Rubble and the Wreckage

by Rodd Clark

  The would-be killer’s origin story had given him the knowledge he needed to be self-reliant. When you didn’t want to ask your dad for money for a movie, you learned to get it by your own means, which to a child meant stealing for what you wanted, or for what you needed. Gabe had been a vagabond from the very beginning. He had no remorse for the victim he’d left behind in Texas, and it somehow came as a surprise when he stumbled onto a fetching young woman who was bathed in light like a Madonna.

  Gabe had hung around Fresno for a bit after he left the freight company. He was considering heading to Yosemite National Park, based on some weird notion that he could live alone up in the mountains. He had always fancied himself a wild man, and the image of him sporting a full beard and stealing food from campsites seemed naturally appealing to him. He had already sold his beat-up Chevelle and was bumming with a backpack by that time. He was hitchhiking along the 99, but he wasn’t successful in getting many rides on that fateful afternoon. He found himself in some bedroom community; again, he couldn’t remember the name, since all the southern and central cities in California looked much the same to him. At the time he was hiking across California, a show had become popular on television called The Incredible Hulk, and so his appearance of walking from town to town carrying a ratty backpack didn’t seem so unusual to the people who passed him on the interstate. Plus, a memory of the flowerchild seventies was still tangible in most people’s minds. If you were going to be homeless, that was the best state, the best weather, and in the best time, since aged hippies could still be found living off the land and spending their time smoking grass and hanging in communes.

  He was passing little shops adjacent to the sidewalk and peering in at each business with a look of the tourist trade on his face. He had been smiling, he remembered, because he had nothing but time, and few worries. He had enough cash for a quick breakfast and considered popping into one of those rural diners with cute names like Lou’s or Fat Freddy’s, but he never got the chance. Because it was at that moment he spotted a lovely woman headed into a boutique a few feet ahead of him. She’d been exuding a clean white aura that blocked out any of her features with its substantial glow.

  It amazed him at first, and he was curious enough to trail behind her and enter the boutique. Fortunately for him, the shop sold more than frilly dresses. He pretended to be shopping, but it was just an abstract motion. He became intoxicated with following the pretty woman who radiated such a beautiful light. He could hear her speaking to a counter girl about something and realized how exquisite her voice was, but if you had asked him to describe the woman, he wouldn’t have had the words. She was, after all, basking in brilliance.

  After a few minutes she departed the store without making any purchases. He followed her out and lagged behind as she went through the motions of shopping along the boulevard. Gabe wanted to know her but didn’t wish to frighten her by stepping up and introducing himself. The light pulled him like a moth to a bug zapper, and he couldn’t understand why. He mistakenly thought it was sexual desire at first, but then realized he didn’t just want to fuck her, he wanted something more permanent. He quickly tried to come up with some false opportunity of meeting her. He considered racing ahead and dropping something in front of her to enlist a conversation from a well-meaning stranger but couldn’t get ahead of her. He considered bumping into her at her next stop but knew that his appearance and that damned backpack didn’t make him seem trustworthy to any local resident. Before he could create some false opening, a better option hit him square in the face.

  The woman had pulled out a set of keys, and Gabe saw her click a button on her key fob. He heard a beep then noticed the flash of lights on a Volvo parked parallel just ahead. He was about to lose her entirely, he thought, but as she opened the passenger side door he practically tripped over her, dropping his backpack in the process. Gabe wasn’t sure what she was doing on the passenger side of her vehicle, but as he stumbled upright, he blathered out hasty apologies and feigned concern over clumsily tripping over such a lovely woman. He was lost in his own head, he told her. He asked if she was all right, and the young woman smiled broadly, a fact he could tell only by the way her smile affected her words, the glow still obscuring her delicate features.

  It couldn’t have been more perfect an introduction. She asked Gabe if he was all right and the two shared a congenial laugh there in the middle of that sidewalk in some no-name town. Gabe had been even more attractive in his younger days; women were drawn to him despite his unshaven face and unkempt appearance . . . or maybe because of it. He had a certain quality, and his rough, manly exterior was only heightened by his unwavering charm. He asked her for directions to the highway and smiled innocently as she tried to tell him how close he actually was. He fabricated a quick lie about where he was headed and why he had his backpack with him, and she took the bait—hook, line, and sinker. She even offered to drive him the half-mile up to the interstate, and he languished in the pretense and said that she needn’t bother herself. He smiled sweetly as he waited for her to insist.

  Thinking back on that chance meeting later, Gabe wondered why it was so easy to charm women into dangerous situations. He presumed it was because he appeared so very normal in their eyes, or maybe because he was so good-looking. Women seem to have a blind spot when it comes to attractive men. They forget that hot guys can be just as dangerous as the degenerate, sketchy looking ones. The woman opened the side door of her green Volvo, and Gabe reluctantly agreed to be driven the short distance to the interstate. Once inside the car, it was all over but the screaming and crying.

  Gabe had transformed quickly from innocent stranger to deadly assassin. He quickly managed to get his hands around her neck—she was unsuspecting, and he was driven by the light that seemed to speak to him that she needed to die. After a brief struggle she was blue and lifeless in his grip. He stepped out of the car and casually moved to the driver’s side then moved her body to the passenger seat. He was going to drive down one of the nearby rural streets and leave her, and her car, to be found later. He knew that someone might have seen their unintentional meeting on the boulevard, but they could offer only a general description of a man carrying a backpack. For him it was clear the police would assume “drifter” as they did in most cases of chance murder.

  There would be a generalized sketch of him but not much else. He would wipe the door handle and the steering wheel of any prints, and there would be no DNA to find. After she was clearly dead, her head lolled to one side and her gaze became glassy and distant, he noticed the light that had enveloped her was starting to dissipate. He equated the disappearing aura with the sensation he was feeling at that particular instant: a combination of excitement and delightful adventure. Ever since that second murder, Gabe would see that aura as the draw to every victim, and the precipitance of that pleasure in killing.

  AS CHURCH spoke about the murder so abstractly, Christian found himself staring in his direction, almost forgetting his intention of listing detail to paper. It didn’t matter, because he wouldn’t forget what Church had told him about the California murder. He didn’t think the words or the image of him telling the story would ever leave his thoughts. It was carved into his reality. The awful, unjustified death of someone young and kind and the speculative way he described the events so carelessly. It seemed each time Church recounted another story, it made Christian shiver more. It would have a lasting effect on his personality, but he was shut off from that knowledge for the moment. He once again failed to see the forest for the trees, and every callous or unkind stony thing Church would say to him would just lie flat and fester in his soul.

  Chapter Four

  “WERE YOU EVER worried about getting caught?” the writer asked.

  The question had been the grizzly in the room from the very beginning. It slept restless off in the corner, always holding that tension that it could rouse and become something deadly. Christian wondered why the killer had ever agreed to have his story
told, wondered if it had been Church’s innocent ploy in finding yet another victim. That it had been his face the killer spotted that had been crowned in white radiance. He was willing to risk the danger so that he could learn all he could of Church. He told himself it was going to be a good book, and that it had been his calling to become a conduit for a famous killer’s rants. But he had to concede there was more to it. He couldn’t deny his own keen interest in every aspect of Gabriel Church’s life. He told himself it was intellectual curiosity or that true crime stories had always interested him or his major in Psychology had been the root to his fascination. They were all lies he told himself so he wouldn’t question the face staring back at him from his bathroom mirror. He didn’t want to recognize that his obsessive nature was bordering on unhealthy when it came to writing a murderer’s account of each and every horrific murder.

  “Getting caught wasn’t ever a concern. If it happened, it happened. And to be honest, I knew I wouldn’t. I’m smart enough and careful when I need to be.”

  The answer didn’t really satisfy, since most serial murderers had a heightened sense of grandiosity about their own nature. They simply believed they were too clever to get caught and Church wasn’t any different. Christian had studied abnormal psychology; it was a defining aspect to his classes that intrigued him and a necessity when planning a career in the field. One of his papers he presented had detailed analysis of research into the subject. He’d utilized everything in his arsenal to get that favored grade. He had discussed therapies in-depth and remembered the four types: psychoanalysis by Freud, behavioral therapy by Wolpe, Roger’s humanistic therapies, and cognitive behavioral therapy by Beck. He had smiled as he received his paper back with the kind words scrawled on the side by his professor. He considered it as a sign that he should continue in the field but decided against such a dry academic future, choosing instead to focus on a career in writing.

  But his background came in handy when he had first thought of writing about a serial killer, through his or her eyes. Since he was successful in finding Church before the authorities, he felt his participation in the story had been owed him. Apparently Church felt the same, since he was in a luxurious suite at the Mayflower Park by his own accord. Christian’s degree in psychology sat confidently next to his creative writing degree and had preordained his membership into this exclusive group of two.

  Christian placed the notepad down in front of him and turned his attentions to Church.

  “I have to ask,” he paused. “You’re confessing to crimes that have not been tied to you individually. At some point this story will be published, you understand, so getting caught is either inevitable in your mind, or are we both wasting valuable time here to finish it?”

  Gabe smiled a sexy grin of forthright certainty. “Yes, my friend, the story will be told. And you will be the teller. It may happen sooner than you think . . . and we’re both going to accept the chips falling where they may.”

  “So you are comfortable with this story breaking, accepting of whatever fate the authorities have for you?”

  “My fate is my own.” The enigmatic riddle fell from Church’s smiling lips, creating more questions than offering answers. But the writer understood how little to push there. It was as if he had pulled up the rope from an abandoned well, only to retrieve an empty, dusty bucket as his only reward. There wasn’t anything he could wrench from the well. He was forced to accept it, hoping to find better answers later, when Church least expected it.

  “Then would you like to move forward, or would you like to tell me your greatest childhood influences?” Christian retook the legal pad and appeared fixed in beginning again with the tale, but Church had other ideas.

  “I was rather thinking I’d like to enjoy this comfy hotel suite more, and all it has to offer. I know you’re not privy to where I’m currently holed up at . . . but let’s just say it’s not as nice as this, I guarantee. I won’t go into details, but it offers only a dirty shower with incredibly non-existent water pressure. I’d love to take a tiny break and appreciate the facilities . . . with your permission naturally. A blistering hot shower sounds like a little piece of heaven ’bout now.”

  Picturing Church naked, surrounded by muggy steam was an image that was unexpected to the writer, but once it had invaded his head, he couldn’t seem to shake it successfully.

  “I suppose that’d be fine. It’s getting closer to lunch, anyway, and I could get something brought up to nibble on—sandwiches maybe?”

  “Sounds great. I’ll be out long before they deliver it.”

  With that, Church slinked off to the back like a curious cat in search of a litter box. Christian watched as he explored the rooms, saw him nodding approval as he found the spacious bathroom with its glass encased shower and slick Jacuzzi tub. Before Christian could make his way to the phone, he noticed that Church had kicked off his shoes then stripped off his shirt, tossing it mindlessly onto the queen-sized mattress in the bedroom, a room that for all intents and purposes would never have found a use in their meeting at the Mayflower. Christian’s nerves prickled like the hairs on the back of his neck. He didn’t recognize why, it just unbalanced him to have a killer getting naked in his hotel room and taking such liberties in his company. It was like they were friends, and that somehow intimidated him. The professional relationship was changing from biographer to something else, and it held some alien promise just out of reach of his understanding.

  He could hear the water running in the shower, and a creepy picture of Church slipping out of his jeans seemed to titillate him, but he couldn’t measure it as a sexual thought. Christian had never been certain of his sexuality, or his orientation. In college, he had dated the occasional sorority girl but had no perceptible emotions about it either way. When the relationship invariably ended, he found no guilt or remorse in the loss of it. He had been approached only once by someone of the same sex. It turned out to be a drunken frat dude at a party. The implication was that the drunk male wouldn’t have minded getting to know Christian more intimately, but the consideration was beyond reach and didn’t hold appeal to him. Sex was something he did extremely rarely, especially considering he was such an attractive man, however odd he might have appeared to others. It didn’t matter much whether he got off or not. Unlike any of his mates at high school or university, he didn’t masturbate continuously, so there wasn’t any tangible inclination to his sexuality since there had never been those defined fantasies in his head to point him into the direction of his orientation. Christian was an oddity from the beginning.

  But the persistent image of that muscular, naked killer surrounded by rising steam and lathered in soap wouldn’t find escape. The thought of his close proximity to danger was arousing in ways he couldn’t define. His own cock began to grow in his jeans and unleashed some strange sensations, quickening his heartbeat and the rush of blood coursing through his chest. He was so nervous he almost forgot to call downstairs and have room service bring up a plate of sandwiches and a pitcher of iced sweet tea.

  He anxiously paced the floor while listening to the shower running on full pulse. He found himself wandering into the bedroom and seeing Church’s discarded shirt and the tossed combat boots scattered on the floor. He stared blankly at the murderer’s white socks and followed his trail of cast-off clothing until he was standing at the bathroom door, which was open-wide and inviting. He focused on the steam at first and then noticed the blue jeans on the floor near the shower door. They beckoned to him, and he quivered at the thought of his desire in holding the denim in his fingers and bringing the man’s clothing up to his nostrils . . . if for no other reason than to just smell that wet pine and smoke once again.

  He was shaking, and his brain wasn’t functioning properly. There was nothing but flashes crossing his mind. There was nothing focused or decisive about his thoughts. If he had perception, he might have known it was that exact minute in which his sexuality had been fashioned, and that he had always been gay, but
never until now had that ever held a tangible and fixed notion.

  Church was a captivating subject. He could draw you in with his infectious grin and sensual blue eyes. Eyes that could glint warm invitation and then contrast to a darker, pitiless color in a mere flash. He was charming but still soulless by his lack of remorse or guilt. It was a combination that had intrigued Christian from the start. It went beyond a bad-boy image. It was mature and coldblooded like a snake that struck out with glistening fangs because it was its only nature. And whatever void hung like a weight inside his core was just as beguiling with his intelligent reflection to his horrific deeds. There had been times when the two had been chatting at the coffee house and Christian had forgotten the man was a killer at all. It was just a friendly conversation with another clever, educated soul. Similarly there were times when Church could frighten Christian and challenge his interpretation of deep-seated psychosis.

  If pressured to describe the killer, Christian would have only had the words original sin to describe him. The murder of one brother by another—his personal Cain and Able definition of the sons of Adam mythology. If Church represented the “first murder” then what did that make Christian? He had become a dramatist to the twisted origin of death, complicit only because he had not called the FBI and warned them of a would-be, famous killer in their midst.