The Killing League (6 page)

And he started skipping with his sister.

18.

Truck Drivin’ Man

Horvath Trucking was a small-time operation, based outside Macon, Georgia. It consisted of a main office, a refurbished doublewide on cinderblocks, and a yard filled with at least fifty trucks and twice as many trailers.

Each driver had their own mail slot at the main office and Roger Dawson, fresh from delivering his load of steel cable, a load that had shifted several times and required way more attention than Dawson had been willing to give, walked up the steps to the office.

The secretary, a woman named Connie, was at the back of the small space making a photocopy when Dawson entered. She turned, glanced, and nodded at him.

Dawson looked at Connie but didn’t make eye contact. He’d asked her out not long after he first started working for Horvath Trucking. He hadn’t planned on asking her out, but it just slipped out. He’d fumbled the question and it came out awkwardly. He’d felt like an asshole by the time he was done with the asking.

She turned him down flat. Practically laughed at him, like he was just another loser driving a truck. Like he wasn’t good enough to kiss her flabby white ass.

Later, he’d heard her talking and laughing with some other drivers and he knew she was making fun of him. Ever since, he’d ignored her. Fucking bitch. Oh, how he would have loved to hurt her. But he knew you couldn’t shit where you ate. So he left her in his mind, where he repeatedly fucked her and broke her neck.

Now, Dawson went to his mailbox, grabbed the small bundle, made sure the paycheck was in there, and went back out to the yard.

In the sunlight, the air held a dusty haze from the dirt kicked up by the trailer trucks. Dawson felt the dust in his eyes, and welcomed it. He was a man of the dirt. A man of the Earth. He thought about his parents, those two always had dirt, and his father, blood, under their fingernails.

Dawson looked at his index finger. No dirt, but a little grime from the trailer’s electrical cables. He was good with his hands and made repairs to his rig most of the other drivers had to have done by a mechanic.

Dawson slid the tip of his finger beneath the folded part of a fancy envelope he’d gotten that had been underneath his paycheck. He’d double checked the front of the card, because he’d never gotten anything this fancy-ass in his entire life.

But there it was on the front: Mr. Roger Dawson. He smirked at the “Mr.” Usually only the lot lizards called him that.

He ripped open the envelope and pulled out a card. It read “Truck Drivin’ Man” on the cover.

Dawson’s thick brow furrowed. What the fuck was this? He flipped open the card and read what was inside.

Mr. Roger Dawson,

Congratulations! You have been selected as a competitor in The Killing League. You were chosen based on your skill, viciousness, and the way you feed and care for Florida alligators! You are that rare combination of prostitute-killer and animal lover! Attached are your travel instructions and ticket. Unless you want your name, photograph and a description of the naughty things you’ve been doing sent to the police, you’ll join us. Good luck!

Sincerely,

The Commissioner

Dawson looked around. Had someone from work done this? Connie? No way. They had no way of knowing what he had done down in Florida.

No, this was some sick bastard. Probably another driver. But why? It would probably be about blackmail, Dawson thought. Well, good luck with that. What were they going after, his four hundred bucks in a savings account?

That had to be it. There was no fucking tournament. Dawson carefully pocketed the card and papers. He walked back to his rig and climbed into the driver’s seat. This was bullshit. Why didn’t everyone just leave him alone? That’s what he always wanted, and all he ever asked for. To be left alone.

And now this.

Okay, Mr. Commissioner, he thought. I’ll go wherever you want me to go.

Dawson had a feeling whoever this asshole was would have no problem ratting him out to the cops.

So he would go. But when he found this cocksucker, he’d have a little surprise for the bastard.

19.

Nicole

The friendship between Nicole and Tristan Burke had developed at the Culinary Institute. They had shared many a bottle of wine and late night discussions about the other students and teachers at the cooking school, as well as their hopes and dreams.

Although Nicole had gone on to success at the Institute, Tristan had gotten discouraged and dropped out halfway through the program. She had gone back to school, gotten her degree in psychology, and now worked as a counselor for the LAPD. Most of her work revolved around job stress, but she also worked frequently with cops who were involved in fatal shootings.

Nicole pulled up in front of Tristan’s apartment in the Acura with Sal in the backseat. She had rolled down the side window so he could stick his snout out into the fresh air, if there actually was any fresh air in L.A., and he had made the most of the opportunity.

As Nicole parked at the curb, Tristan waved from the window to let her know she’d be right out.

Nicole thought about her friendship with Tristan. She almost laughed that her best friend was both a lesbian and a shrink.

Admittedly, for a long time after the attack by Jeffrey Kostner, Nicole had had issues with men. And she knew that on some unconscious level, she may have found a small amount of comfort in friendships with women who had no interest in men. Maybe she found even more comfort in a friendship with a woman who studied psychology, and because her father was a cop, knew a little bit about bad people.

But all of that was a microscopic part of her friendship with Tristan. The fact was, she enjoyed the hell out of Tristan. Her friend was warm, funny, with an acerbic sense of humor that hid a deeply compassionate soul.

The front door to Tristan’s apartment building opened and Tristan Burke walked out in a blue t-shirt, tan hiking shorts and hiking boots. A backpack was slung over her shoulder and a travel mug, probably filled with Peet’s coffee, was in her hand.

Tristan was nearly six-foot tall with an athletic build and short black hair. She had a beautifully chiseled, strong face, which now creased into a smile as she opened the door and dropped into the passenger seat.

“Good morning Nicky,” she said. Sal nuzzled Tristan’s neck. “And good morning to you, handsome man,” Tristan said to the big Doberman.

Nicole took Pico down to Ocean, then hooked up with Pacific Coast Highway. They shot straight for the Santa Monica Mountains with virtually no traffic to slow them down.

“So, how’s business?” Tristan said.

“Better than I could have imagined,” Nicole said. She could be honest with her friend as Tristan had never really taken her culinary ambitions to heart.

“We’re practically booked solid for the next two months,” Nicole said.

“I knew you could do it, Nicky,” Tristan said. “I’m just glad my bad attitude at school didn’t derail you.” They had often joked about their disparate experiences in culinary education.

Nicole pulled into the parking lot at the foothills of the Santa Monica mountains. The hiking trails were a favorite destination of Nicole’s in her free time. With Sal by her side, and the comforting feel of a knife strapped to her calf, she had roamed the trails to physically exhaust herself and to drive anxiety from her body. She often felt she could see the stress and tension lift from her body and evaporate into the trees and dry air of the mountains.

“Long or short?” Tristan asked Nicole as they got out of the Acura and Sal did a long stretch. His tail wagged in anticipation of the hike.

They had a variety of trails they liked to walk, but usually chose between the long trail, which was just over seven miles, and the short trail, which was about half that. It all depended on how much time they had.

“Long,” Nicole said. “Does that sound good?”

“I’ve got nothing going on until drinks with Kimberley at five,” Tristan said. Kimberley was Tristan’s partner. They had been together for nearly five years. Kimberley was a vice cop with LAPD and gotten counseling from Tristan after a bloody shootout had left three people dead. Long after the counseling sessions were over, something more had developed between the two.

Nicole shut and locked the Acura, hooked Sal up to his thick leash and checked the sky.

When they had started out this morning, the sky had been bright and clear, but now, a thick strand of dark gray seemed to be heading toward the mountain, and a tickle of cold air brushed Nicole’s face.

Sudden storms weren’t exactly commonplace for this area, but she was prepared with a poncho in her backpack.

The three headed for the mouth of the trail, and Nicole felt a chill as the air temperature seemed to drop with every step.

20.

The Butcher

Business had never been better. In the last few years, people had grown more and more concerned about chemicals, additives and preservatives in their meat. Organic food had never been hotter. Thanks to clever positioning, Skittlecorn Meats was seeing nearly double-digit growth every six months.

Ray Skittlecorn got a kick out of the whole thing. He hadn’t so much chosen his profession as it had chosen him. That moment in sixth grade, the first dissection in Zoology class he’d nearly shot a wad into his Fruit of the Looms. Maybe it had a little bit to do with his dissection partner, Lori Tolke, whose sixth grade breasts were large, perfect orbs pressed against the soft cloth of her Kmart t-shirt. But even then Roy Skittlecorn knew it had even more to do with slicing up something that had just been alive. Killing and then dismantling the frog was one of the most pivotal moments in his life.

And now, as he unlocked the back door to Skittlecorn Meats, he was amused by the compliments he received regarding his prophetic vision for the future of the food industry.

Truth was, he had no vision. He liked to kill things and cut them up, plain and simple. Being a butcher had always been the perfect answer.

He stepped inside his shop and disabled the alarm. He turned on the lights, activated the master power switch for his equipment. The cutting room was his sanctuary, second only to the small, home workshop he kept behind a locked door in his basement.

He felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. Something suddenly didn’t feel right. His eyes slowly canvassed the prep room and he saw nothing unusual. But still, he felt something strange inside him, a vague sense of unease.

He pushed his way through the double doors into the front of the shop where he served his customers.

He had been right, he thought, as he stopped.

Someone had been here.

Roy Skittlecorn looked at the pig head placed on top of the glass display case. It faced him directly, positioned that way for maximum effect, he knew instinctively. It was the kind of thing he himself would have done.

He walked directly to the display. He knew there was nothing else to worry about. The intruder had been here to do just this. And this alone.

Before he plucked the beautiful and delicate envelope from the pig’s mouth, he had a feeling that there was more to this than some kind of prank.

The front of the card read:

The Butcher.

Inside, he read:

Mr. Roy Skittlecorn,

Good news, oh Maestro of Meat! Based on your exquisite skill slicing and dicing meat (both animal and human) you have been selected as a competitor in The Killing League. Attached are your travel instructions and ticket. If you choose not to participate, your local police chief will be quite surprised to find out that his steaks aren’t exactly as organic as he would like to believe! I look forward to meeting you and congratulating you on your nice work. It’s all been very WELL DONE (so to speak — ha!)

Sincerely,

The Commissioner

Roy Skittlecorn took the envelope and note to the cutting room and fed it into the power shredder.

He would play this game, he clearly had to. But at some point, he was going to find this Commissioner, and show him just how good he was at what he did.

He wondered how clever the Commissioner would feel when he was hanging from one of Ray Skittlecorn’s stainless steel meat hooks.

21.

Mack

Mack set the cooler in place, lowered the boat hoist until he felt the boat rise in the water on its own accord, then pushed off and set the motor at its lowest setting. This part of the Estero River was a no wake zone until it widened near the Pelican Bay boat launch.

When he made it around the first bend, he cracked his first beer and drank deeply. As always, with the first drink, he felt a bit of a hypocrite. People loved to compliment him, tell him what a great guy he was for taking care of his sister who had pretty much destroyed her brain with alcohol.

But he wasn’t a great guy. At times, he felt just as weak and helpless as she must have felt, while she was swimming in alcohol.

He pushed the thought from his mind. He’d been over this again and again. He knew the problems, the risks he was taking.

But some days, like today, he wanted to have a drink. No, he needed the drink, he could admit that. He just wanted…what was that song? Something about laying around the shanty and putting a good buzz on. That’s all he wanted right now, to take his brain to somewhere bright and fuzzy, away from the dark places of his memory.

For just a little while, he wanted to escape from the murderers and the victims. From the blood and the fury and the hopelessness.

He couldn’t always get away from the black spots on his own. He couldn’t always stop the brain from going there by himself. But he usually could with the help of some beer, or wine, or Jack and Cokes. They could do it quite well, actually.

He cruised down the Estero River, glancing at the homes along the banks. The boats, the swimming pools. Some were modern and expensive, others were old-style Florida. He liked the vintage establishments the best, even though he lived in a relatively new house.