Serial - Crouch Blake (книги регистрация онлайн бесплатно .txt) 📗
The only loose end was Donaldson. But he’d get his, eventually. It was only a matter of time until someone picked him up.
“You know, technically, you never thanked me for saving your life,” Latham said.
“Is that what you did?” I asked, giving him a playful poke in the chest. “I thought I was the one who did all the saving.”
“After that man called me, I called the police, told them you were at Murray’s and someone had you.”
“The police arrived after I’d already taken control of the situation.”
“Still, I deserve some sort of reward for my cool-headedness and grace under pressure, don’t you think?”
“What have you got in mind?”
He whispered something filthy in my ear.
“You pervert,” I said, smiling then kissing him.
Then I took another sip of wine and followed his suggestion.
Utah, One Week Later
1
Donaldson kept one hand on the wheel. The other caressed the cell phone.
The cell phone with Jack Daniels’s number on it.
It had been over a week since that fateful meeting. He’d headed southwest, knowing there was a nationwide manhunt going on, knowing they really didn’t have anything on him. A description and a name, nothing more.
He’d been aching to call the Lieutenant. But it wasn’t the right time yet. First he had to let things cool down.
Maybe in another week or so, he’d give her a ring. Just to chit-chat, no threats at all.
The threats would come later, when he went to visit her.
He felt a tinge of sadness about Taylor’s arrest. A shame, losing a kindred spirit like that. But if the man had been willing to share, he wouldn’t be in custody right now.
At least he kept quiet about me, Donaldson thought.
But that hadn’t stopped Donaldson from putting as much road between him and Wisconsin as he could. He’d been so busy running from the authorities, covering his tracks, Donaldson hadn’t had any time to indulge in his particular appetites. He kept an eye open for likely prospects, but they were few and far between.
The hardest thing about killing a hitchhiker was finding one to pick up.
Donaldson could remember just ten years ago, when interstates boasted a hitcher every ten miles, and a discriminating killer could pick and choose who looked the easiest, the most fun, the juiciest. These days, cops kept the expressways clear of easy marks, and Donaldson was forced to cruise off-ramps, underpasses, and rest areas, prowl back roads, take one hour coffee breaks at oases. Recreational murder was becoming more trouble than it was worth.
He’d finally found one standing in a Cracker Barrel parking lot. The kid had been obvious, leaning against the cement ashtray near the entrance, an oversize hiking pack strapped to his back. He was approaching every patron leaving the restaurant, practicing his grin between rejections.
A ripe plum, ready to pluck.
Donaldson tucked the cell phone into his pocket and got out of the car. He didn’t even have to initiate contact. He walked in to use the bathroom and strolled out with his car keys in hand, letting them jingle a bit. The kid solicited him almost immediately.
“Excuse me, sir. Are you heading up north?”
Donaldson stopped, pretending to notice the man for the first time. He was young, maybe mid-twenties. Short, reddish hair, a few freckles on his face, mostly hidden by glasses. His clothing looked worn but of good quality. Donaldson was twice his age, and damn near twice his weight.
Donaldson rubbed his chin, which he knew softened his harsh features.
“In fact I am, son.”
The boy’s eyes lit up, but he kept a lid on his excitement. Any hitcher worth his salt knew to test the waters before sealing the deal.
“I am, too. If you’d like some company, I can chip in for gas.” He hooded his eyes and quickly added, “No funny stuff. I’m just looking for a ride. I was hoping to get to Ogden by midnight. Got family up there. My name’s Brett, by the way.”
Well played, Donaldson thought. Friendly, a little desperate, making clear this wasn’t a sexual hookup and that he had people waiting for him.
As if any of that would keep him safe.
“How do I know you’re not some psycho?” Donaldson asked. He knew that was pushing it, but he liked the irony.
“There’s a gas station across the street. I can top off the tank, pay with a credit card. All gas stations have cameras these days. Credit card is a paper trail. If anything happens to you, that would link me to your car, and I’d get caught.”
Smart kid. But not that smart.
The really smart ones don’t hitchhike.
“Won’t need gas for a few hundred miles.” Donaldson took off his Cubs baseball hat, running a hand over his gray, thinning hair. Another way to disarm the victim. No one feared grandfatherly types. “Until then, if you promise not to sing any show tunes, you got yourself a ride.”
Brett smiled, hefted his pack onto his shoulders, and followed his ride into the parking lot. Donaldson unlocked the doors and the kid loaded his pack into the backseat of Donaldson’s 2006 black Honda Accord, pausing when he saw the clear plastic covers on the front seats.
“My dog, Neil, usually rides up front with me,” Donaldson said, shrugging. “I don’t like him messing up the upholstery.”
Brett flashed skepticism until he noticed the picture taped to the dash: Donaldson and a furry dachshund.
“Sheds like crazy,” Donaldson said. “If you buy a dog, stick with short-haired breeds.”
That was apparently reassurance enough, because Brett climbed in.
Donaldson heaved himself into the driver’s seat, the car bouncing on its shocks.
“Buckle up for safety.” Donaldson resisted the urge to lick his lips, then released the brake, started the car, and pulled onto the highway.
The first ten miles were awkward. Always were. Strangers tended to stay strangers. How often did a person initiate conversation on a plane or while waiting in line? People kept to themselves. It made them feel safe.
Donaldson broke the tension by asking the standard questions. Where’d you go to school? What do you do for a living? Where you headed? When’d you start hitchhiking? Invariably, the conversation turned to him.
“So what’s your name?” Brett asked.
“Donaldson.” No point in lying. Brett wouldn’t be alive long enough to tell anyone.
“What do you do, Donaldson?”
“I’m a courier.”
Donaldson sipped from the Big Gulp container in the cup holder, taking a hit of caffeinated sugar water. He offered the cup to Brett, who shook his head. Probably worried about germs. Donaldson smiled. That should have been the least of his worries.
“So you mean you deliver packages?”
“I deliver anything. Sometimes overnight delivery isn’t fast enough, and people are willing to pay a premium to get it same day.”
“What sort of things?”
“Things people need right away. Legal documents. Car parts for repairs. A diabetic forgets his insulin, guy loses his glasses and can’t drive home without them, kid needs his cello for a recital. Or a kidney needs to get to a transplant location on time. That’s the run I’m on right now.”
Donaldson jerked a thumb over his shoulder, pointing to the backseat floorboard. Brett glanced back, saw a cooler sitting there, a biohazard sticker on the lid.
“No kidding, there’s a kidney in there?”
“There will be, once I get it.” Donaldson winked at the kid. “By the way, what’s your blood type?”
The kid chuckled nervously. Donaldson joined in.
A long stretch of road approaching. No cars in either direction.
