by Rodd Clark
YOUNG OR old, female, male, it never mattered to Gabriel Church when choosing his white lighters, as long as they offered the usual signs. Everyone was a potential victim, he’d said as he described one event to Chris one afternoon. It had been a hitchhiking marine, but this had been years earlier, when hitchhiking was more of a safer way to get around than it was considered today. He had introduced himself as Lance Corporal James Macabe. He was an attractive, solidly built young soldier who had been headed back to Camp Pendleton after a long weekend pass. Gabe hadn’t noticed the customary radiance, as he usually did when spotting a victim. He had pulled over and offered a ride, merely out of a kindness.
It wasn’t until the young man gratefully opened the passenger side door and Gabe saw his effervescent grin, as he tossed a brown duffle in the back seat, that Gabe first noticed a beautiful smolder of growing embers beginning to surround his new passenger. Gabe knew how to assimilate, smiling as the younger man regaled him with stories of his weekend pass, drunken parties, and the women he’d met. Alpha males had that familiarity to other males; it was engrained into the marine from basic training, and for Gabe it came from years of practice. For a young man taking the dangerous trip back to camp with only his thumb, he was required to talk pussy right off the bat, signifying his orientation quickly and effectively removing him from having male drivers making advances on him. There were a lot of sick assholes out there, he understood.
Gabe had no such designs on the soldier in his car. He smiled in return, joked and laughed in accordance with every tale the man offered. His distracted air was there, covering bigger concerns in his head, which were currently racing on the prospect of how to kill him. The man was strong; he would represent more than a just a challenge. He was younger than Gabe, and he’d applied those muscles to more recent activity than Gabe had.
Playing out every element, the killer began performing the stage play in his head, checking for possible outcomes. He couldn’t kill him while driving, so he had to get him out of the car, and that wasn’t going to be easy. He suspected the soldier smoked pot, and he seized an idea that may be his best option yet, but he discarded it when he noticed a truck stop ahead. It was perched just off the interstate, beseeching him to pull over with its own inviting smile.
Glancing down to his fuel gage, he could see that he wasn’t running on empty yet, but it may be sufficient reason to carry his pretense along—he was after all, resting on a quarter of a tank.
“Hey, Lance Corporal, I really need to refuel. Mind if we make a quick pit-stop just ahead?” he asked.
“Not only do I not mind, but I really gotta take a strong whiz myself. Been needing to drain the lizard for a few miles now,” Macabe said with a grin, even though Gabe could barely see his smile against the backdrop of the gold glimmer presently circling his face.
Parking at the fuel station Gabe left the driver’s side door open as he propped the gas nozzle into the tank. He then walked behind his soldier, who was bounding off to the men’s room in that desperate gait of a man in need. They chatted casually as they pissed in the dirty urinal in the dimly lit bathroom with one broken mirror. This was a different era; in future days bathrooms would have locks, they would be well illuminated, and would have camera’s just outside the doors, with monitors where attendants inside could censor for traffic and supervise for illicit activities. We all still retained innocence in those days.
Macabe shook his meat furiously of the dribble and stuffed it back into his jeans, like wrangling a snake into a tiny box. Before he could turn to wash his hands Gabe was upon him with the ferocity of an uncaged animal. Gabe’s mind had already played out his choice of tools. He had grabbed the blade from under the driver’s seat when he’d jumped out to gas up, but decided it wasn’t perfect for the job. He’d released his grip on it before rummaging farther under the seat to locate his homemade garrote. He’d used it before—it was large-gauge wire tethered to two metal rods, each about six inches in length. It was a substantial killing tool.
The young man was strong, wiry muscle, and his height became the inducement more than the challenge. Killing such a man with a knife seemed a feminine effort; the thrill would be in overcoming the soldier with brutal force and his own strength and physique. He seemed a man worthy of a masculine death.
FOR A few seconds it could have gone either way. Macabe’s surprise at being attacked from behind was quickly liberated when his training and instinct took the wheel. Wisely he attempted to twist his body, compelling his attacker to lose his footing. If he could spiral free from the hold, it would be a much different outcome. Face to face with his assailant, he stood a stronger chance. For Macabe there had been more fistfights before he’d enlisted than all the time he’d gone through basic. And since he’d been released for weekend passes, he’d had several more in town. But his attacker was strong himself. He had pushed him back against the porcelain sink with all his might, his toes scraped the concrete and begged for purchase, but the killer prevented him from gaining an upright stance. The garrote was cutting a bloody ribbon into his neck, and his loss of air was as big an impediment as the forceful thrusts of the driver he’d just met.
Macabe’s face was inches from the killer’s, and he could feel the man’s hot breath being blasted into his own gaping mouth—it was the only air hitting his tongue. It was the expression that startled him, or lack of one. The man’s eyes were blue, yet edged with black rings around the wide pupils. He was straining with some effort to yank the wire taunt, but he wasn’t grinning nor was there any malice on his face. He had become someone who was performing a task with great exertion, a mechanic turning a tight bolt with an unwieldy wrench. He didn’t hate the tool . . . he didn’t hate the bolt . . . he just accepted it as a chore needing done, one he must complete before he could move on.
Sweat began beading at the killer’s forehead, and the sounds of ghastly death filled the tiny bathroom. Macabe tried to push his attacker off him, but he was already starting to lose consciousness without oxygen to revive him. One arm went up in defense while the other was pressed back with one palm still gripping cold porcelain at his rear. Blood was merging with the perspiration at his chest, and the gurgling sounds became infrequent as the soldier pulled in his last opportunities for survival. Before he blacked out completely, he stared soulfully into the killer’s eyes. He could see wonderment there, the sheer enjoyment of this stranger witnessing his breath in his final seconds of life.
THE SOLDIER slumped like a ragdoll in Gabe’s arms, but he refused to release his tight hold on the garrote until he was certain the man was completely gone. He then heaved the soldier to his feet and dragged him into the empty stall. Propping the young man into a sitting position on the toilet, Gabriel turned the man’s face skyward with a gentle brush of his finger. There was a faint smile in his eyes as he dusted the man’s jacket and straightened his appearance before locking the stall door then closing it shut behind him. The dead soldier wouldn’t be found for a while so there was little concern when he entered the station to pay for his gas and smiled to the young girl behind the counter. He drove out of the parking lot without much concern, heading in the same direction he’d been driving when he first met a hitchhiking Lance Corporal just thirty minutes earlier.
Chapter Seventeen
THE WRITER WAS someone Gabe liked. There were few who could easily fit into that category, and it was because they were friends that he didn’t want to make him into a monster. Christian represented life before the murders began—he equally represented what it could have been like if Gabe had never taken his darker road. But he had, and that was an inescapable truth. Half of him wanted Christian held pure of the same ideologies he possessed, because it wasn’t a healthy way of living, but the other side of him knew he needed to bring his new companion into the fold, or risk losing him completely.
Standing at his balcony wearing only shorts, he breathed in the aroma from the piazza. Scented blossoms and honeysuckle perfumed the air. As d
ecaying and decrepit his lodgings were, they had a history from a grander era. Gabe didn’t know it but untold artists had rented apartments in his courtyard. One writer had spent time here before becoming a national treasure himself, years later. But no one ever boasted of that part of the legend. A hodgepodge of painters and poets who never seemed to have two quarters to rub together had stayed in these rooms, because the talented were always the most impoverished. Gabe wouldn’t ever know that history, and was never blinded by the morality plays and parables he’d been lied to at St. Ignatius, choosing to see the ramshackle rooms for what they were, a rest stop in a longer journey.
His palms rested on the wrought iron railing of his Juliet Balcony. When he’d chosen the apartment, he’d asked the heavy-set, middle-aged leasing agent what they were called when you had French doors but no balcony to stand on. He was surprised the fat fucker knew the answer. He supposed it came from Shakespeare’s work, but he thought he’d rather prefer having a balcony he could sit on. Still . . . it was available, it was reasonably cheap, and they didn’t require a lot of paperwork. Gabe only worked sporadically, so his income derived from robberies and intermittent jobs and day labors. He also made it a point to lift whatever cash he could from his victims.
CHRISTIAN HAD slipped under the covers alone for the first time in days. It seemed oddly unfamiliar not having Gabriel to pull himself to or be warmed by his body heat. And it was difficult putting his image on a back burner just to be able to sleep. He wondered what Gabriel was doing in that moment, wondered if he was crawling into bed like he was and possibly thinking as much about him as he was.
But whatever peace he sought in sleep was shattered by awful dreams. His mind was locked onto Gabriel, but regardless of how he tried to manipulate the pictures in his head to a positive end, they turned sour. Instead of hallucinating them in a loving tangle of flesh and sex, he watched as the Church character in his head turned into a deadly assassin. Although he’d never seen the grotesque reality of any of Church’s murders, his mind played them out in shadowy blacks and whites for the first time since they’d met.
An ugly performance coursed through his brain, and though he couldn’t fasten the faces of Church’s victims down with any distinct accuracy, he could see Gabriel clearly enough. It was the first time he’d seen such an expression on his face, but it was just his interpretation of events he’d never known and now only guessed at. He witnessed seemingly random brutality and watched Church murder with impunity. Christian attempted to regain control, twisting furiously in his sheets and staining his pillow with the sweat of his labors. He wasn’t in command of the dream, but he tried to alter its course by calling out to Gabriel in his sleep, begging him to come back to bed and lie next to him. As Christian struggled in his slumber, his arm knocked off a small clock on the nightstand, but the sound of it crashing to the floor wasn’t successful at pulling him awake.
Fortunately he didn’t remember the dream by the time he woke the next morning, but he did notice his throat was parched dry and his bedding was damp. He would have had too much difficulty connecting the person in his dreams to the man he’d made love to or followed through the Seattle streets like a loyal puppy. But few of us could ever say that we’d slept with a serial killer, or known the duality of a kind soul who turns into a deadly predator. Maybe there was a book there: the story of the lovers, friends, and families of murderers; those who could lie next to a killer during the height of their spree and never suspect a thing.
Waking alone gave Christian a dry panic that he couldn’t explain. He wasn’t aware of the night terrors he’d suffered, he just sat bolt upright with a start then tasted bile on his tongue and an uneasy sensation in his tummy. His fitful sleep hadn’t made him renewed, but he bounded out of bed and ran for the shower. He was hoping that Gabriel would call him before the morning was gone. Maybe the two men could share a coffee at the Cherry Street Grinder as they had when they first met?
After showering, he stood facing the bathroom mirror. He ran a palm down the mirror, streaking a visible path to allow him to shave. Looking at his naked form, he wondered what Gabriel saw in him that he didn’t see. He was attractive, but so were a lot of people. He had an average build but possessed no spectacular features to draw in another’s attentions. Yet Gabriel seemed fascinated with him. While he had run his rough hands down every part of the writer’s body, Christian had seen Gabriel’s eyes glaze over. He had felt the transfer of bemused awareness on each fingertip that raked his body by their light touch. He could question it, but he chose to just accept it willingly, gratifyingly. He found himself smiling as the razor made sharp lines in the cream on his jaw.
Before he could finish shaving, he heard a substantial knock at his door, and his heart jumped excitedly at the prospect. It could’ve been his neighbor Ruth, she often stopped by in the mornings to share a coffee and gossipy conversation, but he hoped, not so secretly, that it would be Gabriel. He grabbed a towel from the hook, threw his razor haphazardly in the sink and raced to open the door, smiling from ear to ear.
“Sleep well . . .?” was all Gabriel asked as he stood there engulfing the doorframe with his steely gray eyes and unshaven face. He was a god dropped to earth for the masses to enjoy, and Christian could barely contain his thrilling pleasure at seeing him standing there.
“Not so, but I’m glad you found my place.”
“Naturally you are.” Gabriel said absently brushing past the writer but stopping short as he entered the room to take it all in.
“Nice digs, not the Mayflower, but it’s nice . . . simple.”
Peaking adrenaline mixed with the uneasy tingle in his stomach and Christian seemed frozen. He had forgotten the shaving cream that still marked his face or that he was standing there in a towel and wet hair. His surprise finally subsided enough to allow him to play host. “Make yourself comfortable. I was just finishing getting ready.” Heading back into the bathroom, he pulled the towel from his waist and wiped his face dry. With his back to the room, he shouldn’t have sensed his look, but the cold blade was burrowed deep, and he became awash with the knowledge Gabriel was staring at him as he stood at the bathroom sink rinsing his hands.
He was learning enough from Gabriel to become as content with his nudity as the killer. He was an entirely new human, he suspected; years earlier there would’ve been shame or embarrassment even if he didn’t understand why. Shame was a gift Gabriel had not been bestowed. He was a being comfortable in his own skin, and this was a quality far removed from the writer’s custom. Glancing over his shoulder, he could see his companion staring at him intently from the shadows there in the center of his living room. Although his face was obscured with a lack of morning light from his shaded windows, he could sense a heat coming across the room in waves of hungry desperation.
“You want to go grab coffee and breakfast?” Christian asked as he dried his hands.
“That was the plan . . . but that may need some alteration now,” he said, cool as ice yet belying a hint of innuendo. Gabriel wasn’t moving; he’d become a living statue rapt with attention. Christian stepped from the restroom and breezed up to Gabriel to see his head tilting slightly to the right and his twisted grin of seduction. They pulled each other into their arms then kissed. It was both sensual and male, and Gabriel’s hands moved to the author’s neck, holding him tightly in his massive grip. His tongue gorged deep and rolled in Christian’s mouth, demanding acceptance before servitude.
Christian’s head was held taut in those two strong hands, forcing him to look up at the taller man, leaving him to stare into those dreamy eyes that held a vastness that seemed impassable. This was Gabriel—you couldn’t ever fully comprehend what bounced around in that head of his. Like looking at a beautiful painting of a stunning model, you saw the faraway gaze displayed, but there was no inkling to the subject’s inner thoughts . . . blank and yet still gorgeous.
Church ran his tongue over the writer’s face like the lap of a happy dog, but as h
e did that, Christian knew it wasn’t out of joy; it was a signpost that directed the trail. There was animal lust here. There were no gentle explorations like fifteen-year-old girls testing their bodies—this was firm, concrete, with a clear unabridged resolution. Gabriel required his adoration before pounding all his strength in rabbit thrusts of his hips. He vigorously shook the semen from his body before they both lay exhausted but sated in Christian’s bed.
They forgot about their morning coffee, and by the time they rose from the mattress it was closer to lunch than to breakfast. But it was good, and it was necessary. It became a fire that needed the stoking from a poker or the billows of oxygen to ignite into something violently dynamic before fading into the tiny embers of a lovers embrace. It helped them clear their heads so they could continue the afternoon without the hanging presence invading their conversations.
Chapter Eighteen
CHRISTIAN PALMED THE mouse to light the screen. It awoke with a beautiful landscape scene. Immediately he opened the file on his desktop that held the Word document containing all his notes on Gabriel Church. He preferred writing from his legal pad because the keystrokes had a way of breaking a mood and destroying the silence between interviewer and subject. He only used the laptop to refresh his memory on key points he wanted to ask Gabriel. He allowed the pointer to drag over dates of recent murders then copied those dates down on his ledger.
“I’d very much like to build your story around the dates of each of your murders. I have a few in front of me. I was hoping you could fill in the details, cities, what you remember of the victims . . . things like that.”
Christian had assumed his professional role. The cold and clinical monotone edged his words as if he was something removed from the murders. In fact, he felt like he was standing behind Church during each one of his kills.
