65 Proof

by Jack Kilborn

  “Judo mats. Extra thick. Very easy to clean up.”

  “You got mats on the walls too?” She got on her knees and reached overhead, touching the spongy material on the arced ceiling, her exposed belly jiggling.

  “Those are baffles. Keeps the sound out.” He smiled, closing the trap door behind him. “And in.”

  The lighting was subdued, just a simple overhead fixture next to the smoke alarm. The soundproofing was black foam, the mats a deep beige, and there was no furniture in the enclosure except for an inflatable rubber mattress and a medium-sized metal trunk.

  “This is kind of kinky. Are you kinky, Taylor?”

  “You might say that.”

  Taylor crawled over to the trunk at the far end of the enclosure. After dialing the combination lock, he opened the lid. Then he moved his Tupperware container aside and took out a fresh roll of paper towels, a disposable paper nose and mouth mask, and an aerosol spray can. He ripped off three paper towels, then slipped the mask on over his face, adjusting the rubber band so it didn’t catch in his hair.

  “What is that, sugar?” Candi asked. Her flirty, playful demeanor was slipping a bit.

  “Starter fluid. You squirt it into your carburetor, it helps the engine turn over. Its main ingredient is diethyl ether.”

  He held the paper towels at arm’s length, then sprayed them until they were soaked.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Candi looked panicked now. And she had good reason to be.

  “This will knock you out so I can tie you up. You’re not the prettiest flower in the bouquet, Candi with an I. But you have the cutest little toes.”

  He grinned again. But this wasn’t one of his attractive grins. The whore shrunk away from him.

  “Don’t hurt me, man! Please! I got kids!”

  “They must be so proud.”

  Taylor approached her, on his knees, savoring her fear. She tried to crawl to the right and get around him, get to the trap door. But that was closed and now concealed by matting, and Taylor knew she had no idea where it was.

  He watched her realize escape wasn’t an option, and then she dug into her little purse for a weapon or a cell phone or a bribe or something else that she thought might help but wouldn’t. Taylor hit her square in the nose, then tossed the purse aside. A small canister of pepper spray spilled out, along with a cell phone, make-up, Tic-Tacs, and several condoms.

  “You lied to me,” Taylor said, slapping her again. “You’ve got rubbers.”

  “Please…”

  “You lying little slut. Were you going to pepper spray me?”

  “No… I…”

  “Liar.” Another slap. “I think you need to be taught a lesson. And I don’t think you’ll like it. But I will.”

  Candi’s hands covered her bleeding nose and she moaned something that sounded like, “Please… My kids…”

  “Does your pimp offer life insurance?”

  She whimpered.

  “No? That’s a shame. Well, I’m sure he’ll take care of your children for you. He’ll probably have them turning tricks by next week.”

  Taylor knocked her hands away and pressed the cold, wet paper towels to her face. Not hard enough to cut off air, but hard enough that she had to breathe through them. Even though he wore a paper face mask, some of the pungent, bitter odor got into Taylor’s nostrils, making his hairs curl.

  It took the ether less than a minute to do its job on the whore. When she finally went limp, Taylor placed the damp towels in a plastic zip-top bag. Then he took several bungee cords out of the trunk and bound Candi’s hands and arms to her torso. Unlike rope, the elastic bands didn’t require knots, and were reusable. Taylor wrapped them around Candi tight enough for her to lose circulation, but that didn’t matter.

  Candi wouldn’t be needing circulation for very much longer.

  While the majority of his murder kit was readily available at any truck stop, his last piece of equipment was specially made.

  It looked like a large board with two four-inch wide holes cut in the middle. Taylor flipped the catch on the side and it opened up on hinges, like one of those old-fashion jail stocks that prisoners stuck their heads and hands into. Except this one was made for something else.

  Taylor grabbed Candi’s left foot and gingerly removed her wedge. Then he placed her ankle in the half-circle cut into the wood. He repeated the action with her right foot, and closed the stock.

  Now Candi’s bare feet protruded through the boards, effectively trapped.

  He locked the catch with a padlock, and then set the stock in between the floor mats, where it fit snuggly into a brace, secured by two more padlocks.

  Play time.

  Taylor lay on his stomach, taking Candi’s right foot in his hands. He cupped her heel, running a finger up along her sole, bringing his lips up to her toes.

  He licked them once, tasting sweat, grime, smelling a slight foot odor and a faint residue of nail polish. His pulse went up even higher, and time seemed to slow down.

  Her little toe came off surprisingly easy, no harder than nibbling the cartilage top off a fried chicken leg.

  Taylor watched the blood seep out as he chewed on the severed digit — a blood and gristle-flavored piece of gum — and then swallowed.

  This little piggy went to market.

  He opened up his mouth to accommodate the second little piggy, the one who stayed home, when he realized something was missing.

  Where was the screaming? Where was the begging? Where was the thrashing around in agony?

  He crawled around the stock, alongside Candi’s head. Ether was a pain in the ass to get the dose right, and he’d lost more than one girl by giving her too big a whiff. Luckily, Candi was still breathing. But she was too deeply sedated to let some playful toe-munching wake her up.

  Taylor frowned. Like sex, murder was best with two active participants. He gathered up the whore’s belongings, then rolled away from her, over to the trap door.

  He’d get a bite to eat, maybe enjoy one of Murray’s famous free showers. Hopefully, when he got back, Sleeping Homely would be awake.

  Taylor used one of the ether-soaked paper towels to wipe the blood off his chin and fingers, stuffed them back into the bag, then headed for the diner.

  -2-

  “Where are you?”

  “I have no idea.” My cell was tucked between my shoulder and my ear as I drove. “I think I’m still in Wisconsin. Wouldn’t there be some kind of sign if I entered another state?”

  “Don’t you have the map I gave you?” Latham asked. “The directions?”

  “Yeah. But they aren’t helping.”

  “Are you looking at the map right now?”

  “Yes.”

  The map might have done me some good if I’d been able to see what was on it. But the highway was dark, and the interior light in my 1989 Nova had burned out last month.

  “You can’t see it, can you?”

  “Define see.”

  I heard my fiancée sigh. “I just bought you a replacement bulb for that overhead lamp. I saw you put it in your purse. It’s still in your purse, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe.”

  “And you can’t replace the bulb now, because it’s too dark.”

  “That’s a good deduction. You should become a cop.”

  “One cop in this relationship is enough. Why didn’t you take my GPS when I insisted?”

  “Because I didn’t want you to get lost.”

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

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

  “Mapquest lies. And don’t call me Jackie. You know I hate it when people call me Jackie.”

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

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

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

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

  “Do you see the mile markers alongside the road?”

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

  “No. There’s nothing out here, Latham. Except Murray’s.”

  “What’s Murray’s?”

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

  “I don’t remember passing anything called Murray’s. Did the sign have the exit number?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

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

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

  “Yeah.”

  “Keep watching them.”

  “Why should —” The next reflector had a number on top. “Oh. Okay, I’m at mile marker 231.”

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

  I yawned. “I’m fine, hon. Just a little hungry.”

  “Stop for something if it will keep you awake.”

  “Sure. I’ll just pull over and grab the nearest cow.”

  “If you do, bring me a tenderloin.”

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

  “It’s getting there.”

  “Aren’t you tired? You should rest, honey.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure. I’ll call soon with your location.”

  My human GPS unit hung up. I yawned again, and gave my head a little shake.

  On the plus side, my testimony had gone well, and all signs pointed to a conviction.

  On the minus side, I’d been driving for six straight hours, and I was hungry, tired, and needed to pee. I also needed gas, according to my gauge.

  Maybe Murray could take care of all my needs. Assuming I could find Murray’s before falling asleep, running out of fuel, starving to death, and wetting my pants.

  The road stretched onward into the never-ending darkness. I hadn’t seen another car in a while. Even though this was a major highway (as far as I knew), traffic was pretty light. Who would have thought that Northern Wisconsin at two in the morning on a Wednesday night was so deserted?

  I heard my cell phone ring. My hero, to the rescue.

  “You’re not on I-94,” he said. “You’re on 39.”

  “You sound annoyed.”

  “You went the wrong way when the Interstate split.”

  “Which means?”

  “You drove three hours out of the way.”

  Shit.

  I yawned. “So where do I go to get to you?”

  “You need some sleep, Jack. You can get here in the morning.”

  “Three hours is nothing. I can be there in time for an early breakfast.”

  “You sound exhausted.”

  “I’ll be fine. Lemme just close my eyes for a second.”

  “That’s not even funny.”

  I smiled. The poor sap really did care about me.

  “I love you, Latham.”

  “I love you, too. That’s why I want you to find a room somewhere and get some rest.”

  “Just tell me how to get to you. I don’t want to sleep alone in some cheap hotel with threadbare sheets and a mattress with questionable stains. I want to sleep next to you in that cabin with the big stone fireplace. But first I want to rip off those cute boxer-briefs you wear and… hello? Latham?”

  I squinted at my cell. No signal.

  Welcome to Wisconsin.

  I yawned again. Another billboard appeared.

  MURRAY’S FAMOUS TRUCK STOP. FOOD. DIESEL. LODGING. TRUCK WASH. SHOWERS. MECHANIC ON DUTY. TEN MILES.

  Ten miles? I could make ten miles. And maybe some food and coffee would wake me up.

  I pressed the accelerator, taking the Nova up to eighty.

  Murray’s here I come.

  -3-

  Taylor paused at the diner entrance, taking everything in. The restaurant was busy, the tables all full. He spotted three waitresses, plus two cooks in the kitchen. Seated were various truckers, two with hooker companions. Taylor knew the owners encouraged it, and wondered what kind of cut they got.

  He saw what must have been Candi’s pimp, holding court at a corner table. Rattleskin cowboy boots, a gold belt buckle in the shape of Wisconsin, fake bling on his baseball cap. He was having a serious discussion with one of his whores. The rest of the tables were occupied by truckers. Taylor didn’t see any cops; a pimp in plain sight meant they were being paid off.

  The place smelled terrific, like bacon gravy and apple pie. Taylor’s stomach grumbled. He located the emergency exit in the northeast corner, and knew there was also a back door that led into the kitchen; Taylor had walked the perimeter of the building before entering.

  With no tables available, he approached the counter and took a seat there, between the storefront window and a pudgy, older guy nursing a cup of coffee. It was a good spot. He could see his rig, and also see anyone approaching it or him.

  Taylor hadn’t been to Murray’s in over a year, but the printed card sticking in the laminated menu said their specialty was meatloaf.

  “Meatloaf is good,” the old guy leaned over and said.

  “I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

  “You were looking at the card. Thought I’d be helpful.”

  He examinedthe man, a grandfatherly type with thinning gray hair and red cheeks. Taylor wasn’t in the best of moods—one toe was barely an appetizer for him—and he was ready to tell Grandpa off. But starting a scene meant being remembered, and that wasn’t wise.

  “Thank you,” Taylor managed.

  “You’re welcome.”

  A waitress came by, wearing ugly scuffed-up gym shoes. Taylor ordered coffee and the meatloaf. The coffee was strong, bitter. Taylor added two sugars.

  “Showers are good here too,” his fat companion said.

  Taylor gave him another look.

  Is this guy trying to pick me up?

  The man sipped his coffee and didn’t meet Taylor’s stare.

  “Look, buddy. I just want to eat in peace. No offense. I’ve been on the road for a long time.”

  “No offense taken,” the fat man said. He finished his coffee, then signaled the waitress for a refill. “Just telling you the showers are good. Be sure to get some quarters. They’ve got a machine, sells soap. Useful for washing off blood.”

  All of Taylor’s senses went on high alert, and he felt himself flush. This guy didn’t look like a cop—Taylor could usually spot cops. He wore baggy jeans, a plaid shirt, a Timex. On the counte
r next to his empty cup was a baseball cap without any logo. A few days’ worth of beard graced his double chin.

  No, he wasn’t law. And he wasn’t cruising him, either.

  So what the hell does hewant?

  “What do you mean?” Taylor asked, keeping his tone neutral.

  “Drop of blood on your shirt. Another spot on your collar. Some under your fingernails as well. You wiped them with ether, but it didn’t completely dissolve. Did you know that ether was first used as a surgical anesthetic back in 1842? Before that, taking a knife to a person meant screaming and thrashing around.” The man held a beefy hand to his mouth and belched. “‘Course, some people might like the screaming and thrashing around part.”

  Taylor bunched his fists, then forced himself to relax. Had this guy seen him somehow? Did he know about Candi in the sleeper?

  No. He couldn’t have. Tinted windows on his cab. No windows at all in the sleeping compartment.

  He took a casual glance around, trying to spot anyone else watching. No one seemed to be paying either of them any attention.

  Taylor dropped his hand, slowly reaching for the folding knife clipped to his belt. He considered sliding it between this guy’s ribs right there and getting the hell out. But first Taylor needed to know what Grandpa knew. Maybe he could lead him to the bathroom, get him into a stall…

  Taylor froze. His knife was missing.

  “Take it easy, my friend,” said the old, fat man. “I’ll give you your knife back when we’re through.”

  Taylor wasn’t sure what to say, but he believed everyone had an angle. This guy knew more than he should have. But what was he going to do with his information?

  “Who are you?” Taylor asked.

  “Name’s Donaldson. And you probably meant to ask What are you? You’ve probably figured out I’m not a cop, not a Fed. Thanks, Donna.” He nodded at the waitress as she refilled his coffee. “Actually, I’m just a fellow traveler. Enjoying the country. The sites. The people.” Donaldson winked at him. “Same as you are.”

  “Same as me, huh?”

  Donaldson nodded. “A bit older and wiser, perhaps. At least wise enough to not use that awful ether anymore. Where do you even get that these days? I thought ether and chloroform were controlled substances.”