my custom book, Mr. Donaldson.” Morrell indicated a cheap, bound photo album, full of his designs. “But ivory is illegal, and I don’t mess around with that.”

“I already looked through the book,” Donaldson said. “Wasn’t in there.”

“Then I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

Mr. K offered a pleasant, “Excuse me,” and then butted in front of the sweating fat man. “Mr. Morrell, you did a special order for me. Walnut handle, blade like an ice pick.”

“Indeed I did. I had one helluva time tempering the steel to make it strong enough to hold that edge, Mr…”

“I didn’t give you my name,” Mr. K said, offering a tight smile. “But I did pay you in advance, and I’d like my merchandise.”

Morrell nodded.

The fat man folded his arms. Scowling like a pouting child. He glanced over at Mr. K.

“Fancy seeing you here.”

“You as well,” replied Mr. K. “Staying out of trouble?”

“Hell, no. You?”

Mr. K shrugged. He remembered Donaldson from a short car ride they’d shared years ago. He had found the man to be unpleasant back then, and was in no mood to play where has all the time gone.

“Are these knives?” Mr. K and Donaldson turned to see a young girl, short and thin, with a stunningly-beautiful face. He would’ve placed her in her twenties, but her blond pigtails made her seem younger. So did her shoes, which were pink and appeared to be made out of foam.

“Yes, dear, this is a knife maker’s booth,” Mr. K said. “That’s an interesting choice in footwear.”

“They’re called Crocs. They’re new. I got one of the first pairs.” She smiled sweetly at him. “Do you have a car? Because I’m looking to get over to Chicago, and I need a ride.”

“Sorry,” Mr. K said. Something about the girl struck him as odd, and he made it a habit never to give people rides. Not since picking up Donaldson, all those years ago.

“I’ve got a car,” Donaldson offered.

The girl dismissed him with a quick grimace. “I bet,” she said, and then walked away, lugging a guitar case with her.

Mr. K managed to hide his smile, and then Morrell reappeared with a chamois cloth. He set it on the table and carefully unwrapped it.

At first glance, the object appeared to be just a knife handle, sans blade. But a closer inspection revealed something that resembled an ice pick.

This was no ordinary ice pick, however. It was an ice pick that had been sharpened down to the width of a single sheet of paper.

“May I?” Mr. K asked.

“Please.”

He lifted it, feeling the weight, admiring the craftsmanship. On an angle, the blade glinted under the artificial tent lights. Straight on, the blade practically disappeared.

“It’s the sharpest thing I’ve ever made,” Morrell said, a hint of pride creeping into his voice. “You could cut the wings off a mosquito as it flew at you.”

“You do beautiful work,” breathed Mr. K.

“Be careful sharpening it. Only use a razor strop with the finest grit. If you take care of it, you should have years of use.”

“I intend to.”

“Can I see it?” Donaldson asked.

“Sorry, but I’m afraid I have to be going.” Mr. K carefully wrapped up the treasure, and slipped it into his inner blazer pocket. “Good to see you again, Donaldson.”

He walked away without getting a parting goodbye. Instead, the fat man began to cajole Morrell, demanding to get a knife like Mr. K had just picked up.

Mr. K hadn’t been lying. He did have someplace to be.

Porter’s Guns and Ammo.

One of the very bad people Mr. K worked for had asked him to pay Mr. Porter a visit to convince him to pay a marker. That wasn’t until tomorrow, though. But Mr. K wanted to be the first on the scene, because apparently his employer had also sent another man to talk to Porter.

Whoever got there first and put in the scare got the commission.

Normally, Mr. K avoided taking open contracts, because he disliked competition. But he’d been planning on coming to this show anyway to pick up the blade from Morrell, so this was a chance to get the knife for free.

He slipped through the crowd, humming tunelessly to himself, musing on what Mr. Dovolanni had said could be done to the mark.

“No permanent damage. We want him to pay up.”

Mr. K smiled, his lips tight, and wondered if filleting Porter’s penis counted as permanent.

Javier

The man browsing next to him at Table #137 handed six hundred-dollar bills to the gun dealer, who took the money, shook his hand, and said, “Kiernan it was great to meet you. You’re gonna love the Nineteen. Best all-around weapon Glock makes.”

“I can’t wait to shoot it.”

Jav studied Kiernan out of the corner of his eye, found it oddly amusing that with his black hair and strong, chiseled features, the man resembled a gringo version of himself.

The dealer slid the plastic gun case into a bag and handed it across the table.

“Hope to see you again.”

“You have a nice selection of Glocks,” Javier said to the dealer when Kiernan had left, running his finger over the surfaces of the pistols, each resting on a plastic case, a thin, metal cord running through all the trigger guards to prevent theft.

“It’s all I carry.”

Jav smiled. “It’s all I shoot.”

“Looking for anything in particular?”

“Yeah, but I’m not seeing it here. It’s the Glock 36. Slimline is the trademark I believe.”

The vendor smiled. He looked like the antithesis of every other dealer Javier had laid eyes on today. He was fit, or at least within a hundred pounds of his ideal body weight. No facial hair. And he wore a Spandex biking suit that had been autographed over the crotch by Lance Armstrong. He’d put an exclamation point on the ensemble with a handsome Swastika button pinned to his collar.

The vendor said, “Oh, a connoisseur. I don’t display everything.” He ducked down behind the table and reemerged again with another black, plastic case.

He opened it.

Jav looked in, smiled. Would’ve been like seeing his long lost friend, Emilio, again, if he hadn’t cut Emilio into four pieces and burned his traitorous ass into a pound of ash in a rusted-out oildrum. He’d mixed the ash into a gallon of lukewarm water and made Emilio’s widow drink it before he shot her between the eyes. “This…I’ve been looking for this.”

“Glock only started producing this model four years ago. It sold out early. Only one point one three inches in width. Secure grip design. Shoots a half dozen forty-five caliber ACP rounds.”

“You mean with the factory clip,” Javier said.

The vendor flashed an oblique grin. “Yes, a factory clip.”

“But you have non-factory clips.”

“I could probably scrounge one up.”

“May I?” Jav gestured to the firearm.

The spandexed bicycle-Nazi-gun freak said, “By all means.”

It took Javier approximately five seconds to field-strip the weapon. He checked the spring, sited down the barrel, and gave it a quick sniff for gun oil. Everything looked perfect.

Javier hadn’t heard the man move up behind him. Just sensed him and turned suddenly and there he was—good-looking black man, roughly his age, smiling at him through a pair of coffee-brown eyes.

“Well done, soldier.”

“What makes you think I’m a soldier?” Jav asked.

“Because it takes one to know one. Reassemble it.”

“Excuse me?”

“Put the Glock back together.”

“Why?”

“Because I can do it faster.”

Jav smiled, felt a spurt of adrenaline rush through him. This guy was pushing him into a game.

“You believe that you can beat five seconds.”

“Hell yes, son.”

“I’m not your son.”

“Relax, my man.”

Nothing made Javier more angry than being told to relax. Felt like a nuclear bomb detonating in the pit of his stomach, but all he did was flash a thousand-watt smile.

He took his time putting the pistol back together, and when it was reassembled, set it back on its plastic case.

His self-appointed opponent stepped up to the table and cut his eyes at the vendor. “You saw my man field-strip this motherfucker?”

“Yep.”

“You can judge if I beat his time.”

“I think so.”

The black man glanced at Javier. “Watch and learn, son. Count me down from five, Spandex.”

Javier registered a moment’s hesitation in the vendor, sensed that being told to do something by this young black man has stiffened his racist bristles.

But he started counting anyway.

“Five…four…three…”

The man cracked his neck and placed his hands palm down on the table.

“Two…one.”

Javier had seen fast hands during his stint with the Special Air Mobile Force Group, but nothing to rival this. It was a single, flawless movement, like choreography, and then the Glock 36 lay in four pieces—slide, recoil spring, barrel, and grip.

Javier couldn’t help shaking his head. “Damn.”

“Maybe three seconds?” the vendor said.

“Impressive,” Jav said. “You military?”

“Force Recon. Isaiah, by the way.” The man offered his hand and Jav shook it.

“Javier.”

Isaiah reassembled the firearm. “Maybe we’ll run into each other at the range some time. Have ourselves a little shootout.”

Javier said, “Competitive much?”

“I’m a Marine, what the fuck do you think?“

Isaiah slapped him on the shoulder, and when he was gone, Javier turned back to the vendor. “How much?” Javier asked.

“Six fifty.”

“That’s a bit more than retail, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Look, I don’t have to sell this gun. It sells itself. That’s the price.”

Jav ran a finger along the slide. “You have a suppressor to fit this pistol?”

“Suppressors are illegal in thirty-eight states. Which state are you from?”

“That’s not what I fucking asked you.”

“You know, you can make your own,” a deep voice said.

Jav turned to look at the man who had come up behind him, wondering what it was about gun shows that made complete strangers act like best buddies. This stranger was a white guy, tall motherfucker. Worst of all, he was wearing a police uniform.

Javier hated cops. They were down there with roaches and rats and needed to be exterminated. But at the same time, Jav knew how to play the game, act nice, pay them to look the other way.

But that didn’t mean he had to be buddy-buddy with them in public.

“I don’t recall inviting you into this conversation, officer.”

The large man smiled. Jav noticed the tag on his dress blues read FULLER.

“Just offering my two cents. A plastic pop bottle and some duct tape can do wonders for suppressing a pistol. Not as nice as a custom, but it works in a pinch.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Javier gave the pig his back, but Officer Fuller didn’t take the hint. He leaned down close and whispered in Jav’s ear. “Look, I’m kind of hurting right now, if you know what I mean. Headache from motherfucking hell. Can you sell me something?”

Jav glanced back, his face screwed up in bewilderment. “Are you fucking with me?”

“I have money,” Fuller said. “I just need a little something to take the edge off.”

Javier considered gutting the pig right there. Then he looked around for cameras to see if this was some kind of Ashton Kutcher Punk’d bullshit. “I don’t know which should offend me more. That you think I’m stupid enough to sell drugs to a cop, or that you think just because I’m Hispanic, I must be carrying something.”

Javier stared at the pig, hard. He saw amusement, and nothing else.

“My mistake then,” Fuller said. “You have a nice day.”

Then he backed off, blending into the crowd.

“You fucking believe that?” Jav asked the vendor.

The vendor smiled slyly. “Cops are some of my best customers. You still interested in a suppressor?”

“Did I say I changed my fucking mind?”

“I could perhaps slip a custom Gemtech into the package, along with a magazine extension. That’d be twelve hundred. Plus two hundred for the BATF license.”

“I really hate to fill out paperwork…” Javier let the sentence hang in the air.

“I hate paperwork, too. But the law requires it.”

“Fuck the law. Fourteen hundred to box it up,” Jav said. “I’ll be back in a half hour.”

“I only take cash.”

“Of course you do.” Jav threaded his way through the crowd. It was stuffy under the tent and the reek of rancid sweat and body odor was stifling.

He pushed past three men in army fatigues who he felt more than certain hadn’t spent a single day in the Service. He made eye contact with one of them.

“The fuck you lookin’ at, brown boy?”

Javier stopped and faced the man. “Hello, Swanson.”

He saw a tremor of confusion fluttering through the man’s eyes.

“How do you know my name?”

“It’s printed on your G.I. Joe jacket, asshole.”

Jav let his shoulder bump hard into Swanson’s as he pushed on through the crowd, forcing himself to ignore the stream of threats and slurs the man hurled after him. Why did this always happen? People talking shit and throwing down challenges when he couldn’t accept because he had a package to deliver. Even three years ago, he’d have crushed the man’s balls in his palm like a couple of Swedish meatballs and beat him to within an inch of his life. But his mentor in the Alphas had taught him a few things since then. About patience and wisdom. About not being reckless. The hot-heads who couldn’t control themselves wound up dead or in prison before thirty-five, and that was not going to be him, because at the end of the day, he loved playing golf too much.

He had to piss something fierce.

Javier moved past a table selling knives, and he browsed for a moment, giving serious thought to purchasing the custom Crawford Tanto folder, but the dealer, some guy named Morrell, wanted a grand for it, and he wouldn’t budge on the price.

So he moved on toward the exit.

Passed tables of hunting equipment, fishing gear, army surplus, gun safes, pre-1900 Colt Revolvers, and table after table of guns specific to every major war of the last century.

He stepped outside.

Mid-afternoon, and a cold and sunny winter day.

It felt wonderful to be out of the stuffy accumulation of body heat under the tent.

A row of blue Porta-Johns stood at the far end of the parking lot. Must’ve been twenty or thirty of them, and there were lines five and ten deep to each one.

He’d let his bladder rupture before he stooped to relieving himself in the same cramped space where countless rednecks had pissed and shit.

Fuck that in the ass.

Hmm.

His eyes fell upon the building adjacent to the parking lot—Porter’s Guns and Ammo.

He could drop in, buy some .45 ACP hollowpoints for his new toy, and if he was lucky, use a nice, private restroom.

Luther Kite

He’d spent the last month in an urban ghost town. After what had happened in Ocracoke a mere seven weeks ago, and the catastrophic loss and pain he’d endured, it had been good to immerse himself completely in a new project.

Now, he’d ventured out into the world again, though only for a short while, having driven several hours south out of Michigan to this gun show he’d heard advertised incessantly on talk radio over the past few weeks.

He’d just purchased two Spyderco Harpys from a Montana knife dealer—a comfort purchase, no question—when Table # 81 caught his eye.

Luther wandered over.

The dealer was a four hundred pound bald man with a handle-bar mustache who eyed Luther but made no move to heave himself off his stool. He wore a leather Harley-Davidson vest that appeared to have spent considerable hours getting baked in direct sun. He wondered if they made motorcycles that could accommodate the punishing weight of such a man.

“Is this a good system?” Luther asked.

“Top of the line.”

Luther lifted one of the surveillance cameras.

“What exactly am I holding here?”

The dealer grunted as he slid himself off the stool and waddled over to the table.

“That 4CSBN160 system comes with four CANTEK CA-IR420 nightvision cameras, one NUVICO EVL-405N 4 Channel 500 GB DVR, four hundred-foot rolls of combined power/video cable, and all the necessary connectors to get the system up and running.”

Luther turned the camera slowly in his hand. He’d never been good with electronics, and didn’t understand the alphabet soup the man was spouting, but that didn’t matter. The IT guy he’d “hired” last week could certainly figure it out.

“I need twelve cameras,” Luther said finally.

The dealer smiled. “Tell you what, you buy three complete systems, I’ll throw in a PRO700E Minuteman.”

“What’s that?”

“Surge protector and battery backup. You’ll want it.”

Luther didn’t even have to consider it. “That’s a deal. You’ll box everything up?”

“Sure will. Just give me about forty-five minutes.”

As Luther turned away from the table, he could have sworn he heard someone call his name.

He started walking.

“Luther!”

For a moment, he debated just walking on, pushing his way through the crowd, getting the fuck out of there. Could Andy or Violet or some other law enforcement contingency have found him?

“Luther!”

But curiosity won out, so he turned—still ready to bolt—for one quick glance over his shoulder through the crowd.

No.

Couldn’t be.

Luther had never been glad to see anyone in his life, but he actually felt neutral in this moment, to set eyes upon this man he hadn’t seen in over eight years.

Luther pushed his way through the horde of Red-staters and even managed to break the slightest grin. It had been a tough month, and it was good to see a friend.

“How are you, Charles?”

Charles Kork looked a lot like he did when they’d first met—thin, dark, and dangerous. With him was a tall blonde so painfully beautiful Luther couldn’t look her in the face.

The men shook hands, and with a grin and a nod, Charles said, “Luther, this is my sister, Alex. I’ve told her all about you. Alex, you remember the crow story?”

Luther felt exposed. Not only was he in the presence of a lovely woman, but if Charles had told her everything, then she must know about his particular…tastes.

He offered a hand and forced himself to meet her eyes. She shook like a man, with a firm, iron grip.

“My brother told me all about your artificial leech,” she said. “That’s soooo hot.”

Luther blushed through to the tips of his ears.

“Nothing to be shy about. I like bad boys.” She slipped an arm around Charles’s waist in a way that was anything but sisterly.

“I have a whole collection of antique medical tools,” Luther said. “Not with me, but maybe I’ll get the chance to show you some time.”

“That makes me wet,” Alex said.

Luther went from scarlet to purple. “What…um…are you doing later?”

“My brother and I don’t have plans. Thought we’d get some shooting in before the range closes. Do you like guns, or are you just a sharp-edge kind of guy?”

“I do love my knives, but I wouldn’t mind shooting a few—”

“Oh my God,” Alex said, her attention diverting from Luther. “Is that…”

“James Jansen,” Charles said.

Luther turned to see who they were gawking at. The name had sounded familiar, but when he saw the man moving toward them through the crowd, he instantly made the connection.

“He stars in movies,” Luther said.

“No shit,” Alex said, “and he’s fucking smoking.”

But as the man approached, Luther had his doubts.

“He’s wearing sweatpants,” Luther said. “And flip-flops. You sure that’s James Jansen?”

“Looks exactly like him,” Charles said, “and he’s tall like Jansen, too.”

“I don’t think it’s him.”

As the man was on the verge of passing them by, Alex stepped in front of him with a big, seductive smile.

“I apologize,” she said, inching up to him, letting her breasts brush against his sweatshirt. “You must get this all the time, but are you James Jansen?”

The man gave an uncomfortable smile, hesitating, as if debating how he should answer.

Finally, he shook his head.

“No, my name’s Lance. But you’re right. I do get that all the time.”

“You should own it,” she said. “If you’d said you were him, I would’ve believed you.”

The man pushed past Alex and disappeared into the crowd.

She sighed, and then turned back toward Luther. “You packing?” she asked.

“Huh?”

She moved in closer, breathed into his ear. “Do I need to frisk you to find out?”

“Uh, forty-five, in the car.”

“Are you married, Luther?”

“No. No, I’m not.”

“Good,” Alex said, giving Charles a narrow stare. “I’m not big on married guys.”

Luther wondered what was going on there, but then he found himself staring at the woman’s tits. She noticed, and winked at him. “See you at the range, cowboy. Nine P.M.”

“Later, Luther,” Charles said, walking off with Alex, his hand in the back pocket of her skin-tight jeans.

Never in all his life had it occurred to Luther that there might be a woman like that walking the earth. He couldn’t comprehend it.

He stuck his hand in his pocket, adjusting himself, and realized he suddenly had to piss. Really, really bad.

On his way toward the exit, Luther approached a trio of pudgy rednecks in camouflage who were loitering at a table of crossbows, pretending to shoot imaginary deer.

Was that?…no…couldn’t be…they’d actually sewn name tags into their jackets.

One of them turned as Luther passed by.

“Look at that tall, pretty, black-haired girlie.”

Luther stopped and looked at the man.

Name tag read Munchel.

Luther stared him down. Why did people always fuck with him in crowds or behind the wheels of their cars? Never in dark alleys. Never when he could actually do something about it.

Munchel could only stand about five seconds of Luther’s black-eyed stare, because he turned away, gave a little laugh Luther saw straight through, and said to his two buddies, “Look at this faggot.”

This wasn’t the time, or the place, for a fight. Too many witnesses. Worse, half the people here were armed.

Still, he couldn’t let this asshole go scot-free. Luther took two quick steps toward Munchel, as if in a hurry to get by, and stuck out an elbow that lovingly connected with the idiot’s nose.

He muttered, “Scuze me,” as he stepped past, confident he’d broken it, the rusty smell of a nosebleed in the air.

Jack

Clay actually offered me his arm, which was a cute bit of chivalry that I hadn’t seen in quite a while. I took it, and had to smile when he started flexing his biceps to let me know how big his muscles were.

We made our way across the showroom floor, Clay stopping occasionally to ogle some unique piece of hardware. Just as we were exiting the tent, I ran into a familiar face.

He hadn’t aged a bit since I’d last seen him, still looking like a smaller, blond version of Schwarzenegger. Which is to say his shoulders were almost as wide as he was tall. He wore chinos, gym shoes, and a grey shirt that stretched tightly over his broad chest. When he spotted me, his eyes registered the faintest glint of amusement.

“Hello, Jack,” he said. “You’re looking well.”

Under his arm was a wooden box, which I had to assume contained a firearm or two.

“Hello, Tequila. This is Clay. Clay, this is Tequila.”

Clay offered his hand, grinning big. “Tequila and Jack Daniels? It’s enough to drive a man to drink.”

Tequila took the hand, and I watched, amused, as they played the macho game of who could grip the other guy harder. Though Clay had at least six inches on Tequila, he gave up first.

“You here on business?” I asked my old acquaintance. Some time ago, Tequila worked for some pretty unsavory characters.

“Are you?” he shot back.

“We’re headed for the range,” Clay said, wiggling his fingers, probably trying to get the circulation back. “You’re welcome to join us if you and Jack would like to catch up.”

Tequila stared blankly for a moment, then nodded. “Sure. Thanks.”

The three of us crossed the parking lot, heading over to the gun shop. I heard gunfire beyond the far wall, where the range must be. Clay led us up to the counter, where an unshaven, worried-looking fellow was mopping at his sweaty forehead with his flannel sleeve. Under that, he wore a humorous tee-shirt, which also appeared soaked with sweat.

“Porter, my good man,” Clay said. “We need a range.”

“Oh, hey, Clay. I was gonna close up in ten minutes.”

“Ten is all we need.” Clay tossed a bill on the counter. “Give us headgear and a fistful of silhouettes. The lady here needs a box of Sigs, three-five-seven. I need four-five-fours for my Casull. And whatever the man here needs.”

“Forty-five ACP,” Tequila said.

Porter nodded, taking the money and scurrying off.

“So, how do you two know each other?” Clay asked. He had an easy-going, country-boy vibe about him that made me feel at ease. I wondered if he was a good cop, and figured that anyone with that much confidence either had to be very good, or very deluded.

“We shot together before,” Tequila said.

“Competitively?”

“You could say that,” I answered.

“So, you’re a markswoman?” Clay lifted his eyebrows. “I’ve done a bit of competition shooting myself. Maybe we should have ourselves a little wager.”

“What have you got in mind?”

He grinned. “Hundred bucks?”

Tequila said, “I’m in.”

I knew Tequila was good. I could also assume Clay was good. But I was good, too, and had a closet full of trophies to prove it. Though I liked my chances, I didn’t happen to have a hundred dollars on me.

“That’s a bit steep for my public servant salary,” I said.

“Fair enough. How about if you lose, you kiss the winner?”

Tequila said, “I’m in.”

The two of them stared at me like they were lions and I was a zebra with a broken leg.

I didn’t mind it in the least. I just hoped I didn’t get pregnant from all the free-range testosterone floating around.

“You’re on,” I said. “But this is a new gun for me. I get to practice first.”

Porter came back with three boxes of ammo, three pairs of noise-dampening ear muffs, and the paper targets. We followed Clay through a door, and the shooting sound increased tenfold. I put on my headgear, muffling the noise, and we found our way over to the only open lane.

Clay attached a paper target to the pulley system and pressed a button to send it downrange. They were the standard police silhouettes, five points for the head and chest, four for the collarbones and wrists, three for the upper thighs, two for the arms and stomach.

“Twenty-five?” Clay yelled at me, barely audible.

I shook my head, said, “Fifty.”

Then I loaded a clip, popped it into the weapon, and jacked a round into the chamber. The P2000 had a slightly larger grip than my Colt, but it was comfortable. I slipped my index finger inside the trigger guard, stood in front of the booth counter, and aimed fifty yards downrange. I used a two-handed grip known as the Weaver stance, feet spread apart, knees slightly bent, my left hand supporting my right.

The HK was a traditional double action trigger pull, which meant it also functioned as a single action. I cocked the hammer, and let out a slow breath. Then I began to fire, emptying the gun, getting used to the action and recoil, adjusting when needed.

I heard Clay whistle, and I didn’t have to look at the target to know I’d fired all nine rounds straight through the target man’s heart.

“I guess I don’t need to practice,” I said, letting him have his turn.

Clay took down the target and handed it to me.

“Nice grouping,” Tequila said.

My shots had been so close together they’d made one big hole in the center mass. I shrugged and reloaded.

Clay and Alice fared well. He couldn’t fire as fast as I did, because the recoil from the Casull was so huge it made his shoulders shake. He put three in the head, three in the heart, then gave Tequila a turn.

Tequila was packing two nickel-plated .45s. I didn’t recognize the manufacturer, and Clay asked to see one.

“Custom?” he asked.

Tequila nodded, sending his target downrange. Clay handed him back the weapon, butt first, and Tequila held a gun in each hand, keeping them at his sides. In a quick blur, he raised the weapons like an old west gunslinger and emptied both into the silhouette.

Clay and I sighted the target, and I saw that Tequila had completely outlined the silhouette’s head with bullet holes, cutting it across the neck. When he pressed the button to bring the paper back, the target’s head fell out, leaving a head-shaped hole.

“Fuck me,” Clay said.

There was a crackling sound, then a voice came on over the house speakers. “We’re closed. Please pack up and leave your lane.”

“I think I’d call this one a draw,” I said, taking off my head gear and giving my hair a shake.

Clay pouted. “No kiss?”

“You guys can kiss each other, if you like,” I said.

Tequila collected his brass and placed the empties in his pockets—something that gave the cop in me pause. As we filed out of the range, Clay asked, “You guys up for a drink? On me.”

I glanced at Tequila. He shrugged, then nodded.

“You’re on,” I said. “But only if I get the second round.”

Luther

Over at the Porta-Johns, it looked like the lines at fucking Disney World, but across the parking lot, there was a guns and ammo store. Could be a bathroom there. He’d murder someone to use it if need be.

Hell, he might murder someone either way.

Luther started across the parking lot. There must be a thousand people here at least. He’d had to park his white van almost a quarter mile away in the third overflow lot. He was hungry, too, stomach rumbling. Hadn’t eaten anything but half a bag of Lemonheads since the morning, and the smell of fresh jerky at a smaller tent outside the larger one was calling to him. Unfortunately, the line to jerky looked more daunting than the lines to the shitters.

Luther stepped out of the cold, falling sun and into Porter’s Guns and Ammo. He didn’t spend much time in gun shops, knives being much more his style, but he did love the smell of well-oiled firearms mixed with the faint bite of gun powder. Got off on it the same way he got off on the down-and-dirty smell of gasoline.

The place wasn’t as crowded as he’d feared. Only a handful of customers browsing the racks of rifles and shotguns, and up at the counter, the owner of the store—a slight man with a faint mustache and large, silver-frame glasses—was trying to sell a revolver to a biker chick wearing a Toby Keith shirt, the words, “We’ll put a boot in your ass…it’s the American way” screen-printed across the back.

Somewhere deep in the building, Luther could swear he heard the muffled pops of gunfire. Then his eyes fell upon a large poster behind the counter.

“PORTER’S FOUR COMMANDMENTS OF SAFETY AT THE RANGE”

1. Treat ALL GUNS as if they are ALWAYS LOADED.

Yawn. Luther quit reading after the first “commandment.” He strolled over toward a break in the counter that lead to a metal door.

“Does this access the range?” Luther asked.

Porter glanced over. “Yeah, but we’re closed.”

“I need to pee.”

“Well, we got about a thousand Porta-Johns out—”

“The lines are too long.”

“Didn’t you see the sign on the front door?”

Luther shook his head.

“Restrooms are only for paying customers.”

Luther reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, slapped a ten-dollar bill on the glass.

“Where’s the bathroom?”

Porter reached under the counter, and must have pressed a button because the door buzzed and made a clicking noise.

“Go on. Take your first right, second door on your left.”

Luther passed through to the other side of the counter and pulled open the metal door.

The gunfire instantly louder.

He moved down a narrow hallway whose walls were covered in posters, the vast majority featuring bikinied hotties holding giant automatic weapons.

The smell of gun powder getting more potent.

He took his first right as directed and dug his shoulder into the second door on his left.

Into the bathroom.

Single stall against the back wall.

Two urinals.

Shit.

One of them was occupied by some Hispanic guy in a designer leather jacket. Longish black hair greased stylishly back. Luther caught a trace of his cologne, which smelled exotic and very expensive.

Luther sidled up to the open urinal and unzipped his fly.

Oh sweet Lord.

Seemed like he peed for twenty minutes.

He glanced over at the man standing next to him, caught his eyes for just a moment, had been anticipating black or deep brown, but they were this clear and perfect blue, like one of those high mountain lakes turned turquoise by glacial silt.

He looked away, back down at the red urinal cake which smelled more like cherries the harder he pissed on it.

“Is there a problem, perra?”

Luther looked back at the man.

“What are you talking about?”

“I didn’t care for the way you just looked at me. You insulted me with your eyes.”

Luther smiled. “I just looked at you. Curiosity. No insult. Paranoid much?”

The man narrowed his eyes, muttered under his breath, “Yo cago en la leche de tu puta madre.”

Luther didn’t speak more than a few words of Spanish, but he felt pretty confident the man had just said something highly offensive.

“I don’t speak Spanish, amigo,” Luther said. “If you want to insult me, try some English.”

“So you’d like me to translate?”

“Please.”

“I said I shit in your whore mother’s milk.”

The Harpys Luther had purchased were still in their cases in the plastic bag at his feet. In addition to the fact that his dick was hanging out, something told him a sudden reach for the bag would not be the smart play. He had at least four inches on this Mexican psycho, but it was obvious that said Mexican psycho was in tremendous physical condition. This guy was clearly ready to go, and on top of that, there was an unnerving calmness coming over him. Like he was at home in such a situation as this.

It had been Luther’s experience that people who kept themselves calm in confrontations generally fucked other people up. Badly. He needed to diffuse the tension, and then track this man down unsuspecting. It wouldn’t be ideal, but he could certainly murder him in the back of his van. Try out that procedure he’d been dreaming about lately where he crippled the vocal cords so the victim couldn’t scream. Ball-gags worked fine, but it was kind of like fucking with a condom. Sensation muted. He’d love to see the mouth wide open, trying to scream through the mind-destroying pain.

So Luther did something he rarely ever did.

He smiled.

“I didn’t mean to insult you,” Luther said.

“Is that right? Maybe you don’t like a fucking spic taking a piss next to you like the rest of these hillbillies?”

Luther shook off, zipped up. “I’m sorry, I’m just…I’m a little angry at the moment. These army wannabes were hassling me over my hair, and I kind of lost it.”

The man’s face released just a bit of its hard edge.

“Were they wearing camouflage, with—”

“Name tags.”

Now the Mexican psycho smiled. Beautiful set of perfect white teeth. “I ran into those gentlemen myself just a little while ago. Gave a man named Swanson’s shoulder a hard bump.”

Luther said, “I took it a bit further.”

The man raised an eyebrow.

“I broke his nose,” Luther said.

Here came a big, broad smile. “No shit?”

Luther mimicked the elbow he’d thrown ten minutes ago.

“Blood?” the man asked.

“I think it was a gusher. Of course, I didn’t stick around to watch.”

“I hear you. Situation like that, keep your head down and get the fuck out.”

The man zipped up and studied Luther across the divider between their urinals.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Luther said.

The man stepped out from behind the urinal and walked to the sink. He turned on the hot water tap and pressed a few squirts of soap into his hands, took his time cleaning them.

“I would shake your hand and introduce myself properly if you were to wash yours,” he said.

Luther wasn’t a handwasher. Never had been. He liked the idea of spreading his germs everywhere. Anytime he found himself in a public pool, he made sure to take a nice long piss.

But he made an exception, did a quick soap and rinse, and then dried off his hands with a few sheets of paper towels.

Then, he offered the Mexican psycho his hand. “Luther. I don’t really do last names.”

The man shook his hand. “Javier. Me neither. What’s in the bag?”

“I bought a couple of Spyderco Harpys,” Luther said. “You score anything?”

“A man is boxing up a Glock 36, custom suppressor, and non-factory clip as we speak.”

“Is that the Slimline model?”

“Exactly.”

“I’ve wanted to try that one out. I’m more of a…” he remembered the words Alex had used, “a sharp-edged kind of guy. But I’m always on the lookout for compact firearms.”

“Makes it a little easier to get them in the car, no?”

Luther nodded and smiled, feeling a twinge of disappointment that he was starting to not want to torture and kill this man. He’d have thoroughly enjoyed cutting him apart in his van.

“Look,” Luther said, “I’m planning to meet some friends back here at the range around nine. Why don’t you come along? Try out your new piece?”

Javier said, “There’s something I need to check in on first, but yeah. I think that might be fun.”

Mr. K

He arrived at Porter’s Guns and Ammo just as it was closing, the last customers being ushered outside by Porter. Mr. K recognized him by the picture Dovolanni had provided, but if that wasn’t enough, Porter wore a tee-shirt that read Fuck Off, I Own a Gun Shop.

“We’re closed,” Porter mumbled, as he was digging out his keys to lock the door.

Mr. K approached, pressing a 9mm into Porter’s flabby side. “Mr. Dovolanni wants his money, Mr. Porter.”

The man’s reaction was priceless. His jaw, quite literally, dropped. Mr. K drank up the fear in his eyes. Unlike some of his peers, who derived a sadistic, sexual satisfaction from hurting others, Mr. K approached his work with a more detached, clinical attitude. But he did get a tiny, private thrill when he announced to the mark what was happening. That sudden deer-in-the-headlights look of horror, realization, and hopelessness never failed to buoy his spirits.

Next would come the promises, followed by the begging.

“I’ve got the money. I swear. I just gotta wait until the credit card companies deposit it into my account. I can write a check…”

“The agreement was for cash, Mr. Porter. Mr. Dovolanni doesn’t take checks. Let’s go inside and talk.”

Porter hesitated, obviously not wanting to be alone with Mr. K. And those were good instincts, because Mr. K was planning on hurting him.

“Please don’t hurt me.”

“Inside. Now.”

Porter fumbled his way inside, while Mr. K gave him a quick pat-down, removing a Glock from the man’s waistband.

“Do you have a burglar alarm?” Mr. K asked.

Porter nodded, eager to please.

“Disarm it. And use the real code, not the dummy code. I’ll know the difference.”

In fact, Mr. K would not know the difference. But Porter thinking he would was persuasion enough to follow orders. Mr. K clicked the deadbolt on the door, then ushered the frightened man over to the cash register. Next, inevitably, would come the bribe.

“Whatever he’s paying you, I’ll double it,” Porter said.

Mr. K’s lips twisted up in a small, private smile. “I don’t take checks either, Mr. Porter.”

“I have some cash. And guns. I’ve got plenty of guns, some of them are worth big money. I can make you a deal.”

Mr. K nodded, pretending to think it over. Then he lashed out, smacking Porter in the side of the head, the butt of his nine finding the sweet spot and sending the flabby man to the floor.

Javier

The light was fading, and the crowd dispersing, a cold, winter breeze pushing through his hair like the fingers of a corpse.

Javier walked out of the tent carrying the box that contained his new Glock, and still puzzling over Luther.

He didn’t quite know what to think of the man with long, black hair. He’d been ready to murder him in that bathroom, risks be damned. But once they’d started talking, he’d realized there was something wrong with the man. Something deeply disturbed in the best sense of the word.

He hadn’t looked into a pair of eyes like that in…well, since he’d shaved this morning.

It took him five minutes to reach the G35, which he’d left in the parking lot of a bank, and he was just a few steps from the car when he heard it.

Soft, but certainly audible, a knocking on the underside of the Infiniti’s trunk.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

She’d woken up. What the hell? He’d given her a perfect dose of shit that had knocked her ass out, but even when she came back, she should’ve been so beautifully fucking loaded she couldn’t move. Hell, he wished someone would shoot him up with black tar of this quality. Lock him in a trunk. What a way to spend a day.

Ungrateful bitch.

He scanned his surroundings. A few gun show attendees on the sidewalk behind him, presumably making their way to their cars.

He’d gotten lucky no one had noticed.

There were only a half dozen vehicles parked in front of the bank, the closest to him being a Chevy Nova, which was unoccupied. It looked old as shit. What kind of a person would let themselves be seen behind the wheel of such a beater?

Javier clicked a button on the automatic lock and the trunk popped open just an inch.

Glancing over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being watched, he lifted the trunk and reached into his leather jacket.

The woman stared up at him, her eyes slits in the evening light. She groaned something incoherent through her gag.

“I know you want some more,” Jav said. “Daddy’s here.”

He unsheathed the syringe he’d already filled that morning. This was getting pricey. A fine puta like this was worth some major coin, but all businesses were about keeping expenses low and profits high. Keeping her high was eating up profits.

The woman groaned something that sounded like, “No.”

Javier lifted her arm and turned it over, squinting for a vein. “Don’t be an ungrateful bitch. You know you like it, baby. Women where I come from would blow fifty guys in a day to get a high like this.”

“Mmmph.” Then she moaned something that sounded like, “Go home.”

“This is home for you now, angel. No more work. No being tied down to some dickhead esposo. You’re living the life now, bitch. All you gotta do is make some nice babies. But I’m warning you, if you make any more noise—even the slightest little bird-peep—I’m gonna cut your eyes out. You don’t need eyes to get knocked up.”

He slipped the needle into a vein, depressed the plunger. Her cry drifted off into a euphoric moan.

“Yeah, now you’re coming baby, aren’t you? Feels so good, no? You got no care in this world. Now fucking callate la boca.”

Then he slammed the trunk shut and started back toward the gun shop.

Alex Kork

It was after nine P.M., and they were walking back across the street toward Porter’s Guns and Ammo, coming from a Waffle House where she and Charles had run into Luther.

Kite had moved over to their table and insisted everyone order the triple-scattered-all-the-way hashbrowns. Spent half the meal raving about how it was the best thing he’d put in his mouth, maybe ever. Alex, tired of hearing about fried potatoes, had stretched her right leg under the table and dug the steel toe of her cowboy boot into his crotch, given it a little wiggle, and told him he hadn’t tasted her yet.

That shut shy-boy down for a while.

Seemed to get under her brother’s skin, too.

Well, fuck him and what he thinks. Ever since Charles got married, Alex had been seeing less and less of him. They hadn’t killed anyone together in months. She actually considered stretching over the table, giving that odd fucker Luther a sloppy, wet kiss, just to watch how Charles reacted.

But that would be weak, giving in to petty insecurity. There was a part of her that despised feeling so vulnerable. No one but Charles could elicit such weakness. Sometimes, she hated him for it.

Now they were moving through the dark parking lot of the gun shop.

They passed a trio who reeked of gunpowder, obviously fresh off the range—a good-looking forty-something woman walking between two men, one tall and ruggedly handsome, the other short and as wide as a Mack truck.

Up ahead, a man in a leather jacket stood by the entrance.

When he turned, she could see that he was Hispanic.

And drop-dead gorgeous.

“Hey, Javier,” Luther said. “These are my friends, Alex and Charles. Alex and Charles, here’s the guy I was telling you about.”

Alex was the first to extend a hand.

“Nice to meet you, Javier,” she said. “I’m Alex.”

“The pleasure is all mine, senorita.” The handshake lingered.

Charles sidled up beside Alex, threw his arm over her shoulder. “What’s in the box?” he asked.

“New pistol I picked up today at the show. Unfortunately, the shop here’s closed.”

Charles glanced at the door. “It’s not closed,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“I said it’s not closed. At least, not to certain people.”

Javier straightened, Alex studying his hands, to see if they clenched into fists, wondering what Charles was up to, but also kind of thinking it might be funny to see him take an ass-beating.

“What do you mean certain people?” Javier asked. “And you better answer that question very, very clearly. I’ve had all the redneck, bigot bullshit I can take today.”

By the light which illuminated Porter’s Guns and Ammo, Alex saw her brother smile one of his wicked smiles.

“I meant to people who can’t pick locks,” Charles said.

Mr. K

“You obviously like firearms, but can you also recognize the craftsmanship of a well-made knife?” Mr. K asked as he pulled Porter’s pants down below his knees.

The shop owner was inching back into consciousness to find his wrists zip-tied behind his back. His ankles were similarly bound.

Mr. K watched Porter’s eyes flutter open. The hitman had taken off his jacket and was sitting on Porter’s thighs, holding the Morrell ice pick. He knew the penis was fed by numerous blood vessels, so this required a delicate touch. A dead client couldn’t pay, and employers universally frowned upon that.

He tugged down Porter’s white jockey shorts, and then chuckled to himself.

“You’re uncut,” Mr. K said.

“What?” Porter was terrified and confused and trembling with fear.

“You haven’t been circumcised.”

“Please…whatever you’re thinking—”

“I’m going to ask you one more time, Mr. Porter, for the cash that you owe Mr. Dovolanni. If the answer you provide doesn’t satisfy me, I’m going to circumcise you right here on the floor of your gun shop. Do you understand what I’ve just said to you?”

Porter’s eyes were welling up with tears. “Please, please…”

And now the begging, Mr. K mused. Human beings were so predictable when facing situations of terror.

“…I’ll give you anything…”

There must be some basis for it in Darwinian evolution, but Mr. K had never been able to understand how crying, shitting your pants, and breaking down into hysterics had ever served man or any of his ancestors in life or death scenarios.

“…you want if you…”

If an ancient Cro-Magnon were at the mercy of a saber-toothed tiger or a soldier of an opposing tribe, certainly this type of behavior would have proven futile.

“…only let me…”

Predators couldn’t be swayed by emotion or pleas or despair.

“…explain…”

It wasn’t in their programming. It certainly wasn’t in Mr. K’s. In these situations, only brute force—physical resistance—stood a chance. And yet in all his contract killings and torture-killings, only twice had the mark ever fought back.

“…you’ve gotta understand…”

How had this trait of utter cowardice in the face of fear prevailed through the evolutionary cycle ending at Homo sapien sapien?

“Can you pay me right now?” Mr. K asked calmly. “That’s the only question I’m interested in hearing you answer.”

“Tomorrow,” Porter said. “I’ll rob a fucking bank if I—”

“Hmm. Unfortunately, tomorrow’s no good for me.”

Mr. K pulled the ball-gag out of his pocket and jammed it into Porter’s mouth, had it fastened around his skull in five seconds.

“Did you get a chance to stop by Morrell’s Edges?” Mr. K asked, holding up the ice pick to make sure Porter saw the blade. “He told me it was the sharpest thing he’d ever made. Let’s give it a whirl, shall we?”

Porter raised his head and shrieked through the ball-gag.

“Oh, relax,” Mr. K said. “What I hear, the ladies don’t like a guy with a turtleneck anyway.”

As he reached down, he heard the locking mechanism in the door shift.

Mr. K glanced at the door, back at Porter.

“You typed in the dummy code.”

Porter shook his head violently. Possibly telling the truth.

Mr. K rose quickly to his feet, set the ice pick on the counter, and grabbed his 9mm.

“If I find you’ve lied to me,” Mr. K said, “I’ll spend the next three days taking you slowly apart.”

He stepped toward the door as the lock turned, hearing voices outside, one of them saying, “There it is. Open sesame.”

The door swung inward, and Mr. K found himself facing four people, three men and a woman, all standing in the dark parking lot. He pointed his nine at the first man, the one holding the lock pick and tension wrench.

“We’re closed,” Mr. K said.

Everyone froze. Best case scenario, the quartet got the hell out of there. But they had broken in, so they were obviously a criminal element, and criminals weren’t predictable.

Mr. K quickly did the math in his head. He could get at least two headshots in before the others either scattered or attacked. There were ten bullets in his gun, and the Morrell ice pick was behind him on the counter. He liked his odds, but clean-up would be messy, and the gunfire could attract attention. This being a gun show, they were all probably armed, so he needed to decide now before one of them pulled a weapon and—

“K? That you, K?”

Mr. K squinted into the darkness at the one talking. He had a Mexican accent, something familiar about it.

“It’s me, man. Javier.”

Javier? Mr. K let go of the breath he’d been holding, but he kept the gun pointed.

“Javier. Small world. I wasn’t expecting any company.”

Javier stepped into the light, palms up. He peered behind Mr. K, and then smiled broadly.

“Shit, K. You working? We didn’t mean to interrupt you, man. We just wanted to do a little late night target practice. It’s cool.”

“Who are your friends?”

“Luther, Charles is the one with the lock pick skills, and the lady is Alex. Guys, this is Mr. K. He and I used to do some contract work for the same jefe, years ago. Wet stuff.”

If Javier was cavalier about admitting to murder, Mr. K guessed his associates weren’t likely to go running to the authorities. Still, this was a wrinkle in the night’s previously-scheduled activities, and he didn’t appreciate wrinkles.

“What are you going to do to that man?” the woman, Alex, asked. She was staring at Porter, and Mr. K thought he detected excitement in her voice.

“It’s okay,” Javier said. “They’re cool. If you want us to leave, we can come back later. Or…”

“Or?”

“Or we could help out. Might be fun to shoot at a moving target, if you know what I’m saying.”

Mr. K considered it. Javier was psychotic, and that meant he was unpredictable. Mr. K had seen his work, up close and personal, and while it could have used a touch more finesse it was certainly effective. The smarter move would be to turn everyone away, but then he’d spend the rest of the evening wondering what Javier was up to.

“This is a job for Mr. Dovolanni,” Mr. K said. “The package is supposed to get damaged in handling, but not lost.”

“You mean we can hurt him, not kill him,” the pale one, Luther, said. “I’d be okay with that.”

“A man can take a lot of hurt before he dies,” Charles said. “And I haven’t shot anyone in months. What do you think, Alex? Can you exercise some restraint?”

“I can control myself, not kill him,” Alex said, rubbing her legs together. “But I’m going to have to fuck something later. Just thinking about it gets me hot.”

Javier met Mr. K’s eyes and shrugged. “You game, K? The commission is all yours. We’re just in it for the sport. You know I wouldn’t mess with Dovolanni.”

Mr. K saw some people in the parking lot heading over. He made a quick decision and lowered the gun.

“Come in, lock the door behind you.”

Luther

They all crowded inside, Luther feeling a sense of camaraderie he hadn’t experienced since losing Orson. Much as he was a loner, it was good to occasionally be among those with similar values.

“So, what’s the plan?” Charles said. “Luther, buddy, you got that metal leech thing with you?”

Luther was staring at a target silhouette behind the counter, studying the various points on the arms and legs. “I have a better idea,” he said. Then he explained it to the group.

Javier cut Porter’s zip-ties as the shop owner cried around his ball gag.

“Hollow points for everyone,” Luther ordered.

Everyone began to shout out the ammo they wanted, making Porter fetch the boxes.

Forty-five ACP rounds for Jav’s new Glock and Luther’s Springfield XD Tactical.

Nine-millimeters for Mr. K’s Beretta Px4 Storm.

Three-fifty-sevens for Charles’s Coonan Cadet.

“I object to this,” Mr. K said.

Luther scowled. “What’s the problem?”

“The problem is, we take semi-jacket hollow points into that range and start firing, Porter’s going to be dead in about two minutes.”

“We can put him in a vest,” Charles said. “I bet this douche has some Kevlar lying around.”

“Even so, and even with what you suggest, it’ll be too easy for him to bleed out, getting shot with these calibers, these rounds.”

“Well, what do you suggest?” Javier asked.

Mr. K turned to Porter. “I assume you stock .22 pistols?”

Porter whimpered, but managed a nod.

“What models?”

The shop owner shook his head, his shoulders sagging.

“What. Models.”

He raised his hand, meekly pointed to the display case.

“The Mark III?”

A nod.

“Get five Rugers and put them on the counter along with three boxes of 20 grain LRs.”

Porter obeyed.

“Plinker rounds, K?” Javier asked, eyeing the boxes. “That shit barely tears through a soda can.”

Mr. K nodded. “Exactly. It’ll wound, but not kill.”

“That doesn’t sound as fun,” Charles said.

“You’ll get to shoot him many more times,” Mr. K said, “and he won’t die.”

Alex broke open one of the cartridge boxes, spilling rounds onto the glass counter. She worked the slide on a Ruger and manually inserted one, aiming it at Charles.

“You want to see how much it hurts?” she asked.

Everyone but Porter and Charles laughed. Charles slapped the gun away, scowling, then picked up a .22 and began to load a clip. Everyone else followed suit.

“Five points for legs and arms, ten points for feet and hands,” Luther said. “Hit the torso, lose twenty. Hit the head, lose fifty.”

“What are the stakes?” Javier asked.

Mr. K shook his head.

“What, K? I know that look.”

“Well,” Mr. K said. “You did sort of crash my party, so I have a proposition for the game.”

“We’re listening,” Alex said.

“I like Luther’s scoring system. I would propose that the losers pay off Mr. Porter’s marker to Dovolanni. It’s fourteen thousand, three hundred. Plus my fee of two thousand.”

“Holy shit,” Charles said. “I can’t swing that much.”

“Don’t worry, bro.” Alex popped in a clip and jacked a round into the chamber. “I got this.”

Javier smiled. “So, you’re a good shot, pretty lady?”

Alex winked. Then she quickly aimed at the analog wall clock across the room, firing four shots in rapid succession.

Everyone looked. She’d shot out the numbers 3, 6, 9, and 12.

Javier whistled. “I think my manhood just became aroused.”

“I’m in,” Charles said.

“I can’t shoot like that,” said Luther, “but I’m game.”

“And that makes cinco,” said Javier. “What’s the winner get?”

Mr. K smiled. “To finish off Mr. Porter, of course.”

Luther knew his chances at winning were slim to none, but he didn’t care. This night was shaping up to be the most fun he’d had in years.

Javier

The firing range was divided into seven stations, but the contestants all gathered at lane 4, the one in the middle.

The shooting area extended back fifty yards.

Reinforced baffles had been situated along the roof and walls for noise mitigation, and in the quiet prelude to the shooting, Jav could hear the hum of the ventilation system.

“Can we take the ball-gag out?” Luther asked, motioning to Porter who was huddled against the wall in a puddle of fear and whimpering. “I want to hear him scream.”

“Me, too,” Alex said.

Mr. K knelt down in front of Porter. “Before I take this off, I want to warn you,” he said. “We’re done with the pleading and the begging and the crying. Do you understand?”

A defeated nod.

“Stand up.”

Porter struggled onto his feet.

“Now walk with me.”

Javier watched Mr. K and Porter duck under the table at lane four and walk downrange. He followed, as did the others, and it took them a minute and a half to reach the sloped concrete berm at the end of the range.

“Ground rules,” Luther said. “You start against that far wall. When you hear the air horn, you have to make it to that end, and back. If you can do that, we won’t kill you.”

“Hey!” Charles said. “We didn’t discuss that part!”

“We have to give him a reason to live,” Luther answered, “Of else he’ll just curl up in a ball and die. I’ve seen it before. It’s no fun.”

“You…you’ll really let…let m-m-m-me live?” Porter stammered.

“You make it there and back, brother, you live.”

“Will you pay my marker, too?”

Mr. K slapped him upside the head. “Don’t get greedy, Mr. Porter.”

Alex

The killers lined up in the middle five lanes, Alex in six, Charles in five, Mr. K in four, Luther in three, and Javier in two. This would be their firing order as well. The men had graciously allowed her to go first, since she was the only woman present.

Dumb asses. Alex knew she could shoot the pants off of any man.

Alex removed the clip and racked the slide a few times to check the action. Then she popped the clip back in, jacked a round, and sighted up the man who stood quivering downrange.

She was so turned on right now.

Since Javier was shooting last, he had the air horn at his station.

“Everyone ready?” Javier shouted, his voice echoing downrange.

“Ready!” Alex shouted.

“Ready!” Charles shouted.

“Ready!”

“Ready!”

Javier said, “Mr. Porter! You warmed-up, loosened-up, and ready to run for your life?”

Porter yelled back, “Please! You don’t have to do this!”

Alex glanced around the dividing wall between hers and Charles’s lanes, saw Javier holding up the air horn canister.

“Mr. Porter, on your mark!”

Alex raised her Ruger.

“Get set!”

Drew a bead on Porter.

“Run, motherfucker!”

The moment the air horn sounded, Alex shot Porter square in his left foot.

Jack

As expected, Clay bought Jack Daniels shots as the first round. Such was the curse of my name.

We were in the hotel bar, which was so packed that we had to fight for room to stand, and sitting wasn’t even close to being an option. I had to wait ten minutes to order a second round, Goose Island beer, and then asked the bartender if there was a liquor store nearby.

“West, half a mile up the street,” he said.

When I shared the information with the boys, they agreed that making a booze run was preferable to drinking elbow-to-elbow with five hundred people in a bar designed to hold half that. We took our bottles outside with us because, hey, Clay and I were cops, and after some vigorous discussion on which direction west was, began to head up the street.

As we passed the range, I head a faint pop-pop-pop, like distant firecrackers.

“Gunshots?” Tequila asked, looking at me.

“Sounds like a small caliber,” Clay said. “Muffled, too.”

I glanced at Porter’s Guns and Ammo. “Could they still be open?”

“Only one way to find out.”

And so our trio headed toward the shop.

Charles

As his sister shouted “Ten points!” Charles was drawing a bead. Porter had managed to stay upright, and was limping faster than most people could sprint, a scream squealing out of his throat like a train whistle.

Charles didn’t even bother to go for the blurring limbs.

He aimed center mass, and squeezed.

Mr. K

“Side hit, minus twenty.” Mr. K led the target, and winged his flailing arm. “Five for me, right arm.”

Though he didn’t smile often, he felt his lips twist upward.

This was actually a lot of fun.

Luther

Luther had been aiming at Porter from the moment the air horn sounded, tracking his trajectory across the back of the range. Already he was halfway to the opposite wall. To be honest, he wasn’t sure of where he was aiming, just started squeezing the trigger until the slide locked back.

Porter suddenly grabbed his side and hit the deck, flopping face-first onto the concrete and leaving a blood streak, screaming all the way.

“My bad!” Luther yelled, “minus a hundred!”

Clay

“That was a scream,” Clay said. “I’d swear on my sweet Mama’s head that was a scream.”

Rather than wait for the others, Clay rushed the door to the gun shop, smacking into it with his shoulder. It was a bad move; the door was reinforced with steel.

Not a problem. Alice can get in.

He stepped back, drawing Alice out of her holster, taking aim at the deadbolt.

Javier

That pendejo cheater, Javier thought, but it made him grin anyway.

And Luther had done him a favor. The moving target was now moving at a much slower pace, crawling across the floor.

Javier took his time, sighting Porter down the barrel of the brand-spanking new Ruger, and then he put a round into his left elbow.

Porter

He’d been shot by a Crosman air rifle when he was fifteen years old, the BB punching into the back of his left leg. It had felt like a bad bee sting, and his mother had dug out the tiny copper ball with a pair of tweezers while he cried.

This was about a million times worse, and—

FUUUUUCCCCK!

Another round struck his left elbow in a searing blast of pain. The bullet, failing to crack bone, had taken a ride under the skin up his humerus and exited the back of his arm. He forced himself up onto his feet, his left foot throbbing, the bullet lodged between his phalanges, and he screamed through the pain and kept crawling as fast as he could manage, until his hands touched the far wall.

Halfway there. I can make it. If I can just get back up on my feet, I can—

Then another bullet blew off the back of his left heel.

Tequila

What Alice started, Tequila finished, exploding off the balls of his feet and driving his massive left shoulder into the door of the gun shop.

It burst open and he rolled a tight somersault, coming up with both .45s in his fists.

Jack and Clay rushed in after him.

The pop-pop-pop of gunfire was coming from the range.

Alex

She couldn’t believe it, but Porter had tagged the far wall. Since he was all the way on the other side of the range, the shot was difficult, if not impossible. Especially with the short-barreled Ruger and its low-velocity rounds.

She was especially pleased with herself when she clipped the man’s heel.

“Twenty points!” Alex shouted.

Charles

Charles had already decided to pull a Luther on his next turn. Just fucking unload. This time, he aimed at Porter’s face, figuring if he killed him, Alex would win.

He squeezed off ten shots in a blaze of fury, caught up in the excitement, and when his slide locked back, he stared through the haze of gun smoke…

And saw Porter still crawling along.

He’d missed.

Goddamnit! How the fuck had all ten rounds missed? He cocked back his arm and hurled the Luger downrange at Porter, screaming, “You fucking asshole!”

One lane over, his sister said, “Well, that was stupid.”

Mr. K

He was getting ready to put a round through Mr. Porter’s face when he heard a gunshot behind him.

Much larger caliber.

Was somebody cheating?

He turned to look, and saw an attractive woman in her forties standing behind them holding a Colt .38.

Luther

He was frantically reloading his clip when the deep, deafening crack of a high-caliber firearm exploded behind him.

Who the fuck was cheating?

Javier

When he heard the report of a .38 behind him, he knew instantly that something was wrong…

Jack

I saw the man on the firing range—the owner, Porter, covered in blood, cowering on his knees.

Then I saw the people, five of them, shooting at him.

I fired one shot straight into the ceiling.

“This is the police! Everyone drop your weapons!”

Alex/Luther/Charles/Javier/Mr. K

The police!

Run!

The killers stampeded toward the fire exit, firing behind them as they ran, bursting through the door into the parking lot, and scattering into the cold, dark night.

Clay

Clay felt the tug of hot steel on his thigh.

I’m hit.

He looked down, ready to put pressure on it, then saw the tiny hole in his jeans, forming a quarter-sized dot of blood.

What the fuck is that little thing? A .22?

He let out a laugh. Then he yelled, “You assholes sure brought the wrong guns to a gun fight!”

He and Jack took off after them.

Porter

Looking up at the fleeing bastards who had turned him into human Swiss cheese, Porter let out a bellowing laugh.

“I’m alive! Son of a bitch, I’m alive!”

He was still laughing when the short, blond man approached him. The man tucked away his guns into the back of his chinos.

“Thank you, thank you, a thousand times thank you. You saved my life, buddy. Anything you want. Name it. It’s yours.”

“Actually,” the man said, “I want the thirteen large you owe Mr. Dovolanni.”

Porter felt his face sag. “You…you work for…”

“Mr. Dovolanni. Yes. Do you have the money, Mr. Porter?”

Porter shook his head, dumbly.

“If you don’t have the money, I’m supposed to break both of your legs.”

“I’ll have it in a few days,” Porter managed to squeak.

The short man appraised him. “You’re pretty shot up. You need to go to the hospital.”

“I’m hurt bad,” Porter whined. “They shot me a bunch of times. Shouldn’t that be enough for Mr. Dovolanni?”

The short man rubbed his chin, as if considering it. “Maybe. But I’d better break one leg, just to be sure.”

Porter screamed as the short man’s foot came down, and then he blessedly passed out.

Mr. K

By midnight, he had crossed the state line into the backwoods of Kentucky, cruising the dark highways behind the wheel of his Cadillac. He was disappointed in himself, disappointed that he’d taken what had amounted to a stupid risk and left town without collecting his marker.

But…

As much as it pained him to admit…

That was the most fun he’d had in years.

Luther

Sitting at the bar in the Ramada Inn across the street from the giant tent which had held the gun show, Luther ordered the first round for him and Javier.

They’d been lucky to get a seat at the bar. The place was packed with the dealers and attendees who’d come from out-of-state.

A great place to lay low. To blend in. And as much as he knew that’s what they should be doing, it wasn’t what he wanted. The shooting range had only whetted his appetite.

The barkeep, after ten minutes, finally brought their beer in two Pilsner glasses.

“I’m dying,” Luther said, “I won’t be able to sleep tonight. That business at the range just gave me blue balls.”

“Relax,” Javier said. “I got a little package in the trunk. I’m willing to share.”

Luther’s heart lifted, a burst of hope flooding into that darkness like pure sunshine.

“Really?”

Javier nodded, sipped his beer. “Can’t kill her, though. But we can have some fun. Cut on her a little, if that’s your thing.”

Luther smiled. “That’s my thing.”

“We just gotta wait for these pendojo cops to get out of here. Place is lousy with them. One dumb gringo gets shot a few times, it’s like the fucking Normandy invasion. Back where I grew up, in Sonora, a whole family could get wiped out, you’d get maybe one cop, and he’d come by a few days later.”

“Hmm,” Luther said, a smile slowly forming across his thin, colorless lips. “I should definitely check that place out.”

Clay

He’d secretly always wanted to get shot. The ultimate bragging right. Pull up your shirt, show the patch of white where some doc had dug out a twisted piece of metal.

But as Clay sat in the ambulance, he had this awful feeling that stopping a .22 round didn’t actually count. His deputy buddies back in Durango would probably make fun of him for it.

At least the pretty lady Lieutenant was sympathetic.

“You’d better give him two Band-Aids for that big boo-boo,” she told the EMT.

Ouch.

He’d laughed it off, but the worst of it was how bad it actually hurt. He’d been shot full of adrenaline back at the range, but now that everything had settled down, the pain was really starting to get to him. He’d waved off the painkiller he’d been offered in front of Jack Daniels.

He could wait a little longer.

Just a little .22 caliber gunshot.

Not a problem.

“Does it hurt?” Jack asked.

“Naw. Maybe a little. You want to kiss it and make it better?” Clay asked.

For a moment, it looked like she was going to go for it. Clay even went so far as to tilt his chin to the side.

But then something crossed over her eyes, and she pulled back, instead offering her hand.

“I’ve got to get on my way. Have to be back at work tomorrow, and didn’t have any plans to stay overnight.”

Clay went for it, hell bent for leather. “I’ve got a room, in the hotel.”

Jack smiled. “Thanks for the offer. But I’m with someone already. Thanks for an…interesting night. Tell your brother I said hello.”

And then she was gone.

Five seconds later, Clay called for the EMT and demanded a pain shot.

Jack

I was tired, my legs aching from the chase. The Gucci pumps I wore made my calves look killer, but were shit for running in.

Clay and I had given pursuit, but the five shooters had fled into the night, splitting up in all directions. We’d called in the Indianapolis PD, even the Staties. Given statements and physical descriptions of the perps as best we could, but there really wasn’t much to go on.

It didn’t make sense. Why would five people break into a shooting range and use the owner for target practice? From what little I’d seen of them, it didn’t appear to be a gang initiation. These were adults, some of them well-dressed.

When the owner, Mr. Porter, regained consciousness, he didn’t say a word. Not a damn word. Refused to even admit anything happened.

As for me, I was going home. Both Clay and Tequila wanted to continue hanging out, but all of the sudden it felt less like harmless flirting and more like cheating. My boyfriend and I were having problems, for sure, but I wasn’t the cheating type. I was the try to work things out type. If I got on the road right now, maybe I could make it back home early enough to do some damage control.

Hell, maybe I’d even get lucky.

I gave each of the boys a handshake goodbye, then headed out to the parking lot. My car, a Chevy Nova, was next to a sleek, new Infiniti G35. I gave it a quick, admiring glance, wondering if I’d ever be able to afford something like that, then climbed into my beater.

As soon as I started it up, I heard a knocking.

The engine? Was my classic telling me it was ready to croak?

I checked the gauges on the dash, but nothing unusual was lighting up. The knocking continued as I pulled out of my spot, but quickly faded as I drove away.

I breathed a sigh of relief, feeling like I’d just dodged a bullet.

One of many, actually.

Alex

Alex Kork snuggled up next to her brother as he drove, her lips brushing his neck.

“Dammit, Alex! I’m driving.” Charles took another glance in the rearview mirror, his tenth in the last ninety seconds.

“You’re so damn paranoid,” she said, pulling away. “You weren’t like this before you got married.”

“Don’t start, Alex.”

“Is that what I’m doing? I’m starting?”

Charles shot her a quick, angry glance. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Nothing. But don’t treat me like I’m your wife. I’m not your wife, Charles.”

He laughed, an ugly thing. “Is that your problem? You want to be married? You’re my fucking sister, Alex.”

“Let me out.” Alex tugged off her seatbelt.

“What?”

“Let me out here. On the side of the road. I’m sick of being next to you.”

“We’re in the middle of nowhere. How are you supposed to get home?”

“I’ll hitchhike. Like that girl we passed up a mile ago, the one with the pink shoes.”

“Don’t be stupid. Hitchhiking is for psychos. Some maniac might pick you up.”

The words hung in the air, and then both of them began to laugh.

Tequila

While Porter had been unconscious, and Jack and Clay busy chasing the shooters, Tequila had taken the liberty of emptying out the shop’s cash register. Technically, it was Mr. Dovolanni’s money, but Tequila figured Porter owed him for leaving a leg intact.

When Jack and Clay came back, they called the police, and Tequila bid a quick adieu. He didn’t want to answer any questions, and Jack seemed to understand. He made a small effort to get together with her later that night, have a nightcap, but she begged off.

No biggie. She wasn’t really his type, anyway. Too much class. Tequila didn’t like to admit it, but he preferred his women to be on the trashy side. Other side of the tracks kind of gals. Biker chicks. Strippers. Druggies with tattoos. There was something about lost causes that appealed to him. Maybe he just loved being the white knight in shining armor, although truth be told, his armor had its fair share of chinks.

He checked out of his room, deciding against staying an extra night. Not a smart idea to make it easy for the authorities to find him, considering all the commotion.

He was carrying his duffel bag out to his car, when he heard something strange.

A thumping sound. Rhythmic. Like someone knocking.

It took him a minute to locate the sound. It was coming from the trunk of an Infiniti G35 in a bank parking lot twenty yards away. Unless the spare tire had magically come to life, which was unlikely, there was probably someone in there. And from the sound of the frantic knocking, that someone wanted out.

It took three swift kicks with his powerful legs before the trunk unlatched, yawing open.

A woman lay sprawled across the interior of the trunk. She was beautiful—curly, black hair, dark eyes, pale skin. A gag was jammed into her mouth. She wore only a nightgown, which hugged her ample breasts and was riding up over a pair of very nice legs.

The night was looking up.

“Miss, is this your car?” Tequila asked.

She shook her head, slowly. He guessed she was drugged.

“Are you tied up and gagged in this truck because it’s something you enjoy doing?”

Another headshake, languid and slow.

“Do you need me to rescue you?” Tequila asked.

A half-speed, yet still emphatic nod.

“If I do rescue you, you want to go grab a bite to eat somewhere?”

She stared at him, eyes wide.

“Sorry. Hold on a second.” He undid her gag. “So, you interested? I save you, we go out?”

“Uh, sure,” she said, a slow smile creeping across her face.

Tequila figured it was heroin. He pulled a folding knife out of his chinos and cut her bindings. As he did, he noticed a butterfly tattoo on her hip.

Tequila held up his hand, which had a butterfly tattooed on the back. “I’m Tequila,” he said.

She giggled, high as a kite. “I’m Candi. With an I.”

“Are you a stripper, Candi?”

“I’ve done some dancing.”

“Do you like bikes?”

She swallowed. “I love them.”

“I’ve got a Harley softail and a pocketful of hundred dollar bills. Interested?”

Candi with an I nodded.

Tequila reached in and swept her out of the trunk.

She hugged him, hard.

“Thanks for saving me, Tequila.” She breathed hot into his ear. “I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”

Yes, indeed, the night was definitely looking up.

The One That Didn’t

Michigan, 2004

Moni has the shakes. The shakes, and gut-wrenching nausea, and a jackhammer headache, and a dry, metallic taste in her mouth that makes her tongue seem twice as big. She looks down the alley, dark, wet, smelling like something died there, and doesn’t even hesitate to walk down it. She needs the fix so bad she’s come to this empty hull of a town just to get it.

How the fuck did I let this happen?

She’d been so good for a time. After she’d escaped that freak and his sick-ass video dungeon of horrors, Moni had gone legit. No more hooking. No more drugs. Moved out of the city, got a job at a health food store.

Out of the life. Respectable. Clean.

But the goddamn nightmares…

She shakes her head, as if that’s enough to rid it of the memories.

It isn’t.

She tried a free clinic, talking out her problems with some overworked shrink who got stuck doing community service. Was told she had post traumatic stress disorder, like soldiers get.

But knowing what her problem is doesn’t make the problem go away. Neither does the prescription shit the shrink told her to take.

Moni knows only one thing can dull the horror. Only one thing can wipe that freak’s leering face out of her head.

Glass crunches under the soles of her tennis shoes. Laces long since gone, the tread worn away. Above the stench of this alley, she smells something else—herself.

Something strange about knowing you’re at the low point of your life, and for her, that’s truly saying something.

But at least I’m not tricking.

And she could have. The motivation was there. So much easier to score a twenty-spot sucking some guy off for five minutes than stealing a purse. The one slung over her shoulder belonged to an eighty-year-old only four hours ago. She ripped it off the woman’s arm and sprinted off down the sidewalk. An older man had come after her, but he’d been too slow. She can still feel the burn from that run in the backs of her legs.

And the shame.

This is the last time. She keeps telling herself over and over and over, and she’s told herself this before, but it feels different this time.

One more high. One more fix.

And then she’s done.

She sees the fire in the oil drum up ahead, and her pulse accelerates.

Always a nervous proposition meeting a new dealer for the first time. And she certainly wouldn’t have chosen to come way out here into this veritable urban ghost town, but people don’t sell drugs in front of Gucci stores. A whore she’d shared needles with had recommended this place, saying it was the best.

Moni has her doubts. This town, like many others in Michigan, died years ago with the demise of the auto factories. The homes are all abandoned. The businesses all closed. The cops don’t bother patrolling, because there is nothing to protect and no one to serve.

Passing between the empty buildings, she slows her approach, wondering if she should make herself known.

“Hey!” she calls out to a black man leaning against the brick wall behind the oil drum.

He looks up from the cell phone in his hand and squints at her through the firelight, and the rising smoke between them.

“Hi, baby, you need something?”

“Yeah, looking for H. Can you help me?”

“Yeah, I got you. Come on. It’s aiight.”

Thank God.

Moni continues toward him, moving finally into the welcome heat of the fire.

The man is young, maybe nineteen, twenty tops, and he’s swallowed by a black down jacket.

“I need works too,” Moni says. In exchange for this address, she gave that whore her last syringe.

“Got all kinds of works for you, baby.” The man smiles, showing a gold tooth, but the smile isn’t for Moni. It’s for someone behind Moni.

She turns, senses suddenly on high alert, and sees two other guys strutting toward her. Black faces, black jackets, mean black eyes.

She’s seen eyes like this many times before. Knows with a sick, sinking feeling what’s happening.

“Look, uh, Jasmine sent me.” Moni hopes the girl’s name was Jasmine, but it dawns on her that it doesn’t matter. Jasmine didn’t send Moni here to score. She sent Moni here to get japped.

What is the world coming to when you can’t trust a whore strung out on smack?

“I’ll do whatever you want,” Moni says. “Don’t hurt me.” She knows they’ll run a train on her, but maybe they won’t be rough. Maybe she’ll even end up with the H when it’s over.

“Check this bitch with the don’t hurt me.” The man behind the oil drum laughs. “Whacha gonna do for us, baby? Huh?” He steps out from behind the fire and moves toward her. “You gamed a bit, din’ you? You gonna show us how skinny white bitches suck black cock?”

“Whatever you guys want,” Moni says, knees trembling. “Just don’t—”

The slap rocks her head backward, and Moni falls onto her ass.

“Don’t hurt me,” one of the men behind her mimes, and the trio busts out laughing again.

Moni covers up as best she can when the kicking starts.

A two hundred dollar gym shoe catches her face, frees a tooth.

She spits blood, starts to cry.

“Dude, don’t fuck her mouth up…how she gon’ suck?”

Moni begins to crawl back toward the mouth of the alley, but it’s too far away. Sick as it is, she wonders if she’ll still be able to get a fix when they’re done with her.

A kick to the belly. She kisses the filthy asphalt. Unbidden, the memory of the freak comes back, smiling down at her, ready with his blow torch and his video camera.

That time, she fought back. Fought for her worthless, miserable life, because she didn’t want to die.

Now?

Now dying doesn’t seem so bad.

And then the kicking stops and she readies herself for what’s coming next, trying to land upon some memory—so few worth a damn—to latch onto and take herself out of this moment.

“Walk the fuck back out this alley, cracker!”

What? They can’t be talking to her.

Moni looks up, sees a tall figure standing at the opening to the alley, ten feet away.

“I was wondering if I could buy some drugs from you guys.”

“Please,” Moni moans. “Help me.”

But the man doesn’t acknowledge her.

“He ain’t for real,” says one of the men behind her.

“Boy, it look like we open for business? Get the fuck—”

“Your door was open. So how about you stop fucking around and sell me something?”

In the moment of heavy silence that follows, Moni glances back over her shoulder at her attackers, who are staring at one another in complete bewilderment. The closest gangbanger puffs out his chest, taking two strides up to the white guy.

“Muthafucka, you just walked into the wrong fuckin—”

The blades seem to materialize in the white man’s hands, glinting in the fire from the oil drum.

Slash-slash and the black kid is on his knees, trying to put his face back on.

“Oh hell no.”

The two remaining men step over Moni, the one in front reaching into his pocket.

She keeps expecting the tall man to retreat, or at least step back, make some effort to protect himself, but he just stands there, letting them come.

The next swipe happens so fast, she only sees the blade for a fleeting second.

Then a wet, gurgling sound, the dealer staggering back and grasping his neck as blood gushes out of a gaping tear.

As he falls back into the brick wall and sinks down onto the concrete to die, Moni looks back at the tall man and sees that he’s already brought the third man to his knees, in the process of carving a canyon through his chest, feathers from the down jacket billowing around them in a cloud that quickly turns from white to red.

When he hits the ground, Moni pounces upon the dealer, snaking a hand into his baggy jeans. Her fingers grasp what feel like warm grapes, and she makes a fist and pulls them out, her heart jumping, her eyes widening, an incredulous smile exploding across her face.

Balloons. Six of them. Each filled with H.

Moni glances up as the tall man walks toward her. She thinks about offering him half the drugs. He saved her life, after all. It’s the motherload of scores, and more than enough to share.

He squats down in front of her, and she notices for the first time in the firelight that he has one of the palest faces she’s ever seen.

And long black hair.

“Oh, God, thank you,” she says. “Thank you so, so much.”

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Moni.”

The man smiles a mouthful of awful, rotting teeth and spits a white piece of candy onto the ground—smells like…lemons.

Then Moni notices his eyes.

Black as tar.

Unfeeling.

Freak eyes.

“Hi, Moni, I’m Luther,” he says. “Do you know what an artificial leech is?”

A Schizophrenia of Hawks

The Plains of Central Illinois, 2008

The road to the Heathrow Facility for the Criminally Insane is a two-lane blacktop that cuts a straight line through the prairie west of Peoria. On a clear day, you can see the stone quadrangle and its various spurs from four miles away, like some prehistoric monument abandoned to erode upon the plain.

Only it isn’t abandoned. Heathrow is home to four hundred thirteen of the most violent and mentally damaged human beings in the tri-state area.

And this wasn’t a clear day.

Lightning slashed across the night sky as Doctor Carmichael drove down the narrow road to the asylum.

Rain drumming hard against the windshield.

Wipers barely keeping up.

Another explosion of lightning revealed the facade of Heathrow in the distance—four stories of crumbling granite masonry, the glass behind the barred windows reflecting the electricity.

Carmichael pulled his black Mercedes S-Class under the covered entryway and killed the engine. Lingered for a moment longer, enjoying the heated leather as it warmed his back through his woolen jacket.

Eventually, he grabbed his briefcase and stepped out of the car into the raw, damp night. The sound of rain hammering the drive and the roof over his head nearly drowned out the deeper booms of thunder, which he could feel in his backbone.

Everything smelled of Heathrow’s cold, wet stone.

Inside, it was still as a tomb, and the air reeked of disinfectant, which barely masked the odor of urine, desperation, and crazy.

Crazy had a distinct smell. It was medicinal, metallic, like an open bottle of pills. Almost human, but not quite.

The good doctor walked to the reception desk where a nurse in burgundy scrubs was filling out an intake form.

“Good evening,” he said. “I have an appointment with one of your patients.”

The nurse looked up from her paperwork, gave a tired smile. She was young, might have been pretty, but her face was scrubbed free of any trace of makeup, and her hair was tied up in a tight knot against the back of her head.

“Your name?”

He said it slowly, patiently. “Doctor Vincent Carmichael.”

“Who’s the patient you’re here to see?”

“Alexandra Kork.”

He registered some reaction in the nurse’s face at the utterance of that name. Disgust or horror or some mix of the two.

The nurse rolled her chair over to a computer, whose monitor Carmichael could just barely see. She was studying a calendar.

“Yes, I see you’re on here for 9:15.”

“It’s a late appointment, but I wanted to see her after a full day. When she’s tired. More compliant.”

“Yeah. Sure. Let me know how that works out for you.” The nurse lifted a phone and punched in a three-digit extension. “Hey, Jonas, Dr. Carmichael is here to see Little Miss Sunshine. You want to come up and take him back?”

“Have you examined Ms. Kork before?” asked Jonas, head orderly of D-Wing. He was a large, bearded man who might have played guard or tackle at a small college. He reminded Carmichael of a combat orderly—white uniform, white tennis shoes, and a belt outfitted with a radio, pepper spray, zip-ties, and an assortment of other restraint tools.

“This is my first time,” Carmichael said.

They were walking down a long, dark corridor that linked the quadrangle to its most outlying, most secure wing.

Lightning spiderwebbed across the sky, flashing through the tall windows on either side of them, casting the checkered floor in a burst of electric blue.

“She is, without a doubt, our most violent, most dangerous patient.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“In your email, you mentioned you wanted to meet with her in a private room.”

“That’s correct.”

Thunder shook the windowglass all around them.

“I would strongly advise against that,” Jonas said. “Our preference would be to have you meet in separate rooms connected by a Plexiglas window. You would be able to see her and speak to her through a telephone.”

“Unacceptable.”

“If she decides to kill you, you’ll be dead before we get to you. Ms. Kork has tremendous physical strength.”

“But her ankles and wrists will be chained, correct?”

“They haven’t stopped her before.”

Carmichael quit walking and faced the orderly.

“Jonas, everything I do, any progress I make with Ms. Kork, will be based upon a foundation of trust.”

“I under—”

“And that foundation is not built by speaking to someone through reinforced Plexiglas on a telephone. It’s by sharing the same space, breathing the same air.”

“You know that Ms. Kork killed two of her previous psychiatrists.”

“I am aware.”

“The first was a two-hundred fifteen pound man who insisted on the same conditions you’re requesting. Seventy-four minutes into their third session, Alex went into convulsions. When Dr. Andrews attempted to help her, she shoved a sharpened, plastic toothbrush through his right eye socket. It went all the way in, right up to the bristles.”

“I’ll watch out for the convulsion trick.”

“The second shrink, she snapped her neck when the poor woman reached out to shake her hand. They hadn’t even said two words. Alex blamed it on her period.”

“Periods can be rough.”

Jonas eyed Dr. Carmichael oddly.

“So I won’t shake hands with her,” Carmichael said.

Jonas nodded, apparently satisfied. He lifted his radio to his mouth and said, “Move Kork to Interview One.”

They continued walking toward a pair of double doors in the distance.

“What is it you hope to achieve here?” Jonas asked.

“I want to learn from her,” Carmichael said.

“Why?” Jonas pulled a keycard out of his pocket.

“Maybe so we can stop people like her from happening again.”

“Amen to that.”

Carmichael shot Jonas another cold stare.

“Despite all the terrible things she’s done, all the pain she’s caused, Alex Kork is still a human being. A broken one, sure. But one just the same. You could stand to have a bit more empathy. Perhaps I need to speak with your superiors about that.”

“Uh, I don’t think that’s necessary. But this one…she’s a real pisser, Doc. No bullshit.”

“Which is why I’m here to study her.”

Jonas rubbed his hairy chin. “I have to say, and this may be my ignorance showing, that I’ve never heard of you before. Your credentials check out, but let’s be realistic. In this day and age, with the Internet and photoshop, anyone can impersonate a doctor.”

Carmichael stopped walking, forcing Jonas to do the same. “You’re correct,” Carmichael said.

“Really? How so?”

“Your ignorance is showing.”

Jonas blinked twice. Carmichael didn’t blink at all.

“Um, Dr. Panko instructed me to assist you in any way I could,” Jonas said, “so that’s what I’m going to do.”

Jonas swiped the keycard, and through the space between the heavy steel doors, Carmichael saw two bolts retract.

One of the doors swung back and they walked over the threshold into D-Wing.

Harsh, fluorescent lights glared down.

They passed a utility closet and arrived at a reception desk that stood protected behind steel bars. It looked less like a hospital, more like a military bunker. Behind the desk, one doorway opened into a room that resembled a small armory—stun guns, cattle prods, face-masks, canisters of pepper spray and tear gas, batons, straight-jackets, blackjacks, riot gear. Along the back wall, several pistols and shotguns had been mounted.

The other doorway opened into a pharmacy.

Jonas and Carmichael stopped at the reception desk, and Jonas smiled at a behemoth of a woman in a gray suit with the unmistakable countenance of a prison guard. She was playing Solitaire on an old-school computer that must have been fifteen years old. Clearly, the funding had been poured into better weapons.

Jonas said, “Hi, Bernice. All quiet?”

Her eyes didn’t avert from the screen as she said, “Mostly. This the one here to study our precious little angel?”

“I’m Dr. Carmichael,” Carmichael said.

“Little Miss Sunshine is waiting in Interview One.”

“She’s secure?” Jonas asked.

“I strip-searched her myself. Her wrist-and ankle-irons are bolted into the new D-ring in the floor. Still ain’t safe, you ask me.” She caught Carmichael’s eyes for this comment.

“I’ve been duly warned.”

“She’s in a real foul mood tonight,” Bernice said, “even for her.”

Carmichael smiled. “Then any progress will be readily apparent. Would you take me back, please, Jonas?”

“Sure. We have some protocol, though. Gotta look through your briefcase, check your pockets. You saw Silence of the Lambs. Even a paperclip in the hands of one of these patients could be lethal.”

Dr. Carmichael submitted to a brief but thorough pat-down.

“Be careful in there,” Bernice said, once Carmichael got the all clear.

The man calling himself Dr. Carmichael brushed a strand of long, black hair off of his pale forehead.

“I’m always careful,” he said.

Jonas led Carmichael through another series of doors, and when those locks had shot home, took him down a dark, quiet hallway.

“She’s right in here,” Jonas said, gesturing to a red door at the end with I-1 engraved beneath a small window.

Jonas pulled a set of keys out of his pocket and unlocked the door.

“If anything happens, anything at all,” he said, “don’t hesitate. Scream at the top of your lungs.”

“I don’t scream much anymore.”

“It’s for your own good, Doc. Trust me. She’s as bad as they come.”

Carmichael moved past Jonas and pushed open the door.

It was a few degrees colder in the interview room.

Through the barred window in the back wall, he could see rain beading on the glass.

Lightning flashed.

Thunder dropped.

He closed the door behind him and looked at the woman seated at the small, metal table.

Alex Kork was classically beautiful. At least, half of her was. Her long blond hair hung over the side of her face, partially obscuring the pink, rubbery-looking scar tissue that spread from her forehead down to her chin.

The prisoner watched as Carmichael entered, following his movements while she remained perfectly still. She wore a white, unisex cotton top, sleeveless, with matching pants. The muscle definition in her bare arms was offset by her ample breasts. On her feet were slippers with flimsy rubber soles. Her wrists and ankles were manacled, the chains hooked onto the iron ring bolted to the floor.

Carmichael removed his jacket and draped it over the back of the chair across from Alex.

“Mind if I sit?” he asked.

Alex said nothing. Her posture was neither tense nor relaxed, but she gave Carmichael her undivided focus.

Carmichael pulled out the chair and eased down into the seat.

There was the sound of the rain hitting the glass and nothing else.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Finally, Carmichael cleared his throat. “They tell me I’m putting my life at risk meeting with you in here.”

Alex’s mouth twitched, the non-scarred half curling into a smile. “Life is risk. More than a hundred fifty thousand people across the world will die today. You think they woke up knowing that would happen?”

“Do you think about death a lot…may I call you Alex?”

Alex leaned back, her chest stretching out the thin cotton smock. She wore no bra, her nipples pronounced.

“I almost didn’t agree to see you. Doctors bore me. But then Jonas gave me your description.” Her tongue darted out, licking her scarred lip. “Pale skin and long, black hair is hard to forget.” More silence. “Sure,” Alex finally said. “You can call me Alex. And I think about death almost as much as I think about sex, which is constantly.” Alex raised an eyebrow—the only one she still had attached. The left side of her face looked like strips of bacon had been stapled to it. “So what do I call you? They told me your name is Dr. Carmichael, but that seems disingenuous.”

Now it was Carmichael’s turn to smile. “Call me Luther.”

“Luther?” Alex raised her cuffed hands and touched an index finger to her hairline. “You’ve got some black dye on your forehead, Luther. “

Luther’s dark eyes twinkled. “It’s not easy being me.”

He pulled a crumpled candy box out of his coat pocket, shaking some Lemonheads onto his palm. He offered one to Alex. When she extended her hands, she held his for a moment, her fingernails raking lightly across his knuckles.

“You like Lemonheads, Luther?” she asked, placing one on her tongue like a communion wafer.

“Fucking hate them,” Luther said, popping two into his mouth.

Alex shifted, sitting back. Her knees parted, then slowly opened, Alex watching his eyes, watching Luther glance down.

“You’ve been here quite a while,” Luther said. Now he leaned forward in his chair, his elbows resting on the cold, metal table. “You ever think about getting out?”

“Right now I’m thinking about getting off. A year is a long time for a girl to go without sex, Luther.”

“A year is a long time. You must really hate that cop who put you here. Jack Daniels.”

The coy dropped off Alex’s face, darkness replacing it. “Now why would you want to go and spoil my mood bringing up that bitch?”

“Daniels…interests me. I’d like to know more about her.”

“You thinking of paying the good Lieutenant a visit?”

“I saw her on the television. I’m wondering if she’s strong enough.”

“Strong enough for what?”

“Strong enough to stop me.”

Alex closed her legs, leaning forward. “Jack Daniels is mine. If something happens to her before I get out of this shithole, I’ll turn my attentions to the one that took her from me.”

“You honestly think they’re ever going to let you out of here?”

Alex stood up suddenly, her chains rattling. She leaned forward, bending over the stainless steel table, and put her lips next to Luther’s ear. “Why worry about the future? So much more fun to live in the moment.”

Luther braced himself, opening up his hands, ready to push her away. Then he felt her lips on his neck.

“Did you really come all the way out here to talk about Jack?” Alex breathed hot and wet on his cheek.

Luther swallowed and slowly filled his lungs with air. “I read all about you and your brother, Charles.”

“And?”

“I…wanted to meet you. I…wanted to see you.”

Her tongue ran across his chin. “And why is that, Luther?”

His move was sudden and violent, grabbing Alex’s shoulders, pushing her back into her chair, then leaning across the table, bringing his lips close to hers. “There aren’t many out there like us.” He edged closer, felt her breath on his teeth.

“Do you like killing people, Luther?” Alex said, so softly it was barely audible. “Does it turn you on to make people suffer?”

Luther inched forward and their lips touched. He tasted her bottom lip, running his tongue across the smooth and the scars.

He bit down and he kept biting down until the skin broke and he tasted a single bead of blood like a burst of hot rust on the tip of his tongue.

Alex moaned deeply, “Fucking take me. Now.”

Luther glanced over his shoulder at the window.

He slid off the table—

Alex said, “Where the fuck do you think you’re…”

—dropping to his hands and knees—

“Oh…”

—and crawling under the table. He ran his hands up her legs, through the chains, until he found the drawstring on her pants. Luther dug his hands into her waistband and tugged them down to her feet.

Long, perfect legs with the chains connecting her ankles and wrists running up the middle.

Alex scooted her bare ass to the edge of the metal chair and got his head inside her cuffed wrists. When he pressed his face between her thighs, Alex bellowed out in a big, throaty laugh.

Her laughter turned to moaning when his tongue found her.

She peeked her eyes open, locking stares with Jonas, who looked on, slack-jawed, through the tiny window in the door.

The orderly watched her come, bucking against Luther’s face, tangling her fingers in his long, black hair.

“I could…fucking…kill you right now…” Alex grunted, pulling her chains around Luther’s neck as the orgasm wracked her body.

Luther scooted up, into her manacled embrace, his mouth finding hers, one hand frantically tugging down his zipper.

He stood and lifted Alex out her chair, the chains drawing tight against the D-ring in the floor. He pushed her across the table onto her stomach as Jonas watched, eyes bulging out, his hand busy behind the door.

Alex spread her legs as wide as the chains would allow, and Luther drove himself into her, the steady slap-slap-slap of skin against skin building in strength and frequency until his legs went weak and he collapsed onto her, sweaty and grunting and their chests heaving against each other.

“I need more doctors like you,” Alex said, wiggling her ass against him.

Luther abruptly pulled out, collapsing into Alex’s chair.

“We need to get you out of this place,” he said, zipping up.

Alex sat up on the table facing him, her legs still open, completely comfortable with her nudity.

“How?” she asked.

“I could help you escape. We could go after Jack together.”

“I would love to kill with you, Luther,” Alex said, “and I want us to make that happen. But Jack is mine. You see what she did to me.”

“I think you’re beautiful.”

“She’s mine, Luther. You let me have her, and I’ll do things to you that will make your fucking head explode.”

Luther stood up, walking around the table to his original chair. He lifted his briefcase and opened it covertly, hiding it from Jonas who still stared through the window.

Luther removed the false bottom and took out three small items.

“Can you pick locks?” he asked Alex, lowering his voice.

She nodded, her eyes getting bigger. He reached over, clasping her hands, slipping her the lock pick, the tension wrench, and the plastic disposable lighter.

“There’s a utility closet down the hall,” he said. “Probably locked. Probably filled with flammable cleaning supplies.”

“There’s no way they will ever let me walk out of this dump.”

“So let someone else take your place.”

Alex nodded. “But even if I burn them, they’ll check dental records.”

“I couldn’t risk bringing in a pair of pliers, didn’t know if I’d have to go through a metal detector. But I’m sure you can make do.”

Then Luther closed his briefcase and walked briskly to the door.

Rapped on it twice.

“See you on the outside, Luther Kite,” Alex said as Jonas let him out.

In Which Blake and Joe Interview Each Other About the Experience of Writing SERIAL KILLERS UNCUT…

JOE: So once again, here we are, discussing the never-ending saga that has ultimately become SERIAL KILLERS UNCUT.

It seems like we’re writing an epic novel in installments.

BLAKE: We were talking about this recently, how if SERIAL KILLERS UNCUT (hereinafter, “SKU”) had been released by a legacy publisher, it would have taken us over two years to get to this point, and…

(a) no one would have gotten to read SERIAL, BAD GIRL, TRUCK STOP, SERIAL UNCUT, KILLERS, KILLERS UNCUT, or BIRDS OF PREY yet; and

(b) Even worse, we would just now be turning this novel in, which means it still wouldn’t be coming out for another 12-18 months, which is what, three and a half years after we initially released SERIAL?

JOE: In a way, we’re following the same model as independent musicians. Release the songs as they’re completed, then release the EPs (a few songs at a time), then the final album with everything together.

Do you feel like we’re ripping off our readers by doing this? Or being generous by releasing things as we write them, rather than making them wait months or years?

BLAKE: I can only put myself in their shoes. If I had the choice to read the work of my favorite novelist right now, as opposed to three years from now, I have to go with now every time. Besides, it’s not like we’re releasing $26.95 books every time out. Many of the individual stories that comprise SKU were priced at $.99 or $2.99. And SERIAL was and still is free. There may be some overlap between projects, certain stories being present in several omnibus collections, but I think that’s a small price to pay for having immediate access to our work. It simply wouldn’t work any other way.

Did you think when we started SERIAL it was going to morph into a 120,000-word double-novel?

JOE: No way. This project was a strange one for myriad reasons. Wonderful, and rewarding, but strange. We’re both fans of F. Paul Wilson (in fact, we wrote a novel, DRACULAS, with him), and Paul has done an admirable job linking his entire oeuvre together. The majority of his stories intermingle, and characters can pop up in seemingly unrelated books and stories.

As a fan, I LOVE this. It is rewarding to see a character I remember from a previous story come back in another one. So that’s the approach I wanted to take with this series.

The point of SERIAL was to see how two killers interacted when they met up on the road.

When we originally expanded SERIAL into SERIAL UNCUT, we wanted to take it up a notch. You took characters from your books and had them meet, I took characters from mine and had them meet.

Then we went even further with BIRDS OF PREY. Now we completely intertwined our universes. My bad guys meet your bad guys, from over a dozen of our novels.

BLAKE: You and I write a lot of bad guys. It was so much fun doing the killer-killer interaction in SERIAL UNCUT, that with BIRDS OF PREY, we simply said, let’s bring every major villain we’ve ever written into the same book. And not only that, let’s have Joe’s villains and Blake’s villains share scenes together. And not just any old scenes. Scenes that perhaps set up or anticipate big events in our major works like your Jack Daniels series and my Andrew Thomas series. I think of SKU as a glove that fits into all the spaces left between our collective novels. So Charles Kork from WHISKEY SOUR has a scene with Luther Kite and Orson Thomas from DESERT PLACES. Donaldson and Orson share a scene. Alex Kork and Luther Kite share a scene. And of course, there’s the centerpiece of the entire thing, “An Unkindness of Ravens.”

JOE: That 16,000 word section features Javier (Snowbound), Luther Kite (Locked Doors), Mr. K (Shaken), Alex Kork (Rusty Nail), and Charles Kork (Whiskey Sour) on the side of evil, along with cameos by Kiernan (Run), Donaldson (Serial), Lucy (Serial), Dwight Eisenhower (Endurance), Isaiah (Abandon), Swanson, Munchel, and Pessalano (Fuzzy Navel).

They went up against the forces of good, Jack Daniels, Clayton Theel (Draculas), and Tequila (Shot of Tequila.)

It was like a greatest hits battle royale, and so much fun to write.

Which is part of the reason the end product is over 120,000 words long and took two years to complete. This double novel takes place between all of our other novels, filling in gaps, expanding back-stories, and revealing clues to our upcoming collaboration, STIRRED.

BLAKE: There are some huge clues in here, no doubt. To me, the benefit of writing something like this, is that we’re using characters who have already been battle-tested in other books. We know they work, we love to write them, and so instead of spending all our time inventing and developing brand new characters, we’ve taken this group and put them to work building an entire monster of a book.

JOE: I’m pretty sure this hasn’t been done before. Not on this scale. Not with two authors completely meshing their worlds together.

At least, not in horror fiction. Comics and TV shows have been doing this for years. Superheroes and Supervillains always appear across many titles, and who didn’t love the 70s when Magnum PI would appear on Simon & Simon, or Mork did a cameo on Laverne & Shirley?

BLAKE: Let’s talk about how our collaborative process has developed over the last two years. With SERIAL, we started out emailing each other back and forth until a scene was finished, and there was a big element of gamesmanship, of not knowing what the other guy was up to and using that energy to propel the scene into interesting places. Then with KILLERS, we started using Google docs, which we’ve talked about previously, allowing us to write in the same document at the same time. But what interests me most is how our writing style (when we write together) has changed. I think we’ve truly developed a Konrath/Crouch style that is quite different from our individual styles. It seems like we edit each other much less now, and I think that’s because I know what kind of a sentence will pass your bullshit test, and vice versa.

JOE: It’s become pretty seamless, and we’re often finishing each other’s sentences, or anticipating what the other will do next. As a result, we can write 3,000 words faster than it would take either of us to write 1,500 individually, because we’re rewriting and polishing on the fly.

I also like it when we divvy up workloads. “Blake, go and add description to the Porter intro, and I’ll work ahead on the first Alex scene.” It’s a lot of fun. Almost like a hive mind is writing the story. Since writing is such a solitary profession, to be able to create stories and worlds with a partner is like getting a new toy.

BLAKE: You write very fast on your own, but for instance, today we wrote about 5,000 words, which is an astronomical word count for me.

JOE: That’s because you’re slow, like a snail surfing on molasses. At the same time I was working with you, I was working with Ann Voss Peterson on FLEE, our spy novel. We did about 4,000 there, too.

BLAKE: Show off.

So we’re going to finish the last piece of this puzzle, STIRRED, this summer. That’s going to be the conclusion to your Jack Daniels series and my Andrew Thomas series. In a way, writing SKU has laid the perfect groundwork for how we’re going to approach writing that novel together. It’s going to be a blast.

JOE: Hopefully the fun we’re having will translate to the page, and give our fans—both new to us and long-time readers—something to enjoy.

Do you believe tools like Dropbox and Google docs are going to change the way writers write?

BLAKE: Not on a massive scale, no. I still think most writers are solitary beings, introverts by nature, and that most books will continue to be single-author. It’s a wonderful thing to collaborate, but you have to find the right partner, not only someone who thinks like you and tells stories like you, but who you respect enough to let them change your words. That’s a tall order, and without getting all sentimental and shit, we’re very lucky to have crossed paths.

JOE: I dunno, man. I’ve done this Google docs thing with you, Ann, and Barry Eisler, and we’ve all enjoyed it. I think it’s just a matter of time before we see big shots giving it a try. Especially since ebooks have made it so easy to release work.

It’s worth mentioning here that there is no way we would have been able to do this in the traditional publishing environment. This is a 120,000 word double-novel, published in segments over the course of twenty-four months, where the protagonists are mostly serial killers. Our agents would have laughed at us, and no publisher would ever have taken on this project.

BLAKE: Except Brilliance Audio. Yay, Brilliance!

JOE: They’re very forward-thinking. But they also pay attention to the market. The previous installments we’ve written have sold very well, and readers seem to get what we’re trying to do.

Would you call this metafiction? Experimental? Or am I being big-headed (well, more than usual) in thinking this is a natural evolution of narrative structure?

BLAKE: No, I think it’s all of that. But mainly, it’s just two guys writing the kind of book they would be totally geeked to read if their favorite writers ever attempted such a project.

JOE: We have truly been liberated by technology here. I can’t emphasize that enough. There have always been writers who collaborate. Ellery Queen was two guys. Preston and Child are bestsellers. But with SKU, we were literally on the same page, at the same time, adding to each other’s sentences before they were finished. We couldn’t have written the gunshow scene on two separate typewriters. We couldn’t have even written it via email, as we did with SERIAL.

I believe DRACULAS, and SKU, represent a new way of creating stories.

But then, I’ve also been drinking.

BLAKE: Well I haven’t…yet…and I agree with you. I just want to see more writers doing this sort of thing. Imagine if Stephen King and Dean Koontz did something like this.

JOE: Better yet, imagine if King, Koontz, and Kilborn did something like this? Or Crouch, Patterson, and Harris?

BLAKE: I’d buy it.

JOE: So would I. As long as it was less than $5.99. Now let’s talk about the sex scene…

BLAKE: Um yeah…you and I have written quite a bit together, but nothing like this. And I was actually staying at your house when we wrote this, so it was a bit strange being in the same room, writing the Alex/Luther conjugal visit at the same time.

JOE: I wouldn’t call it uncomfortable, exactly. But it was a pretty hot scene, and there were certain points where I didn’t want to make eye contact with you. That said, I think we did an admirable job of not succumbing to childish giggling. Mostly.

BLAKE: Think we’ll ever release a single work containing all novels, stories, and novellas in this combined universe, which we’ve written to date? It would be something like 1,500,000 words.

JOE: That would require us getting the rights back—rights currently held by our legacy publishers. I don’t see that happening anytime soon.

Last question. Are we really, truly done with this story?

BLAKE: I think we’re done for the time being, but I don’t want to say that a continuance is completely out of the question. Our characters seem to have this strange habit of never really dying…

Tampa, 1978

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you about the dangers of hitchhiking?” the driver said. “You never know who’s going to pick you up.”

Donaldson wiped sweat from his brow and eyed the driver through the half-open passenger side window of the Lincoln Continental. The driver was average-looking, roughly Donaldson’s age, dressed in a dark suit that matched the car’s paint job.

“I’m roasting out here, man,” Donaldson said. And it wasn’t far from the truth. He’d been walking down this desolate highway for damn near three hours in the abusive, summer sun. “My car died. If you want to rob or kill me, that’s fine, as long as you have air conditioning.”

Donaldson forced a bright smile, hoping he looked both pathetic and non-threatening. It must have worked, because the man hit a switch on his armrest, and the door unlocked.

Must be nice being rich, Donaldson mused at the fancy automatic locks. Then he opened the door and heaved his bulk onto the leather seat.

“Thanks,” he said.

The car was cooler than outside, but not by much. Donaldson wondered if the man’s air worked. He placed his hand against the vent, felt a trickle of cold leaking out.

“Happy to help a fellow traveler. I’m Mr. K.”

“Donaldson.”

Neither made a move to shake hands. Mr. K checked his mirror, then gunned the 8-cylinder engine, spraying gravel as the luxury car fishtailed back onto the asphalt.

Donaldson adjusted his bulk, shifting the .38 he’d crammed into the front pocket of his jeans. The pants were loose enough, and Donaldson portly enough, that he doubted Mr. K noticed.

“You’re sunburned,” Mr. K said.

“Sun’ll do that to you.”

Donaldson touched his bare forearm, lobster red, and winced. Then he flipped down the visor mirror, saw how bad his face was. It looked like his old man had slapped the shit out of him, and hurt almost as much.

“Your car a Pinto?” Mr. K asked.

“My car?”

“A Pinto. Saw one about five miles back.”

Donaldson contemplated the harm in admitting it. He supposed it didn’t matter. Before he’d abandoned the car, he’d wiped it clean of fingerprints.

“Yeah. Blew a rod, I think.”

“Why didn’t you wait for the police?”

Again, Donaldson deliberated before answering. “I don’t like pigs,” he finally said.

Mr. K nodded. Donaldson doubted the man shared his sentiment. His hair was short, he was well-dressed, and he owned a fancy car. Cops wouldn’t hassle him. They were too busy hassling people with long hair and beards and ripped jeans.

People like me.

The highway stretched onward, wiggly heat waves rising off the tarmac. There wasn’t much traffic. Only about twenty cars had passed Donaldson during his long walk, and not one had so much as slowed down. Bastards. Whatever happened to human compassion?

“Did you kill the car’s owner before you stole it?” Mr. K asked.

Alarm bells sounded in Donaldson’s head. He frantically pawed at his .38, but Mr. K slammed on the brakes.

Donaldson bounced off the dashboard, smacking his sunburned nose hard. During the momentary disorientation, he was aware of Mr. K throwing the car into park, unbuckling his seatbelt, and pressing a thin-bladed knife under Donaldson’s double chin with one hand, while digging the .38 from Donaldson’s front pocket with the other.

“You should buckle up,” Mr. K said. “Seatbelts save lives.”

Mr. K stuck the knife into his breast pocket, belted himself back in, then hit the gas. The tires screamed and the Continental shot forward.

“I’m bleeding,” Donaldson said, his hands cupped around his nose. He knew it was a stupid, obvious thing to say, but he was still dazed and trying to buy some time.

“Tissues in the glove compartment.”

Donaldson dug them out, feeling more ashamed than hurt. This guy had gotten the better of him much too easily. As he mopped the blood from his face, Mr. K pressed a button to open the passenger side window.

“Throw the used ones outside, please.”

Donaldson went through ten tissues, tossing each one onto the road whizzing by. Then he ripped one more into pieces, balled them up, and shoved them into each nostril, staunching the trickle. He kept an eye on Mr. K the entire time, alternating between watching the man’s eyes, and watching the .38 pointed at him.

This is a real bad situation.

“I don’t enjoy repeating myself, but you hit that dashboard pretty hard, so I’ll ask one more time. Did you kill the driver before you stole the Pinto?”

Donaldson knew he was screwed, but he didn’t want to get himself even more screwed.

“You a cop?” he asked, not sure if that would be a good thing or a bad thing.

The barest flash of mirth crossed Mr. K’s face. “No. But your biggest worry right now shouldn’t be getting arrested. Your biggest worry should be the hole I’m going to put in your head if you don’t answer me.”

The gears began to turn in Donaldson’s head. How the hell do I get through this? Talk my way out?

“You won’t shoot me,” Donaldson said, surprised by how calm he sounded.

“No?”

“You’d ruin your car.”

Again, a faint hint of a smile. “It’s not my car. And you still haven’t answered my question.”

Mr. K thumbed back the hammer on the pistol.

Donaldson contemplated his own death—the first time in his life he ever had—and decided dying would be a very bad thing.

“I killed him,” Donaldson said quickly.

Mr. K seemed to think about this. He nodded slowly. “Was it someone you knew?”

“No. Jumped him in a parking lot in Sarasota. Wouldn’t have wasted the bullet if I knew what a piece of crap his car was.”

Donaldson watched Mr. K’s eyes. They betrayed nothing. The two of them might as well have been talking about the weather.

“How’d it feel?” Mr. K asked.

“How did what feel?”

“Killing that man.”

What kind of freaky talk is this? Donaldson thought, but all he said was, “I dunno.”

“Sure you do. Did it feel good? Bad? Numb? Did it get you excited? Did you feel guilty afterward?”

Donaldson thought back to the day before. To holding the gun to the man’s ribs. Seeing the shock in his eyes when he squeezed the trigger once, twice, three times. Watching him flop to the ground in a way that had struck him as funny. The holes in his chest had made sucking sounds, blowing tiny blood bubbles.

“Excited,” Donaldson said.

“Did he die right away?”

“No.”

“Did you stay and watch him die?”

“Yeah.”

“How long did it take?”

It’s so strange that we’re both so calm about this.

Donaldson shrugged. “Few minutes, I guess.”

“Did you do anything else to him?”

“Like what?”

“Did you hurt him first?” Mr. K raised an eyebrow. “Rape him?”

Donaldson scowled. “Do I look like a queer to you?”

“What does being a homosexual have to do with it? You had a human being at your mercy. That excited you. I’m asking if you capitalized on that opportunity. If you made the most of it.”

Donaldson thought about it. The guy had been at his mercy. He’d begged for a while when Donaldson pulled the gun, and that was kind of a turn-on.

“I didn’t rape him,” Donaldson said.

“Could you have raped him?”

Donaldson licked some dried blood off of his top lip, let the salty, copper taste linger on his tongue. “Yeah. I could’ve.”

This answer seemed to satisfy Mr. K. He was quiet for over a minute.

The road stretched out ahead of them like a giant black snake.

Empty swampland and blue skies as far as Donaldson could see.

I can’t believe I’m telling him this stuff. Is it because he’s threatening to kill me?

Or because he understands?

“How’d you know?” Donaldson asked.

“Know what?”

“That I stole that car?”

Mr. K offered a half-smile. “I saw the gun in your pocket when you stopped, along with your clumsy attempt to hide it. You should get an ankle holster, or stuff it in your belt at the small of your back. You obviously aren’t a Florida native, or you’d have a tan already. That means you flew in or drove in. If you flew, you probably would’ve had a rental car, and those are usually new. That Pinto was an old model. When you first got in, I noticed the powder burns on your shirt, and under your rather oppressive body odor, you smell like gunpowder.”

Donaldson was impressed, but he refused to show it. He knew a lot about being victimized. One way to stop being a victim was to stop acting like a victim.

“I asked how you knew about the car, not my gun,” Donaldson said, sticking out his lower jaw.

If Mr. K noticed Donaldson’s display of bravado, he didn’t react. “Your loose jeans didn’t jingle when you sat down in the car. When people abandon their vehicles, they take their keys with them. So I assumed it wasn’t yours.”

Donaldson appraised Mr. K again. This was a smart guy.

“How about you?” Donaldson ventured. “Did you kill the owner of this car?”

“Not yet.”

“Not yet?”

“He’s tied up in the trunk. I’m taking him someplace private.”

Donald worded his next question carefully. “Do you want to kill me?”

Mr. K drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.

Donaldson counted his own heartbeats, trying to keep cool until Mr. K finally replied.

“Haven’t decided yet.”

“Is there anything I can do to, uh, persuade you that I’m worth keeping alive?”

“Maybe. The Pinto owner you killed. He wasn’t the first.”

Donaldson thought back to his father, to beating the old man to death with a baseball bat. “No, he wasn’t.”

“But he was the first stranger.”

This guy is uncanny. “Yeah.”

“Who was it before that? Girlfriend? Family member?”

“My dad.”

“But you didn’t use a gun on him, did you? You made it more personal.”

“Yeah.”

“What’d you use?”

“A Louisville Slugger.”

“How did it feel?”

Donaldson closed his eyes. He could still feel the sting of the bat in his palms when he cracked it against his father’s head, still see the blood that spurted out of split skin like a lawn sprinkler.

“I felt like Reggie Jackson hitting one out of Yankee Stadium. Afterward, I even went out and bought a Reggie Bar.”

Mr. K gave him a sideways glance. “Why buy candy? Why didn’t you eat part of your father? Just imagine the expression on his face.”

Donaldson was about to protest, but he stopped himself. When he broke Dad’s jaw with the bat, the old man had looked more surprised than hurt. How would he have reacted if Donaldson had cut off one of his fingers and eaten it in front of him?

That would have shown the son of bitch. Bite the hand that feeds you.

“I should have done that,” Donaldson said.

“He hurt you when you were a child.” Mr. K said it as a statement, not a question.

“Yeah. He used to beat the shit out of me.”

“Did he sexually abuse you?”

“Naw. Nothing like that. But every time I got into trouble, he’d take his belt to me. And he hit hard enough to draw blood. What kind of asshole does that to a five-year-old kid?”

“Think hard, Donaldson. Do you believe your father beat you, and that turned you into what you are? Or did he beat you because of what you are?”

Donaldson frowned. “What do you mean what you are? What am I?”

Mr. K turned and stared deep into his soul, his eyes like gun barrels. “You’re a killer, Donaldson.”

Donaldson considered the label. It didn’t take him long to embrace it.

“So what was the question again?”

“Are you a killer because your father beat you, or did your father beat you because you’re a killer?”

Donaldson could remember that first beating when he was five. He’d taken his pet gerbil and put it in the blender. Used the pulse button, grinding it up a little at a time, so it didn’t die right away.

“I think my dad knew. Tried to beat the devil out of me. Used to tell me that, when he was whipping my ass.”

“You don’t have the devil in you, Donaldson. You’re simply unique. Exceptional. Unrestrained by morality or guilt.”

Exceptional? Donaldson had never felt like he was exceptional at anything. He did badly in school. Dropped out of college. Never had any friends, or a woman he didn’t pay for. Bummed around the country, job to job, occasionally ripping someone off. How is that exceptional?

But somehow, he felt that the description fit him.

Maybe that’s the problem. I’ve been trying to be normal all of these years, but I’m not. I’m better than normal.

I’m exceptional.

“How do you know this stuff?” Donaldson asked.

“The more you understand death,” Mr. K said, “the more you appreciate life.”

“Sounds like fortune cookie bullshit.”

“It was something I learned in the war.”

“Vietnam?” Donaldson had been exempt from the draft because he didn’t pass the physical.

“A villager in Ca Lu said it to me, before I removed his intestines with a bayonet.”

“Was he talking about himself?” Donaldson asked. “Or you?”

“You tell me. Did you feel alive when you killed your father, Donaldson?”

Donaldson nodded.

“And when you killed the owner of the Pinto?” Mr. K continued.

“Goddamn piece of crap car. I wish I could kill that guy again.”

“How about someone else in his place?”

Donaldson squinted at Mr. K. “What do you mean?”

Another half smile. “The man in my trunk. If I gave you the chance to kill him, would you?”

“What’d he do?”

“What did the Pinto owner do?” Mr. K countered.

“Nothing. But I wanted his car.”

“So you killed him for his car?”

“Yeah.”

“Couldn’t you have just pointed the gun and told him to give you his keys?”

“He would’ve called the cops.”

“You could’ve knocked him out. Or tied him up.”

“I guess.”

“But you didn’t.”

Donaldson folded his chubby arms across his chest. “No. I didn’t.”

“This man in the trunk. I promised him it would take a long time for him to die. Do you think you could do something like that? Draw out a man’s agony for a long time?”

Donaldson wasn’t sure what Mr. K’s angle was. “Sure.”

“Is that something you’d like to do?”

Donaldson shrugged. “I dunno. Never tried it before.”

“You know what the alternative is, don’t you?”

“You kill me.”

Mr. K nodded.

Donaldson made his decision in a nanosecond. “How do you want me to do it?”

“You can use your imagination. I have plenty of tools you can choose from.”

Donaldson stared off into the miles and miles of endless marshland. Thought about this strange request. Found himself becoming aroused.

“I’ll kill him,” he said. “And I’ll make it hurt.”

Mr. K checked his rearview mirror, eased his foot off the gas, and then drove onto the shoulder. He put on his emergency lights, then ordered Donaldson out of the car.

Donaldson didn’t even attempt to run away. He walked around to the rear of the car without being told and waited, butterflies amassing in his stomach.

The man in the trunk was awake, completely naked, his wrists and ankles tied with rope. He was older, late forties maybe, and he squinted in the powerful sun. In his mouth was a gag made out of a rubber ball.

He looks positively out of his mind with terror.

Donaldson licked his lips again.

“I prefer clothesline,” Mr. K said. “You can buy it everywhere, so it’s untraceable. And it won’t hold a fingerprint. Get him out of the car. Hurry, before another car comes by.”

Donaldson muscled the man out. It wasn’t easy. The guy squirmed and fought, and he was pretty heavy and tough to lift. Donaldson quickly gave up trying. Instead, he dragged him nude across the asphalt as the man moaned around his gag.

That’s gotta hurt, Donaldson thought. But that’s nothing compared to what I’m gonna do.

Mr. K took a tool case and a gas can out of the trunk, then closed it. He instructed Donaldson to pull the man into the marsh. It was wet, moss clinging to Donaldson’s shoes, muck seeping through. High reeds seemed to reach out and tug at the bound man, making it even harder to pull him.

After fifty yards, Donaldson was exhausted.

After a hundred yards, Donaldson was seriously pissed off. He hated being in the sun again, hated the throbbing in his nose and muscles, and hated this heavy son of a bitch for squirming so much and for being so goddamn heavy.

“That’s far enough,” Mr. K said. He set down the tool chest and opened it up.

Donaldson stared inside at the contents like a kid ogling presents under a Christmas tree.

“Can you give me my ball gag back?” Mr. K held out a rag. “It’s my last one.”

Donaldson unbuckled the gag from the man’s mouth, disgusted by the spit dripping from it. He handed it to Mr. K and then kicked the naked man in the stomach for making such a mess.

The man screamed. The first of many to come.

“I’ll pay!” he cried. “I’ll pay!”

“What should I use first?” Donaldson asked Mr. K.

“Try the ball-peen hammer. Breaking before cutting or burning always seems to work better.”

The next two hours blurred by for Donaldson, his entire world reduced to hurting this unknown, screaming, naked man in this deserted marsh. Even Mr. K seemed to vanish to Donaldson, though he took pictures during the proceedings, and occasionally interrupted to offer advice or encouragement:

Don’t cut there too deep. He’ll bleed to death.

Try the pliers.

Tell him what you’re going to do next. It makes it worse.

That part’s particularly sensitive. Use the blowtorch.

He’s not looking at you. Make him look at you, or cut off his eyelids.

He’s passed out again. Use the ammonia rag to wake him up.

There’s still a patch of skin there.

Now would be a good time for the salt and vinegar. Rub it in good.

It doesn’t make you gay. Enjoy yourself. He’s at your mercy.

How does it taste? Different than that other part you tried?

Try feeding his eyelids to him.

Don’t worry, it’s not your fault. He had a heart attack. It happens sometimes. You did well.

Donaldson sat nude next to the dead thing. The portly killer was covered with blood and bits of tissue, and he couldn’t think of any time in his twenty-something years of life that he’d ever been happier.

Mr. K finished wiping off the cheese grater with a rag and some bleach, and placed it back into his tool kit. Then he told Donaldson to douse the corpse with gasoline.

“Fire will take care of any evidence you’ve left behind. But wait until I’m gone. I don’t want you attracting any attention.”

Donaldson emptied the can and stared up at Mr. K, who stood silhouetted against the setting sun. He looked enormous.

Donaldson offered him the empty can, said, “Take me with you.”

“You’re naked and covered in blood, Donaldson. You’d ruin the interior of my car.”

“I thought you stole the car.”

“Stealing cars is for stupid children. The police have radios. It’s too easy to get caught. If you manage to get out of here, remember that. You’d be wise to remember everything I’ve said to you.”

“You’re not going to kill me?”

“Why should I? Even if you remembered my license plate number, which I don’t think you have, I just shot two rolls of you torturing a man to death. I have nothing to fear from you.”

Mr. K picked up his toolbox and turned to walk away.

“Can I get my gun back?” Donaldson asked.

Mr. K dropped the box, took out the .38, and wiped it off with the rag. He emptied the bullets onto the ground and tossed Donaldson the weapon, then reached into his breast pocket and tossed something else at him.

Wet wipes, from a fast food chicken place.

“I’d recommend getting some of that blood off before you try hitchhiking again.”

Donaldson nodded, picking a morsel of something out of his front teeth. “Next time I won’t get so much on me.”

“There’ll be a next time?”

“Yeah. Oh yeah.”

Mr. K stared at him for a moment, then lifted his toolkit. “Goodbye, Donaldson. I wish you luck on your future exploits.”

“You, too.”

Mr. K smiled. Not a hint of a smile. Or a half-smile. But a full one, like he was genuinely happy.

“And you be careful hitching,” Mr. K said. “Never know who’s going to pick you up.”

BLAKE CROUCH is the author of DESERT PLACES, LOCKED DOORS, SNOWBOUND, and ABANDON, which was an IndieBound Notable Selection, all published by St. Martin’s Press. His latest thriller, RUN, was released in February 2011. His short fiction has appeared in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Thriller 2, Shivers VI, Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, and other anthologies. In 2009, he co-wrote “Serial” with JA Konrath, which has been downloaded over 500,000 times and topped the Kindle bestseller list for 4 weeks. That story and ABANDON have also been optioned for film. Blake lives in Colorado. His website is www.blakecrouch.com.

JA KONRATH is the author of seven novels in the Lt. Jacqueline “Jack” Daniels thriller series. The latest is Shaken, published by AmazonEncore.

JACK KILBORN is the pen name for JA Konrath. Under the Kilborn moniker, he wrote ENDURANCE, TRAPPED, and AFRAID, all structured in the same way as DRACULAS, but decidedly darker. Konrath currently has twenty-seven ebooks available on Kindle, most of them inexpensively priced. In 2011, Ace Books is releasing TIMECASTER, a sci-fi ecopunk novel written under the nom de plume Joe Kimball. You can visit all of his personalities at www.jakonrath.com.

JA KONRATH’S/JACK KILBORN’S WORKS AVAILABLE ON KINDLE

Jack Daniels thrillers

Whiskey Sour

Bloody Mary

Rusty Nail

Dirty Martini

Fuzzy Navel

Cherry Bomb

Shaken

Shot of Tequila

Banana Hammock

Jack Daniels Stories (collected stories)

Serial Uncut with Blake Crouch

Killers with Blake Crouch

Suckers with Jeff Strand

Planter’s Punch with Tom Schreck

Floaters with Henry Perez

Truck Stop

Symbios (writing as Joe Kimball)

Jailbait (with Ann Voss Peterson)

Wild Night is Calling (with Ann Voss Peterson)

Shapeshifters Anonymous

The Screaming

Other works

Afraid

Endurance

Trapped

Origin

The List

Disturb

65 Proof (short story omnibus)

Crime Stories (collected stories)

Horror Stories (collected stories)

Dumb Jokes & Vulgar Poems

A Newbie’s Guide to Publishing

Visit the author at www.jakonrath.com

BLAKE CROUCH’S WORKS AVAILABLE ON KINDLE

Andrew Z. Thomas thrillers

Break You

Desert Places

Locked Doors

Other works

Run

Draculas with JA Konrath, Jeff Strand and F. Paul Wilson

Abandon

Snowbound

Famous

Perfect Little Town (horror novella)

Bad Girl (short story)

Serial with Jack Kilborn

Serial Uncut with JA Konrath and Jack Kilborn

Killers with Jack Kilborn

Birds of Prey with Jack Kilborn and JA Konrath

Killers Uncut with Jack Kilborn and JA Konrath

Serial Killers Uncut with Jack Kilborn and JA Konrath

Shining Rock (short story)

*69 (short story)

On the Good, Red Road (short story)

Remaking (short story)

The Meteorologist (short story)

The Pain of Others (novella)

Unconditional (short story)

Four Live Rounds (collected stories)

Six in the Cylinder (collected stories)

Fully Loaded (complete collected stories)

Visit Blake at www.BlakeCrouch.com

Stirred by Blake Crouch and JA Konrath

Flee by JA Konrath and Ann Voss Peterson

Pines by Blake Crouch

Mummies

Wolfmen

Draculas 2

Compilation copyright © 2011 by Blake Crouch & Joe Konrath

BIRDS OF PREY copyright © 2011 by Blake Crouch & Joe Konrath

Cover copyright © 2011 by Jeroen ten Berge

BIRDS OF PREY is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the authors’ imaginations or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Joe Konrath & Blake Crouch.

For more information about Blake Crouch, please visit www.blakecrouch.com.

For more information about JA Konrath, please visit www.jakonrath.com.

For more information about Jack Kilborn, please visit www.jackkilborn.com.

For more information about the cover artist, please visit www.jeroentenberge.com.

Content

Crouch Blake Birds of Prey