Still, something about that box, and this job, was suspect. And it didn’t help matters that he’d been driving for almost four hours and still had no idea how close he was to his destination. Whatever was in that box must be worth a fortune. The delivery fee alone was almost three hundred.
He wiped his forearm across his sweaty brow—even the air conditioning couldn’t keep the desert heat at bay—and drained the dregs of lukewarm coffee from his thermos. Dispatch had instructed Donaldson to bring a jug of water in the event his car broke down, and Donaldson was beginning to realize he should have listened. Especially since he hadn’t been able to raise Dispatch since leaving Rock Springs. This place was so remote not even radio waves got through. Donaldson had considered investing in one of those cellular phones, but it probably wouldn’t have coverage way out here either. Besides, they were too big. He’d heard of a case in Chicago where a female cop escaped from a recreational killer by bashing him in the face with his own phone. Donaldson wanted to wait until the technology got better, and the phones got smaller.
He punched the gas.
The eddies of dust kicking up behind his rear tires looked like afterburners in the rays of fading sunlight. Ten more miles, and if he wasn’t there by then, he’d turn the hell around, and tell his boss the client was a no-show. Or maybe arrange for a pick-up in the nearest town. Might cut into some of the profit, but there was a little shit-kicker bar in Pinedale that Donaldson had passed through a few years ago, and he was certain he could pick up some little honey who wouldn’t be missed.
It had been three weeks since his last murder, and Donaldson was feeling the itch.
The sun was blinding in the rearview mirror.
Another scalding day in hell.
But he loved hell.
Through the windshield, he watched the Wind River range growing impossibly larger as he approached at forty-five miles per hour.
God, he couldn’t wait.
Three months ago, he’d placed the order.
Three. Long. Months.
He almost hadn’t sprung for it. $600 was half a month’s salary at Woodside College. Almost half of that was the delivery fee, due to the illegality of the contents. But this was worth it.
In the distance, he saw a cloud of dust.
That had to be his package.
Right on time, too.
He wondered how closely the delivery drivers of Failsafe Transportation were tracked.
It’d be so much fun to use what was coming on the driver. Bring him (or her) back to the shed. Getting rid of the car would be easy enough, though if the driver never showed back up for work, they’d probably trace them back to this western Wyoming desert. To his or her last delivery. But he’d paid with an anonymous money order and had used a false name. If a cop came to question him, he could simply play dumb. Say the driver never showed. But was it worth the risk? On the other hand, how often had someone actually driven themselves to him? Placed their life at his feet?
Never.
Definitely worth consideration.
Funny thing about the urge. Unlike a big meal, or even sex, where it would sustain you for a while, a good long murder session was more akin to a drug. Even though you’d just had some, you still wanted more. A better buzz. A longer high. For the party to go on and on and on.
The sun glinted off the chrome and glass of the approaching car, which was still a half mile out.
He checked his face in the mirror—still a few scratches from the previous night’s guest, but nothing too—
Shit.
He glanced down.
He’d forgotten to change, and the front of his tee-shirt was caked with day-old blood. It reeked, too, and not body odor reek.
Dead guy reek.
The sweet, rotting aroma of blood exposed to a hundred five degree heat.
He’d already driven three miles out from the cabin, but he wondered if he should go back, change into fresh clothes. Last thing he needed was to throw a red flag by smelling like decomp.
But chances were, the delivery driver had already seen him, or at least his dust trail.
Might follow him back to the cabin, and that would be a true disaster.
Fuck it.
He pulled his tee-shirt over his head and tossed it in the backseat.
He still stunk, but now it was just good old fashioned BO.
No crime in that.
When Donaldson saw the car approaching, he let his foot slide off the gas and brought his sedan to a stop. He sat for a moment, thinking.
If it’s a woman, maybe I’ll take her.
But the truth was, he wouldn’t really even have to take her anywhere. Could do her right here, out in the great wide open, under them skies of blue, just like the new Tom Petty song said. No one would hear her screams except him and the cacti.
Donaldson thought about the toolbox he had in the trunk. And the Polaroid. Supposedly the final rays of sunshine were considered the magic hour for photographers.
Donaldson had never seen how blood photographed in the twilight.
Okay, a woman, and she’s mine.
Or a man. If he’s okay-looking.
Donaldson fidgeted in his seat, watching the car approach.
Fuck it. As long as it’s human and has a pulse, I’ll take my shot.
He turned off the engine and climbed out into the blistering desert heat, patting the folding knife in his back pants pocket.
A crusty-brown Buick sped down the dirt road toward him, rocking along on its shocks.
The Buick drew closer and closer, and for a moment, Donaldson thought it wasn’t going to stop, but then he heard the sound of its tires locking up.
The car skidded to a halt, ten feet from the front bumper of his sedan.
Its engine died and a cloud of dust and dirt swept over him.
Donaldson coughed, his eyes burning, and for a moment, he couldn’t see a thing.
A car door squeaked open and slammed.
Footsteps crunched in the dirt.
The first thing Donaldson saw was a pair of snakeskin boots, coated in dust, and then a pair of well-worn Wrangler jeans.
The customer was a bare-chested, bronze-skinned man.
Late-twenties.
Muscular and slim.
A well-proportioned face with a mop of short brown hair and bangs that hung in his eyes.
Tasty, Donaldson thought.
But at the same time, an element of this man was off.
There was something—familiar—in those piercing blue eyes. The way they flicked this way and that, focusing on Donaldson, behind him, the car, the road, back to him, taking in his whole body, head to foot. Donaldson felt like he, and everything around him, was under intense scrutiny. He recognized this, because he was doing the same thing. No one in the man’s car, no one on the road behind him, no apparent weapon bulge in his jeans, just a thumb tucked into his belt near his rear pocket.
Which is how Donaldson had his hand, because it was near his knife.
The man smiled. “Find the place all right?”
“You Miller?” Donaldson asked.
