wannabes. More than a few crazies. But never another hunter. Like we are. Don’t you think this is a unique chance?”
The meatloaf came, steaming hot. But Taylor wasn’t hungry anymore. He was intrigued. If Donaldson was what he claimed to be, the fat man was one hundred percent correct. Taylor had never talked about his lifestyle with anyone, other than his victims. And then, it was only to terrify them even more.
Sometimes, Taylor had fantasies of getting caught. Not because he harbored any guilt, and not because he wanted to be locked up. But because it would be nice, just once, to be open and honest about his habits with the whole world. To let a fellow human being know how clever he’d been all these years. Maybe have some shrink interview him and write a bestselling book.
How interesting it would be to talk shop with someone as exceptional as he was.
“So you want to swap stories? Trade tactics? Is that it, Donaldson?”
“I can think of duller ways to kill some time at a truck stop.”
Taylor cut the meatloaf with his fork, shoved some into his mouth. It was good.
“Fine. You go first. You said you don’t like ether. So how do you make your-” Taylor reached for the right words “- guests compliant.”
“Blunt force trauma.”
“Using what?”
“Trade secret.”
“And what if you’re too… aggressive… with your use of blunt force?”
“An unfortunate side-effect. Just happened to me, in fact. I recently picked up a tasty little morsel, but her lights went out before I could have any fun with her.”
“Picked up? Hitcher?”
Donaldson sipped more coffee and grinned. “Didn’t you know about the dangers of hitchhiking, son? Lots of psychos out there.”
Taylor shoved more meatloaf into his mouth, and followed it up with some mashed potatoes. “Hitchers might be missed.”
“So could truck stop snatch.”
Taylor paused in mid-bite.
“Your fly is open. And I saw how you were measuring the resident pimp.” Donaldson raised an eyebrow. “Have you relieved him of one of his steady sources of income?”
Now it was Taylor’s turn to grin. “Not yet. She’ll be dessert when I’m done with this meatloaf.”
“And once you’re finished with her?”
Taylor zipped up his fly. “I like rivers. Water takes care of any trace evidence, and it’s tough for the law to pinpoint the location where they were dumped in. You?”
“Gas and a match. First a nice spritz with bleach. Bleach destroys DNA, you know.”
“I do. Got a few bottles in the truck.”
Taylor still couldn’t assess what sort of threat Donaldson posed. But he had to admit, this was fun.
“Who was your first?” Donaldson asked.
“Dad. Fucker had it coming.”
“How’d you do it?”
Taylor ate more potatoes. “Ran him over. He fucked up one of my shocks, too. Bones caught up under the suspension, did a real number on a tie rod end.”
The older man chuckled. “That’s not something you can take to your local mechanic.”
“Hell, no. Fixed it myself. Took three car washes and a rainstorm before that car stopped dripping blood. How about you?”
Donaldson tipped his coffee cup. “Dad.”
“No shit?”
“I guess exceptional people like us think alike.”
Exceptional. Taylor liked that term.
“So how did dear old Dad meet his unfortunate end?”
“Baseball bat.”
“Never tried it. Fun?”
“Yeah. But too hard to clean. Even the aluminum models. Not even bleach can get those stains out. And not easy to ditch in an emergency.”
Taylor finished up the last bite of meatloaf. It was good. A loose grind, so you could taste all the little parts that went into it. Taylor loved texture. Mouth-feel was even better than taste.
“Had many emergencies?” he asked Donaldson.
“A few close calls. Once I was even pulled in for a line up. But no arrests. You?”
Taylor grinned. “I’m a law-abiding citizen. Worst thing on my record is a speeding ticket.”
Donaldson slurped more coffee. “Never got a speeding ticket. Was pulled over for a broken taillight once. Had a guest in the trunk, and the little bitch kicked it out.”
“She was in there when the cop stopped you?”
“Indeed. And let me tell you, that will get your heart pumping.”
Taylor had no doubt. “What’d you do?”
“I turned around, shot her three times through the back seat, hoping it didn’t go through the trunk or that the cop saw me. Then I cranked open the windows to get the gunpowder smell out, pulled onto the shoulder, and hoped he didn’t notice the bullet holes in my upholstery. He didn’t. Let me off with a warning.”
“Would you have killed the pig or let him take you in?”
“I would have killed him,” Donaldson said. “I don’t like pigs.”
“You and me both, brother.”
“So, here’s the ten-thousand dollar question,” Donaldson asked. “How many are you up to?”
Taylor wiped some gravy off his mouth with a paper napkin. “So that’s where we stand? Whipping out our dicks and seeing whose is bigger?”
“I’ve been at this a very long time.” Donaldson belched again. “Probably since before you were born. I’ve read a lot about others like us; I love those true crime audiobooks. They help pass the time on long trips. I collect regular books, too. Movies. Newspaper articles. If you’ve done the same research I have, then you know none of our American peers can prove more than forty-eight. That’s the key. Prove. Some boast high numbers, but there isn’t proof to back it up.”
“So are you asking me how many I’ve done, or how many I can prove?”
“Both.”
Taylor shrugged. “I lost count after forty-eight. Once I had one in every state, it became less about quantity and more about quality.”
“You’re lying,” Donaldson said. “You’re too young for that many.”
“One in every state in the lower forty-eight, old man.”
“Can you prove it?”
“I kept driver’s licenses, those that had them. Probably don’t have more than twenty, though. Not many whores carry ID.”
“No pictures? Trophies? Souvenirs?”
Taylor wasn’t going to share something that personal with a stranger. He pretended to sneer. “Taking a trophy is like asking to get caught. I don’t plan on getting caught.”
“True. But it is nice to relive the moment. Traveling is lonely, and memories unfortunately fade. If it wasn’t so dangerous, I’d love to videotape a few.”
That would be nice, Taylor thought, finishing the last bit of meatloaf. But my trophy box will have to suffice.
“So how many are you up to, Grandpa?”
“A hundred twenty-seven.”
Taylor snorted. “Bullshit.”
“I agree with you about the danger of keeping souvenirs, but I have Polaroids from a lot of my early ones.”
