Somewhere in the distance, a brother howled. Dreg joined him, praising Le Loup above, who scrutinized the hunt with a wide, silver eye.
The howls eventually subsided and the night was quiet once again, with the exception of other animals that stalked with Le Loup, foraging away at their night labors in the dark woods. Dreg squatted to a sitting position, noticing the shadow of a jackrabbit skittering away from the opposite shoulder of the road and into the darkness of the brush.
Dreg smiled, thinking how easily he could squeeze off a shot from this distance, even in the dark, and tag the rabbit as easily as one would take a breath. Without the gun, he had the reflexes and speed that would make tracking down the animal swift and easy work.
Dreg had no formal concept of time. He counted the seasons. He followed the old ways- had done so for more seasons than he could count. Though he had the appearance of an old man, the wolf inside of him was strong, much to the misfortune of many a person.
Dreg toyed with the idea of hunting the rabbit, but that was scrawny game.
He fancied killing, but only for the right reasons.
Kill to survive. His father had taught him that.
Dreg thought back to the swamp, those many seasons ago when he was young and his mother gave birth to a demon- a couchemal. He knew that he had left that devil behind in the swamp but it still haunted his dreams and it would probably taunt him until he was dead.
He was forced to make his way in life without Papere's journal, but he knew enough about Le Loup, hunter of hunters, lord above. Dreg was the wolf, trapped in the form of a man.
He moved to New Orleans after his exile and he took jobs that an illiterate coonass could manage. He cooked in restaurants. Other times he swept floors at the bars in the French Quarter. He lived the life of a man for several years.
He had friends.
He had women. Of course, the women he had were the kind you had to pay. His hideous appearance prohibited him from finding a mate. He had no use for the frightened pink women who looked at him with fear on their faces. The painted women with perfumed pussies he met in alleys were a little better, as long as he had money in his pocket.
He tried to live that life, but he could not. Le Loup was in him, deep and permanent.
The hunt began again and he wandered, counting the seasons until winter, when he would hole up with his gains and wait for warm weather.
He managed to settle the conflict of man and beast within him by attributing his state to degrees of the moon. He was mostly man on moonless nights. He was nothing but wolf when the moon was full and rich.
His senses heightened and narrowed, depending on the night silver that lit up the darkness. Tonight, he was at peak.
CHAPTER 12
Ricky Lee Charney crossed the Texas state line, Oklahoma behind him now.
“The stars at night, are big and bright,” Ricky Lee crooned, beating a drum roll on the dashboard of his orange and black '76 Nova. “Deep in the heart of Texas.”
Ricky Lee glanced in the rearview mirror, a nudie girl air freshener hanging from it, and he brushed his bushy blonde hair from his eyes.
“Have to look good for the ladies,” he muttered, though his Nordic good looks allowed him to look as disheveled as he wanted.
His clothes stank.
He had gotten them messy when he dumped those two bodies into the Texoma Lake.
He was going to rent a cheap hotel room in Denton, Texas, clean himself up, and then put his scrapbook in order. He dug two snapshots from his denim shirt and he turned on the interior light to get a good look at them.
The pictures were of seminude, dead women, their eyes plucked out. He had taken the pictures himself with an instant camera, and while the lighting and composition could have been better, he was enamored with the essence of his work.
Ricky Lee stared hard at the scarlet, empty eyes sockets of his victims. They appeared to be crying gore down their ashen cheeks. They looked almost repentant in their death poses. And they should have been. Cunts. Ricky put the pictures away before they worked him up.
Shit! That stuff turned him on.
At only twenty-eight years old, Ricky Lee was already a seasoned serial killer. He preyed mostly on matronly looking women. He had all of the attributes he needed to pursue his grizzly goal of killing women and collecting their eyeless snapshots. Ricky Lee was handsome, clever, charismatic and utterly insane. Women of all sorts and ages were attracted to him. He lived off of what he could pick from the bones of his victims and he was always on the move.
Ricky Lee couldn't really account for his murderous inclinations. He was constantly fleeing the memories of his past and he had embellished on them so much in his bloody grift that he wasn't really sure of the earlier period of his life anymore.
He preferred to stay focused on his crimson diversion.
There were times when he had purposefully stretched his mind back to his childhood, but his insanity always seemed to interrupt him whenever he stopped to think about his motives. Maybe it was intentional. He didn’t know. He wasn’t a fucking psychiatrist.
He turned on the radio, greeted by Jerry Lee Lewis singing Great Balls of Fire.
“Fuckin’ a right!” Ricky Lee exclaimed, turning the volume to full capacity, the dashboard vibrating furiously. “The killer!”
***
Ricky Lee passed North Texas State University. Not bad pickings there.
There were those bitches he had killed during an Academic Bowl in '95. He had dumped those bodies in the murky waters of Lake Dallas.
He would look it up in his scrapbook later to verify the exact date.
Ricky Lee cruised through the sleepy little college town of Denton, which was about thirty miles from Fort Worth (seven bitches in ‘96. He had dumped them in Lake Worth). He gazed at the many fast food franchises and convenience stores that surrounded the university like pissed off Indians around a stage coach.
He spotted a nondescript motel in the distance of the throng, and Ricky Lee opted for a room there.
The reason he had come screaming away in his Nova from the easy pickings of Oklahoma to Texas was because of the recent newspaper articles declaring the return of the Keepsake Killer to Texas.
The Keepsake Killer was his fucking idol, and the rash of violence wrought by the killer had attracted Ricky Lee like a shark to blood on the waves.
He wanted to meet this Keepsake Killer and show him his own quite impressive scrapbook. He wanted in on this orgy. Yes sir, the Keepsake Killer was to psychos what the Heavyweight boxing champion was to punks pummeling each other in sweaty gyms.
It was hard to be in a profession that you could not talk shop about with the boys. He needed the comfort and company of a peer. Who better than the Keepsake Killer? He was the fucking master. And while it was highly unlikely that Ricky Lee would actually meet his hero during this trip to Texas, he could still pay his own bloody props to the man.
Though if by some miracle Ricky Lee actually met the Keepsake Killer, the first thing he would ask about would be the famed serial killer's ability to elude the police. Ricky Lee was pretty good, but the authorities were a cunt hair away from nabbing him in Florida last year.
He had killed this bitch in a penthouse and he had to shove himself down the complex garbage chute to escape the cops, who must have been summoned by a neighbor.
His victim had not gone quietly that night.
Of course, Ricky knew the basics and he followed them. Never stay in one place long enough to be caught. Never kill someone you know. But the biggest rule of thumb that he just could not adhere to was that commandment about changing your methods.
Ricky had to strangle and he had to take those eyes out.
So his MO never changed, earning him the nickname, The Optometrist. Not the most frightening moniker, but it could have been worse. Ricky Lee exited Highway 280, pulling into the motel parking lot.
***
After cleaning up and adding the two fresh snap
shots to his ragged and thick scrapbook, Ricky Lee drove around the quiet town. Summer break in Denton always sucked- for the local business proprietors as well as serial killers.
Ricky Lee spotted a grungy old ice house and he went in for a long neck. The place was dimly lit and nearly deserted.
He sat at the bar, ordered a beer, and looked at the local, drunken barfly who had taken the stool next to his.
The fortyish redhead clumsily perched her elbow on the bar and rested her chin against her knuckles. The woman was chunky, but tall enough to carry a little extra meat on her bones. She had a chubby face and she pouted in a way that might have been sexy when she was younger. Now, however, it was just a sad habit. A deep scar in the center of her forehead broke through the beige powder she had applied in a thick coat.
Her features were tough. Ricky Lee knew her personality just by staring at that hard face. She was possessive, prone to irrational jealousy, and she was the type that would shoot you in your sleep if she suspected you were fucking around on her.
She wasn’t a biker chick, but she may have been in her younger days. Ricky Lee could picture her, blowing a group of leather clad men around a roaring campfire in the desert. And he bet she never spilled a drop.
There were so many types of women. After seeking them out for as long as Ricky Lee had, he could file each one under a certain profile, and hit the mark more often than not. This gal was an aging one night stand who saw at least one evening of tenderness in the clean-cut form of Ricky Lee.
That’s right, baby, Ricky Lee thought. I’ll treat you right.
“What’s your name?”
“Hazel,” the woman slurred. Her face was certainly no prize, but she was wearing a snug blouse and a pair of jeans that gave her sagging form the appearance of a tight, young body.
Of course, only one thing mattered to Ricky Lee.
He took a deep drink of beer and then he turned back to his subject for the evening.
“What pretty eyes you have, Hazel.”
***
Ricky Lee closed the motel room door and he turned to Hazel. She smiled and wrapped her strong arms around his neck.
“You are so gorgeous,” she muttered, staring intensely into Ricky’s eyes.
Ricky stared back into hers, searching for something in her big brown orbs. Searching for sincerity, which was there. He also saw pain and desperation. Hazel was a wilting flower clinging to the sunlight.
She had told him about her failed, violent relationships and the other mundane tribulations of her life.
He could barely recall them now, and he wondered why so many women gave him their lives, along with their hopes and desires. They so willingly went to a room with him, ensnared by his angelic appearance.
Hazel would die tonight.
No matter how much compassion he could muster for this wretch, she would die.
Did she know that? Did all of the others?
Hazel leaned forward and kissed him. Ricky derived no pleasure from the sweet taste of her mouth or her body thrust against his. Normal sexual excitement was impossible for him.
Ricky broke away. The contact wasn’t merely uninteresting, it was an annoyance.
Hazel opened her mouth to speak and he pulled her and he spun her around, wide-eyed and startled. Ricky Lee shoved her on the bed. He leapt on her, kissing her full on the mouth. When he pulled back, his body numb to the action, Hazel giggled, staring up at him with relieved eyes
Big beautiful eyes.
“So, you like to play rough, huh?” she said, reaching under his shirt and rubbing his smooth stomach. “I didn’t figure you for that kind, but it’s okay. I think a woman should be versatile in bed. Now, what do you want Mommy to do?”
Mommy.
It felt like a spring popped in Ricky’s head.
He was going to toy with the woman first, but she had struck a chord within him. Something bad that he didn’t want to remember.
“What’s the matter?” Hazel said, looking regrettably at Ricky’s contorted expression. “What did I say—”
He had her throat in his hands before she made him remember the bad things. The bad things that caused his stay at the institution. The bad things that caused the scars on his wrists. The bad things that the killings kept out of his head. Ricky’s thumbs drove into Hazel's windpipe.
She struggled just hard enough to mock a good sexual bout and Ricky was pleased to hear a neighbor bang on the wall in complaint. What did the fucker want? For him to go to a motel?
Hazel, too drunk to do anything but graciously die, went with a meek whimper, her open eyes focused on her prince the whole time. Ricky took his hands from her throat, noticing that he had an erection.
He undid his pants.
He looked into her eyes as he masturbated on her clothing. Then the bad thing started to come into his head. He put his prick away and then he wept.
“Please stop staring at me,” he implored, crying as he retrieved a pocket knife from his jeans.
“Oh, Mommy."
CHAPTER 13
George Dimitri dug into his western shirt pocket and came up with an empty cigarette pack. No smokes, and at this ungodly stretch of Interstate 45 where there were no businesses.
Shit on a shingle. He was at least forty minutes away from the nearest gas station.
Oh well. Life’s a bitch and then you marry one, he thought grimly, staring over at his beloved Dolores who was glaring out at the darkness.
She was fuming over some silly horseshit. It was churning around behind those contemptuous, burning eyes of hers.
What was her fucking problem? Was she on the rag again? He didn’t think so. They had screwed last night, and Dolores knew that George had an aversion to crime scene sex, as he called it. Nothing grossed him out more than pulling a bloody prick from a menstruating woman.
George just didn’t understand where the hostility was coming from. Christ, he had taken Dolores to Weatherford to visit her loon of a mother. He had even given up ESPN for three days in the process. ESPN was his life now, since he was recuperating from the back injury that had forced workman's comp on him. He had taken a spill down a slick stairwell at the Jerner Pharmaceutical plant, where he had toiled for over a decade on a pill bottle assembly line. He still watched little brown bottles get topped in his sleep.
George didn't mind the break, of course. And that lawyer he had talked to told him not to do anything physical. He was going to get one hell of a settlement if he played his cards right. So he did very little around the house, per his lawyer's advice. He had spotted a couple of strangers near his home and he was sure they were investigators hired by the insurance company. A picture of him toting something heavy, unhindered by pain, would have screwed the pooch. George couldn't endanger that lawsuit. He figured that most women would appreciate that he was trying to cash in big. And sitting on your ass all day was a hell of lot harder than it looked.
But Dolores didn't care about the settlement. She felt that George should swallow a pain pill and get his ass back on the conveyor belt. Hell, it wasn't his fault that the company didn't post a wet floor sign near the stairs. He could have broken his fucking neck. Those cocksuckers had left themselves wide open for this and he was going to take them for all that he could.
George looked over at Dolores again. She sat there, still quietly raging.
Nag, nag, nag, he thought. She nagged him even in silence.
“What crawled up your ass and died?” George finally had to ask, wishing the woman would have more respect for a nicotine and ESPN addict who was sorely in need of a fix.
Dolores turned to George, her pudgy face glowering. “You treat my mother like shit!” she shrieked, and George was completely positive that he had just opened the lid on Pandora’s Box.
“What the hell are you talking about?” George replied in disbelief, thinking that he treated her mother like a queen.
“You are without a doubt the most condescending asshole on the face of the plan
et. You treat her like she should be locked up,” Dolores said, her bottom lip pushing up an angry frown.
“That’s because she’s nuts,” George said, defensively.
“She is not crazy,” Dolores insisted, jabbing a finger in George’s flabby chest. “She just gets confused.”
“Bullshit,” George said, laughing at the charade Dolores had created five years ago when her mother nearly started a race riot by chasing a black man out of a drug store with her cane for using a drinking fountain.
“Forgetting your name or where you put your bifocals when they are right on your face is confused," George argued. "Claiming that you met the wandering Jew at a flea market and that Satan lives in the bug zapper on the neighbor’s porch sounds pretty fucking crazy to me, Dolores.”
“She’s sick. Don't you have any compassion for her?” Dolores muttered, glancing away again.
He decided to dummy up on the subject. It was a sore spot for Dolores and there was no reason to start a war this far from civilization. They had a long ride.
George was about to purr something that would redeem the whole argument when Dolores looked back to the open road, her eyes widening and her body tensing for an impact.
“Look out!” she cried, though her body language had already prompted George’s foot to the brake.
Their car screeched to a halt, and George looked at the crumpled, dirty figure between the lanes of Interstate 45.
“I’ll be,” George muttered. “Would you look at that.”
“What do you think happened to him?” Dolores asked, fearfully.
“Road kill,” George summed up the situation.
He turned on the hazards and opened his car door. George wondered if maybe the poor son of a bitch had a smoke on him.
CHAPTER 14
Dreg was playing possum and evidently his ploy had attracted prey. He could feel the brightness of headlights on his shut eyelids. He could hear a car engine growl slowly in neutral.
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