by J K Ellem
Dead people.
Beth set her dinner on her desk, placed the beer next to it, pulled out her chair, and sat down. For a moment she didn’t move. Then she picked at her dinner as she stared at the wall in front of her.
This room was a hellish place, a place of unimaginable pain and suffering, a place of lost hope and drowning despair. And for all those who lived here, too, a fate worse than death awaited them all.
14
At first glance, it could have been mistaken as wallpaper. But it wasn’t; no one would cover their walls with the dead and missing.
There were photos of lost faces, photocopies of partial maps, local and state newspaper clippings, parts cut from police incident reports, pages filled with neat handwriting torn from notebooks and pinned to the wall. Post-it notes clung to various sections with lines of scribble, question marks written in red marker, words were harshly underlined, notes added then crossed out, false conclusions made, all amongst a sea of too many questions, and few or no answers.
All combined, it was an intricate map, a hunter’s map. Beth Rimes was hunting something that had eluded her for the past two years. She was not a person who accepted circumstance nor coincidence nor fate.
She pushed her half-eaten dinner aside and got up from her desk chair. She wasn’t really hungry. She’d only put food in her mouth and chewed mechanically to fill some of the hollowness she felt inside. It seemed like the right thing to do.
She stood in front of her wall and stared at it. It was her wall and no one else’s. No one else knew it existed. She could have put it together at her place of work, but then people would have known about it. Then words like “obsession” and “craziness” would have been uttered behind her back, along the hallways of the police station, in the restrooms, and in conversations next to the water cooler.
The truth was it was not her job, not her case. She was no detective; there were others more qualified to investigate what had happened to the ten or more missing and dead persons, persons who had been taken, or had ended up found dead along the stretch of highway that was in her jurisdiction, in her back yard. Someone had come onto her turf and decided to dump bodies there.
It had started with three bodies, two years ago, dumped on the side of the highway, all broken and twisted over a time period of three months, roughly ten miles apart.
Then the missing persons reports started to come in. There was a six month gap before another body was found on the side of the highway.
Then it stopped. They hadn’t found another body for over six months now and Beth didn’t believe for one second he had stopped.
Maybe he'd gone underground. Maybe he’d become cleverer and started dumping the bodies in another state. But Beth had checked. There were no other cases like this anywhere else in Nevada or the surrounding states. All women, all young, all going somewhere or running from something, all somewhere out on the highway.
Maybe he was burying his victims now, deep in the dirt, away from where the vermin and coyotes couldn't chew on them, like had been the case with the first three victims.
No, people like this don’t just stop or move on. You had to kill them for it to stop.
She had to do something to pass the bouts of loneliness she often felt when she came off duty at night. Frank was certainly no help. Despite the claustrophobic feel of the place, Beth still felt cold and alone, like she was living in a huge empty space.
And now this new development, the incident at the gas station, along the same stretch of highway that was her turf.
She took a colored pin and moved to a large map on one section of the wall, running her fingers along its surface like she was reading braille. She found the approximate spot of the gas station, pushed in the pin, then stepped back and sighed.
Too many colored pins. Too few answers.
Davis promised he would email the enhanced photos taken from the CCTV footage to her first thing in the morning. By then Taylor would have also run the plates on the VW Golf and they would know who the registered owner was.
After running everything she had seen and heard through her head, maybe the hitchhiker who had overpowered the man in the store while his girlfriend looked on was the highway killer. But something niggled at the back of her brain as she looked at the map. A scattering of red pins marked where bodies had been located, and several yellow pins marked where missing persons had been last seen. None of the yellow pins were anywhere near the gas station, the nearest was several miles away.
It didn't make sense. Why, after six months of no obvious activity, would the perpetrator walk right into a gas station, knowing there were cameras everywhere, and brazenly abduct his next victim? And what was the woman’s role. Was she bait? Why did she look straight at the camera and mouth the word “help” as if she had been kidnapped herself?
Beth twisted her neck, trying to work out the kinks in her muscles and joints.
As with everything else, there were too many questions and not enough answers.
Beth’s computer pinged just as an email landed. Curious, she walked to the computer and looked at the screen.
It was an email from Davis with several jpeg attachments.
Beth smiled. Davis had a strong work ethic, he was certainly more dedicated than Taylor. He had stayed back at the gas station, worked on the CCTV footage and sent her the enhanced images.
Three mouse clicks later the little inkjet printer on the desk hummed to life and began spitting out the three images with the speed of paint drying. Beth scooped the pages up when the printer was finally done and carried them to her wall where she pinned them as a group separate from everything else. A new cluster of questions.
As she had expected, the woman’s face was clear as day. Her companion’s face was still obscured, but he had a solid build with darkish curly hair under the ball cap pulled down tight over his head.
But the hitchhiker, the stranger, also attempted to hide his face. Davis had enhanced the best angle he could of the man. Tall, narrow features, young, dark hair, angular cheekbones, and a strong almost defiant jaw. Beth remembered from the footage how he’d walked across the gas station plaza and into the store. It was his gait that struck her the most, his mannerisms. Determined, self-assured, not arrogant. She had witnessed enough career criminals to recognize an unfounded arrogant swagger. But this man had a quiet confidence, an acute awareness of his surroundings, his environment.
And then Beth felt fear, not for herself but for the two people he had abducted. He added something new to the mix, something to complicate her already complicated world.
As Beth stared at the picture of the mysterious stranger, she knew several things for certain: the man was likely to be an ex-cop or involved some way in law enforcement. He could even be ex-military. Despite this, he had a distinct distrust of the police. And if she didn’t find him soon, there’d be no one left to arrest.
15
Shaw woke just before dawn the next morning after only a few hours of sleep, the gun still in his hand. Jessie was asleep on the other bed. Trying not to disturb her, he quietly eased off the mattress and crept to the bathroom. He opened the door, went inside, and closed the door gently behind him.
Dark eyes filled with pure hatred glared up at Shaw and the man began to squirm on the tiles like a caged animal, but Shaw had trussed him up well. The bathroom was heavy duty, 1960s, built to last with thick solid pipes, heavy tile and porcelain, and a strong tub.
Muffled snarls came from behind the gag in the man’s mouth. His face was red, blistered, and his wrists were rubbed raw from struggling against the cable ties.
Shaw felt no pity for him. He squatted down and pressed the muzzle of the gun against the man’s head. Instantly the struggling ceased. “Hello, Rasul. Remember me?”
Dark eyes narrowed then hatred flared once again in the man’s eyes, this time stronger.
“That’s right, Rasul. Now you remember me? Three years ago, in your apartment in Washington, the threats you
made, all that terrorist propaganda you had on your computer. Plans to make a bomb.”
More muffled threats came from behind the gag.
“Back then you were just a nobody, some university kid watching beheading videos online. Easily influenced. But I saw more in you, Rasul. I saw a young man who wanted to be much more, to make a name for himself.”
The man tried to lash out at Shaw, but both his ankles were secured to a heavy waste pipe under the sink while his hands were pulled above his head and secured to the solid water pipe that fed the toilet. He was stretched out like a human hammock with little or no movement possible. But that didn’t stop him from thrashing about.
“If I had my way, you would still be in custody. But they let you off the hook didn’t they, Rasul.”
The man tried to chew through the gag like a rabid dog, cursing and screaming.
“So, what was it? An important uncle? A well-connected friend close to the royal family? How did you get the FBI to let you go?” Shaw smiled. “Imagine my surprise when I walked into a gas station in the middle of nowhere and saw your ugly face.”
The squirming stopped.
“What were the chances of that after all these years? Then I see on TV it was you the police want for bombing that plane.”
Shaw pressed the gun harder against the man’s head, his finger tightening on the trigger. “Was that you Rasul? Did you do that? Did you kill all those people?”
He shook his head, the tirade of muffled abuse now sounded like protests.
Shaw cocked his head, “What was that, Rasul? I can’t hear you.”
Shaw stood up, the muzzle still pointed at the man’s head. “I thought you were too dumb to pull off something like that off. Maybe I was wrong.”
Shaw said nothing for a moment, letting the gun drop to his side. He looked away, thinking. The man was only a foot soldier, a minion. Shaw knew it.
The gun came up again. “Where are they, Rasul? Where are your friends? Where were you meeting them? Who were you on the phone to when you kidnapped the woman and forced her to drive all this way?”
Silence.
“I’m going to take the gag off, Rasul, and then you’re going to tell me who is behind all this, because it sure isn’t just you working alone.” Shaw understood to bring down a commercial jetliner took months, if not years, of careful planning. Rasul was a little fish in a much bigger pond. Below the murky surface, other predators glided, swimming in the shadows of the deeper waters, hidden amongst the rocks. It was the bigger fish Shaw wanted to catch—the faceless, gutless men who pulled the strings and orchestrated the entire operation.
To catch bigger fish you need bait, and Rasul was going to be that bait.
Thirty minutes later Shaw emerged from the bathroom, shutting the door quietly behind him. Rasul had proven more stubborn than he had anticipated. Even with a gun held to his head and forced to keep his voice down, Rasul had refused to say anything except for hissing abuse at Shaw. Maybe he knew little, was just a pawn in the bigger scheme. Or maybe it was fear of retribution that had silenced Rasul’s tongue. The people behind this could wield enough power and influence to scare someone like Rasul into keeping his mouth shut.
Shaw didn’t want to torture the truth out of the man, not yet anyway.
Jessie was still asleep on the bed. He scribbled a note on a bedside pad telling her not to be startled, that he had gone for food, and not to go into the bathroom until he returned.
Easing the door open he went outside into the dull light of dawn. The air was cold and he huddled in his leather jacket, collar up, chin down and made his way towards the front office.
It was then Shaw noticed another two more Harleys had parked up next to the one he’d seen last night in front of one of the rooms. He guessed they’d arrived in the early hours of the morning. The curtains were still drawn and there was no sign of activity inside.
After Shaw walked past the room, the curtains parted slightly and a pair of cruel, hidden eyes watched Shaw leave.
The 24-hour restaurant across the highway glowed bright as Shaw hurried crossed the highway. He didn’t want to leave Jessie alone for too long.
16
He was deliberate with the spray bottle, careful not to spill any or over-spray, causing the liquid to dribble and leave stains or run marks. He had diluted the bleach solution so it was strong enough to remove all evidence yet weak enough not to cause damage.
He didn’t want to use too much on the seats, doors, and interior of the cab of the truck, just enough to remove all traces of the woman.
Spray then wipe. Spray then wipe.
Not too much. Not too little. Just enough. He worked meticulously, but efficiently, first with long vertical strokes up and down the seating, then horizontal strokes back and forth, making sure the damp cloth reached every nook and cranny the girl may have touched with her fingers, arms, thighs, or any part of her skin.
Her skin. A lump formed in his throat and his lips quivered.
He allowed himself a brief smile as he worked the cloth, reminiscing about her skin. Lovely, golden, unblemished, full of that youthful essence he wished he could bottle then uncork and inhale whenever he wanted. Every woman smelled different to him, a unique scent, not made of cheap perfume or juvenile body spray. No, that only masked the true, deep earthy smell of a woman. A smell of sweat and hormones, of supple skin and tender flesh, of hair follicles and skin cells. That was the real smell he yearned for and savored the most.
And there had been plenty of them to savor over the years, ever since he was a young boy. He was fifteen, she was just eight. The neighbors’ daughter was his first. That was more than fifty years ago, and they still hadn’t found the body. He relished in the torment her parents must have suffered all those years of not knowing. No closure, no answers, no daughter, a mystery they eventually took to their graves when they died of old age.
He swallowed hard, his hands jittery, his arousal swelling again. Like sweet golden honey she was. He liked the taste of honey, especially when he spread it thick and gooey on his toast. He liked the taste of her, too. Thick and gooey.
He hummed a tune as he worked, his favorite song, the song he would soon play on the CD player. It was his reward, a soothing aftermath that calmed him and brought him back down from the dizzying heights of the frenzy he usually worked himself up into.
As he hummed, he was certain the song had been written just for him. It must have been. It was perfect, it was him in the song. He visualized himself in each word, in each verse as he listened to it. He had played the disc so many times while he drove, he knew every word and was surprised the disc hadn’t worn thin.
Finally, the inside of the cab was clean. He stepped back and triple checked, mentally playing everything back in his head from the moment he saw her standing on the side of the road in the middle of a lonely desolate stretch of landscape to the moment he lifted her out of the cab.
He nodded to himself, satisfied he had wiped every surface she had come into contact with. He climbed back down and looked both ways down the highway.
No one for miles. Good.
He walked to the side of the truck, peeled off the surgical gloves and pocketed them. He opened one of the steel storage compartments under the chassis and returned the spray bottle to where his other tools were neatly secured. Leaning against one of the large tires was the shovel he had used. He looked at it for a moment, lost in thought. He had cleaned it already with the spray, just in case. He picked up the shovel and clipped it back into the mounting brackets on the underside of the chassis.
Satisfied everything was back in its rightful place, he wiped his hands and sweaty brow on an old rag, tucked it back into his pocket, and climbed back into the cab.
The big five-hundred horsepower engine kicked over then settled back into a deep meaty rumble. He glanced out the side window, across the endless flat plains, searching for an invisible spot about a hundred yards in the distance, amongst rocks, nettle and scrubb
y bush to where Mel lay in her final resting place under the cold earth. The sun had just broken the horizon with the first rays of light for the coming day.
He checked his mirrors before pulling back onto the deserted side road, the tires skidding on the gravel and dirt of the shoulder before they gripped the broken edge of the blacktop with more traction, picking up speed.
A few miles later he came back to the main highway. He glanced both ways. The road was a long, straight ribbon of black that stretched for miles in both directions. The sun was slowly climbing in the east bringing the heat with it.
He smiled, slipped on his sunglasses, pressed play on the CD player, put the truck in gear and slowly pulled out onto the main highway. The sound of thunder and rain drops began filling the inside of the cab as he drove.
He started singing along with his favorite song. “There’s a killer on the road…”
Sixty miles away, Beth Rimes sat in a booth in a truck-stop diner staring at a grainy picture of the man in the gas station from the night before. A cup of coffee and a half-eaten cinnamon roll sat on the table next to her.
Davis had pulled another picture this morning from the CCTV footage of the hitchhiker from the tanker truck, had blown it up and enhanced it as best he could, but they couldn’t get a complete view of his face. It was certainly better than the previous one from last night. Whoever he was, he was clever, too. He knew where the security cameras were and deliberately angled his face away from their range of focus as he went about his business walking around the shelves and serving himself coffee.
Even when he got to the counter to pay he was aware of the small camera up in the corner behind the cash register. The man seemed to know the location of the cameras without looking directly at them on the walls. This made Beth very suspicious. The man obviously had a criminal record, was on the run, and didn’t want to be recognized. But she had nothing to go on. The picture was too grainy, too unclear to kick it higher in the food chain and get it run through facial recognition software.
