She mused: I don’t believe that a soldier’s death in guerilla warfare is the same as stone cold murder. A seagull’s shrieking dive to snatch an escaping crab ended Qui’s reverie.
She looked at Estrada. “Murder is an evil business, Uncle. No doubt of that.”
Clearing his throat, Estrada repeated, “I also asked for you, Qui…” he repeated, “’cause my men… they wanted to disobey me, to throw these children of God back into the ocean.” He raised his shoulders and frowned. “They fear for what will come of this.”
“I don’t blame them in the least,” she quietly replied, momentarily considering the possibility of her failing the dead, being unable to solve their murders.
He stared deeply into her eyes, searching her meaning. “Then you think the crew is right? That this...this can only bring evil on us?”
Qui knew what he suggested but feared to vocalize: If a future accident befalls any one of us, will it truly be an accident? “Uncle Estrada, you’ve already spoken to my colonel, and he’s sent me here. No throwing them back, no cutting loose the net, not now. Maybe before, but not now. It…it’s gone too far.”
Everyone aboard heard her words.
She meant them to hear.
Pointing now to the cache of death, Qui demanded, “Open the net! On the deck, Uncle. Let’s get on with it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, do it. Now.”
Estrada swallowed hard but gave the signal. The pulley operator yanked a switch, and the net bottom fell out. Bodies, chain and lock, dead shrimp, and assorted sea life spilled from the net like a mosaic created by a madman. The bodies slid on the wet sea life, rippled toward them, making everyone start, and at once creating a kind of creepy knell, lock and chain having careened into a bulkhead.
“Jesus Christ!” shouted Tino from atop the nearest bulkhead. Intent on photos and observations, and not paying attention to the conversation, he’d been standing almost under the net when it opened, and had to move quickly to escape the deluge Qui’s orders had created. His shoes and pant legs were shiny with splashed fluids and be-speckled with bits of gore.
Sergio, staring at the disturbing montage, muttered, “Medical examiner’s not going to like this.”
Except for a growing cloud of scavenging sea gulls, silence again settled over the boat.
Feeling brutalized, her brain screaming, Set up…set up!, Qui was hit with the certain knowledge that Gutierrez knew what she’d find aboard the Sanabela, that Estrada had filled him in on more detail than the colonel had shared. She imagined his grin at her horror and loathing. I can do this, she told herself. It’s what I trained for.
From the evidence kit, Sergio handed her a pair of surgical gloves. “Time to go to work?”
With growing paranoia, Qui knew this crime scene must be treated with absolute precision. Proper procedure adhered to with greater care than with any of her previous cases. She turned to Tino, who was about to light up another cigarette, and barked, “Tino, we need to call a medical examiner—now! Radio for one to meet us at the marina. You take the police cruiser. Sergio and I’ll stay here with the bodies.” Turning to Sergio, she continued, “I need you, Sergio, to pilot us into harbor, and oh, Tino—”
“Yes, Lieutenant?”
“Meet the medical examiner and brief him. Also, I need you to find us a slip!”
“I can do that.”
“Make it as close to the Capital headquarters as possible. Understood?”
“Got it, Lieutenant.” He rushed off and climbed aboard the police boat, where he cast off tie lines, freeing the vessels from one another.
Qui now quietly said to Estrada, “Uncle, please allow Sergio to pilot the Sanabela into harbor.”
Her tone, body language, and action informed the crew that they were no longer taking orders from Estrada—that the lone woman on deck was in charge. Qui sensed a feeling of relief come over everyone, pleased that someone in a position of authority had taken charge. She had in effect cast an official cloak over the terrible find.
Estrada replied, “For now, Lieutenant, you are my captain.”
Excerpt from TRUCK STOP by Jack Kilborn and J.A. Konrath
-1-
Taylor liked toes.
He wasn’t a pervert. At least, not that kind of pervert. Taylor didn’t derive sexual gratification from feet. Women had other parts much better suited for that type of activity. But he was a sucker for a tiny foot in open-toed high heels, especially when the toenails were painted.
Painted toes were yummy.
The truck stop whore wore sandals, the cork wedge heels so high her toes were bent. She had small feet—they looked like a size five—and her nails matched her red mini skirt. Taylor spotted her through the windshield as she walked over to his Peterbilt, wiggling her hips and wobbling a bit. Taylor guessed she was drunk or stoned. Perhaps both.
He climbed out of his cab. When his cowboy boots touched the pavement he reached his hands up over his head and stretched, his vertebrae cracking. The night air was hot and sticky with humidity, and he could smell his own sweat.
The whore blew smoke from the corner of her mouth. “Hiya, stranger. My name’s Candi. With an i.”
“I’m Taylor. With a T.”
He smiled. She giggled, then hiccupped.
Even in the dim parking lot light, Candi with an i was nothing to look at. Mid-thirties. Cellulite. Twenty pounds too heavy for her skirt and halter top. She wore sloppy make-up, her lipstick smeared, making Taylor wonder how many truckers she’d already blown on this midnight shift.
But she did have very cute toes. She dropped her cigarette and crushed it into the pavement, and Taylor licked his lower lip.
“Been on the road a long time, Taylor?”
“Twelve hours in from Cinci. My ass is flatter than roadkill armadillo.”
She eyed his rig. He was hauling four bulldozers on his flatbed trailer. They were heavy, and his mileage hadn’t been good, making this run much less profitable than it should have been.
But Taylor didn’t become a trucker to get rich. He did it for other reasons.
“You feeling lonely, Taylor? You looking for a little company?”
Taylor knew he could use a little company right now. He could also use a meal, a hot shower, and eight hours of sleep.
It was just a question of which need he’d cater to first.
He looked around the truck stop lot. Pretty full for late night in Bumblefuck, Wisconsin. Over a dozen rigs and just as many cars. The 24 hour gas station had a line for the pumps, and Murray’s Eats, the all-night diner, appeared full.
On either side of the cloverleaf there were a few other restaurants and gas stations, but Murray’s was always busy because they boasted more than food and diesel. Besides the no-hassle companionship the management and local authorities tolerated, Murray’s had a full-size truck wash, a mechanic on duty, and free showers.
After twelve hours of caffeine sweating in this muggy Midwestern August, Taylor needed some quality time with a bar of soap just as badly as he needed quality time with a parking lot hooker.
But it didn’t make sense to shower first, when he was only going to get messy again.
“How much?” he asked.
“That depends on—”
“Half and half,” he cut her off, not needing to hear the daily menu specials.
“Twenty-five bucks.”
She didn’t look worth twenty-five bucks, but he wasn’t planning on paying her anyway, so he agreed.
“Great, sugar. I just need to make a quick stop at the little girls’ room and I’ll be right back.”
She spun on her wedges to leave, but Taylor caught her thin wrist. He knew she wasn’t going to the washroom. She was going to her pimp to give him the four Ps: Price, preferences, plate number, parking location. Taylor didn’t see any single men hanging around; only other whores, and none of them were paying attention. Her pimp was probably in the restaurant, unaware of this particular tran
saction, and Taylor wanted to keep it that way.
“I’m sorta anxious to get right to it, Candi.” He smiled wide. Women loved his smile. He’d been told, many times, that he was good-looking enough to model. “If you leave me now, I might just find some other pretty girl to spend my money on.”
Candi smiled back. “Well, we wouldn’t want that. But I’m short on protection right now, honey.”
“I’ve got rubbers in the cab.” Taylor switched to his brooding, hurt-puppy dog look. “I need it bad, right now, Candi. So bad I’ll throw in another ten spot. That’s thirty-five bucks for something we both know will only take a few minutes.”
Taylor watched Candi work it out in her head. This john was hot to trot, offering more than the going rate, and he’d probably be really quick. Plus, he was cute. She could probably do him fast, and pocket the whole fee without having to share it with her pimp.
“You got yourself a date, sugar.”
Taylor took another quick look around the lot, made sure no one was watching, and hustled Candi into his cab, climbing up behind her and locking the door.
The truck’s windows were lightly tinted—making it difficult for anyone on the street to see inside. Not that Candi bothered to notice, or care. As soon as Taylor faced her she was pawing at his fly.
“The bedroom is upstairs.” Taylor pointed to the stepladder in the rear of the extended cab, leading to his overhead sleeping compartment.
“Is there enough room up there? Some of those spaces are tight.”
“Plenty. I customized it myself. It’s to die for.”
Taylor smiled, knowing he was being coy, knowing it didn’t matter at this point. His heart rate was up, his palms itchy, and he had that excited/sick feeling that junkies got right before they jabbed the needle in. If Candi suddenly had a change of heart, there wasn’t anything she could do about it. She was past the point of no return.
But Candi didn’t resist. She went up first, pushing the trap door on the cab’s ceiling, climbing into the darkness above. Taylor hit the light switch on his dashboard and followed her.
“What is this? Padding?”
She was on her hands and knees, running her palm across the floor of the sleeper, testing its springiness with her fingers.
“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.
Fatal Instinct Page 34
