Chapter 25

Dexter had been driving for most of the night. He’d put St. Louis behind him and was making his way southeast on Interstate 24, traveling to Atlanta.

He’d stopped only once since leaving St. Louis, to grab food, and refuel. At an all-night convenience store/gas station, he stuffed his pockets with junk food: Slim Jims, corn chips, beef jerky, Honey buns, cheese-flavored popcorn, Snickers candy bars, Reese’s peanut butter cups . . . he’d never been a big fan of junk food, but everything looked delicious. He only wished he had a coat with larger pockets.

He also picked up a jug of orange juice, and a gallon of water, to wash it all down.

Invoking the cloak of invisibility, he left the store without tendering payment. He did return to pay for the gas, though.

Steering with one hand, he used his teeth and his free hand to tear into the packages. He crammed food in his mouth like a graceless glutton, chewing hard, grunting and moaning with pleasure, licking his lips and his crumb-and-oil-smeared fingers. He was starving, starving. Although he’d eaten a thick block of cheddar cheese and a pound of smoked sausage at Thad’s house, his body had already burned through the energy that meal had supplied.

In no time, he was done. Shredded wrappers covered his lap, the seats, and the floor. A few of the ripped packages had smears of juices left; he pressed them to his mouth and licked them dry.

Finally satiated, he gave himself over to driving. Sometime past two o’clock in the morning, when he was winding through Kentucky, he wondered if he should pull off the highway and catch some sleep. He could not remember the last time he had truly slept; last night at his mom’s place, he’d lain in bed, the weird visions trotting through his mind, but he hadn’t slumbered.

He felt fine, however. Eating again had energized him. Yet, perhaps out of habit, he believed that he should take a respite.

At the next exit, he got off the highway. He made a left off the ramp, and found himself on a twisty, snow-mantled country road. There was an abandoned gas station on his left, slats of plywood covering the windows. He veered into the parking lot, rolled behind the building.

There was a stack of plywood near the building, half-covered with an iced-over tarp. An old, rusted dumpster. A nearby streetlamp was broken, gazing down on him like a slashed eye.

The surroundings were a far cry from the luxurious lodgings he’d enjoyed in his pre-prison life. But he couldn’t risk checking into a motel. By now, law enforcement might be prowling for him, and he had no intentions of getting caught.

He switched off the ignition. The vents ceased blowing warm air, and the coldness of the night seeped inside the car. Wind shrieked around the Chevy like a tormented soul crying for mercy.

He could handle the cold, for a while. He’d endured worse conditions.

He dug into his jacket pocket and removed the wedding photo he’d taken from his mom’s house. He pressed his gloved thumb against his wife’s face.

Her big, shining eyes in the photo were smug. Mocking. She thought it was funny, what she’d done to him, the misery she’d forced him to suffer. She thought it was all a big motherfuckin’ joke.

I’ll teach you, bitch.

He flipped out his switchblade. He pinned the photo on the seat cushions next to him, and used the tip of the blade to tear out her eyes, puncturing the upholstery underneath in the process.

There. That was better. Teach her to mock him. Bitch.

He folded the photo and placed it back into his pocket. He reclined the seat. Closed his eyes.

Within a couple minutes, a face materialized in the darkness of his mind’s eye, like a full moon in a night sky: the middle-aged biracial man with the wire-rim glasses, probing eyes. Wearing a white lab coat. Bearing a gigantic syringe glistening with silvery fluid.

Dexter’s eyes snapped open. His heart was racing.

Someone’s been messing with my brain. I’m willing to bet that it’s that mulatto motherfucker I keep seeing. What the hell did he do to me?

He decided to forget about sleeping, and get back on the road. He wasn’t tired anyway . . . and if he saw that needle-wielding asshole every time he closed his eyes, he would be unable to ever sleep soundly again.