Fourteen

To: Troy14@ncr.tr.com
From: crypto@ncr.zk.com
Subject: Denver

Dear Troy,
Long drive. Arriving shortly. Anticipate no delays.
ZK

He was tired from the drive. The thump of the tires on the road was driving him mad. He was too tall for the car. The little beat-up compact rental was a piece of plastic crap. He didn’t like to drive. It would have been faster and easier to fly, but he had to follow the instructions to the letter. He’d taken the fastest route— I-5 south toward L.A. then across to I-15 northeast. He drove through the night, then face-first into the sun. He’d lost two hours in Vegas—the victims’ house had been hard to find in the maze of sameness that was the Vegas suburbs. But he’d found and dispatched them with the thoroughness expected of him.

Kill ’em and leave ’em. Those were the rules. No playing with the bodies. He was sorry for that. After the couple in San Francisco, the reaction he’d had to the blood, he was curious what it would be like. They wouldn’t be moving, right? But they’d still be warm.

It would violate the rules.

Monotony. He turned on the radio for company. He liked the conservative talk shows the best—they got his blood boiling. He’d always dreamed of calling in to one of them and telling the bastards exactly what he’d like to do to them. How he’d take them apart, piece by piece. They had everything—money, drugs, women. That Limbaugh guy had just gotten married for something like the twentieth time. And that English prick Elton John played at the wedding. He always thought Elton John was a liberal—he was gay, after all, flaming, really. Apparently money made everyone mercenary. He knew it worked that way for him.

On he drove, his thoughts racing, the radio spewing.

The sun, sinking like heavy red blood in his rearview mirror, the moon rising heavy and full, an expectant sky, then stars, pinpricks in the ink-black night, peeking from their celestial beds. For hours his headlights mingled with the moonlight, illuminating the path, miles upon miles of empty, lonely road stretched before him. At last the moon bade him farewell. The trees hung low across the pass, the tunnels empty and forlorn.

He rolled across the Rocky Mountains as the sun clawed through the morning virga, the gigantic peaks powdered with snow, the air becoming crisp and sharp. There would be a storm tonight, the rains he’d left behind in San Francisco making their way to higher altitude. He needed to finish the job and move along so he didn’t get stuck in town. That would get him off schedule, and he didn’t want that to happen. He glanced at his watch to double-check. No, he was still okay.

He stopped in Conifer for gas and a candy bar. He needed the energy. He was getting sleepy. He had another to kill today. He was surprised at how deadening the thought was. Boring, almost. Almost. The first time, back in San Francisco, now that had been something special. He wanted to stay and savor the moment, relive the gun exploding in his hand and the shocked looks on their faces, relish the scents that streamed from the bodies. He had no idea they would smell like that. Burnt offerings, elegantly tinged with copper, and the faintest tang of urine.

But he couldn’t stay and relish. He had a plan, and he must stick to it. The letter must be posted. The next targets eliminated. He didn’t know if he liked this game. He felt rushed. The driving, the back-to-back deaths. His own senses were out of whack. Not being able to choose his own victims, well, that took all the fun out of it for him.

He’d agreed to play by the rules. The rules meant he wouldn’t be caught. The rules meant he could win, then go on his own path, kill his own way. The gun seemed too impersonal, too easy. He really enjoyed using the knife in Vegas. Four more with the gun, and he’d have that freedom again.

He scarfed the candy bar and drank the Coke. Got back in the car and dreamed as he drove.

Freedom. If he won, the money would float him for years. He didn’t need much. A small house with a basement would be good, out of the way, with no nosy neighbors. Maybe he’d get a cat. He liked dogs, but they had to be walked, and he didn’t like to be seen. No, a cat would be perfect, a friendly face to keep him company.

If all went well, a few scared, unfriendly faces, too.