«Serial Uncut», Jack Kilborn
Serial Uncut
Tampa, 1978
1
βDidnβt anyone ever tell you about the dangers of hitchhiking?β the driver said. βYou never know whoβs going to pick you up.β
Donaldson wiped sweat from his brow and eyed the driver through the half-open passenger side window of the Lincoln Continental. The driver was average-looking, roughly Donaldsonβs age, dressed in a dark suit that matched the carβs paint job.
βIβm roasting out here, man,β Donaldson said. And it wasnβt far from the truth. Heβd been walking down this desolate highway for damn near three hours in the abusive, summer sun. βMy car died. If you want to rob or kill me, thatβs fine, as long as you have air conditioning.β
Donaldson forced a bright smile, hoping he looked both pathetic and non-threatening. It must have worked, because the man hit a switch on his armrest, and the door unlocked.
Must be nice being rich, Donaldson mused at the fancy automatic locks. Then he opened the door and heaved his bulk onto the leather seat.
βThanks,β he said.
The car was cooler than outside, but not by much. Donaldson wondered if the manβs air worked. He placed his hand against the vent, felt a trickle of cold leaking out.
βHappy to help a fellow traveler. Iβm Mr. K.β
βDonaldson.β
Neither made a move to shake hands. Mr. K checked his mirror, then gunned the 8-cylinder engine, spraying gravel as the luxury car fishtailed back onto the asphalt.
Donaldson adjusted his bulk, shifting the. 38 heβd crammed into the front pocket of his jeans. The pants were loose enough, and Donaldson portly enough, that he doubted Mr. K noticed.
βYouβre sunburned,β Mr. K said.
βSunβll do that to you.β
Donaldson touched his bare forearm, lobster red, and winced. Then he flipped down the visor mirror, saw how bad his face was. It looked like his old man had slapped the shit out of him, and hurt almost as much.
βYour car a Pinto?β Mr. K asked.
βMy car?β
βA Pinto. Saw one about five miles back.β
Donaldson contemplated the harm in admitting it. He supposed it didnβt matter. Before heβd abandoned the car, heβd wiped it clean of fingerprints.
βYeah. Blew a rod, I think.β
βWhy didnβt you wait for the police?β
Again, Donaldson deliberated before answering. βI donβt like pigs,β he finally said.
Mr. K nodded. Donaldson doubted the man shared his sentiment. His hair was short, he was well-dressed, and he owned a fancy car. Cops wouldnβt hassle him. They were too busy hassling people with long hair and beards and ripped jeans.
People like me.
The highway stretched onward, wiggly heat waves rising off the tarmac. There wasnβt much traffic. Only about twenty cars had passed Donaldson during his long walk, and not one had so much as slowed down. Bastards. Whatever happened to human compassion?
βDid you kill the carβs owner before you stole it?β Mr. K asked.
Alarm bells sounded in Donaldsonβs head. He frantically pawed at his. 38, but Mr. K slammed on the brakes.
Donaldson bounced off the dashboard, smacking his sunburned nose hard. During the momentary disorientation, he was aware of Mr. K throwing the car into park, unbuckling his seatbelt, and pressing a thin-bladed knife under Donaldsonβs double chin with one hand, while digging the. 38 from Donaldsonβs front pocket with the other.
βYou should buckle up,β Mr. K said. βSeatbelts save lives.β
Mr. K stuck the knife into his breast pocket, belted himself back in, then hit the gas. The tires screamed and the Continental shot forward.
βIβm bleeding,β Donaldson said, his hands cupped around his nose. He knew it was a stupid, obvious thing to say, but he was still dazed and trying to buy some time.
βTissues in the glove compartment.β
Donaldson dug them out, feeling more ashamed than hurt. This guy had gotten the better of him much too easily. As he mopped the blood from his face, Mr. K pressed a button to open the passenger side window.
βThrow the used ones outside, please.β
Donaldson went through ten tissues, tossing each one onto the road whizzing by. Then he ripped one more into pieces, balled them up, and shoved them into each nostril, staunching the trickle. He kept an eye on Mr. K the entire time, alternating between watching the manβs eyes, and watching the. 38 pointed at him.
This is a real bad situation.