Flowers in a Dumpster (16 page)

Ferwin looked for a turnabout, resigning himself to the fact that tonight had been a bust, when up ahead he saw a figure by the side of the road. In the glare of the headlights and through the slanting rain, the figure quivered like a mirage. As Ferwin drew closer, he clearly saw the figure extend its arm and stick out its thumb.

***

Colin Hagan stood on the shoulder of the highway, drenched by the relentless rain. His clothes were soaked through, clinging to his flesh like a second skin. His round wire-frame glasses were spotted and streaked, making it hard for him to see. Hagan didn’t mind the inconvenience of the weather. It was worth it, after all, for his art.

Hagan considered himself quite the artist, albeit a novice, but he didn’t paint or sculpt or even compose. Hagan’s area of expertise was murder. Twenty years old, he had been practicing that particular craft for the past five years. He had a natural affinity for it, a sort of inborn aptitude. He’d started simply but gradually became more creative and imaginative, always striving for perfection, hoping for a masterpiece that would confirm his genius.

Usually Hagan picked up his victims at gay bars, confused lonely souls who were all too eager to go back to Hagan’s place. He was classically handsome, blonde hair and blue eyes, with a lithe body that looked good in tight black clothing.

Though Hagan was a slight man, short and thin, he was quick and agile, and he never had any trouble with his victims.

Hagan had tired of the bars and the poor saps that haunted them nightly, though. They were so pathetic, most of them, that they practically welcomed death. Hagan needed something more challenging, more satisfying. That was what had brought him here to this lonely stretch of highway on this godforsaken night.

Over the rise, he saw two headlights appear, spearing through the gloom and the rain. Hagan stuck out his thumb, eager to get started on his next creation. The long yellow Cadillac rolled to a stop next to Hagan and a smiling middle-aged man leaned across the front seat and opened the passenger’s side door.

***

“How ya doing?” Ferwin asked as the hitchhiker climbed into the car and closed the door on the wind and the rain.

“Wet and cold,” the hitchhiker said, forcing a smile. “Thanks for stopping,” he added.

“No problem.” Ferwin pulled back onto the highway, the tires slushing on the wet pavement. He cut a discreet sideways glance at the hitchhiker. Young, dressed in a black T-shirt and jeans with only a light jacket to protect him from the harsh elements outside. His hair, so doused that Ferwin couldn’t even guess at its true color, was plastered to the top of his head like a swimming cap. A black backpack hung from the hitchhiker’s left shoulder.

“You can put that in the back,” Ferwin said, flashing his most charming smile.

The hitchhiker placed the pack on the floorboard between his feet. “No thanks, I’d rather keep it close.”

Ferwin nodded. “I understand. I’m a stranger, and you don’t trust me. That’s cool. So how far ya headed?”

“As far as you are,” was the hitchhiker’s response. He never once glanced at Ferwin. He seemed immune to Ferwin’s usually irresistible magnetic personality. This was going to be a tough one, Ferwin thought, but he was up for that. He was confident he would win this game in the end, like he always did.

***

The driver of the Cadillac made Hagan nervous, which was practically unheard of. Hagan had nerves of steel and prided himself on his unshakable confidence. However, something about the driver’s cheerful persona seemed forced, a façade of some kind. Hagan tried to dismiss this feeling as paranoia, but the driver kept giving him quick furtive glances. The driver was muscular, but aging. His gut evinced the first signs of flab, forewarning a potbelly sometime in the not-too-distant future. His hair receded from his forehead like a shoreline steadily eaten away by erosion. Hagan had nothing to worry about should this man decide to put up a fight, but he couldn’t quite squelch the unease gnawing at him.

The car passed a large green sign, the headlights temporarily spotlighting it. Hagan had an idea.

“There’s a rest stop at the next exit. At this time of night and in this storm, it’s likely to be deserted.”

“Yeah?” the driver asked noncommittally.

“I was thinking we could stop there,” Hagan said, placing a hand high up on the driver’s inner thigh. “We could have some fun.”

The driver said nothing for several seconds. Hagan worried he’d taken the wrong course of action, but then the driver smiled. Hagan considered it to be the man’s first genuine smile of the night. Without a word, the driver turned the car onto the ramp leading to the rest stop.

***

Ferwin could not believe his luck. At first he had been revolted by the hitchhiker’s obscene offer and the feel of the young man’s questing hand, but then Ferwin realized how perfect the situation was. The hitchhiker was inviting his own doom, and Ferwin would be more than happy to oblige him.

“You know, I’ve never done anything like this before,” Ferwin said, infusing his voice with a mixture of insistent lust and harmless naiveté.

“Don’t you worry. I’ll show you the ropes.”

***

Hagan’s excitement built, but so too did his cautiousness. The driver was a fool, driving himself to his own funeral. However, Hagan still could not shake the nagging feeling that something was wrong. He needed to be careful with this one.

The Cadillac crested a small rise and they found themselves in the parking lot outside the rest stop. There were bathrooms quaintly labeled GUYS and GALS, vending machines filled with drinks and snacks, and a row of payphones all housed underneath a slanting overhang. As Hagan suspected, the Cadillac was the only car in the lot.

“Here we are,” Hagan said. “Shall we get started?”

***

“No, not in the car,” Ferwin said. “Let’s do it in the restroom.”

The hitchhiker shrugged, grabbed his pack and opened the door. The rain was letting up, but the wind grew stronger.

The hitchhiker hunched his shoulders against the gusting air and started toward the bathroom.

Ferwin followed suit, stepping out into the drizzle. He never handled his victims in the car. It was too risky and too messy. Ferwin could be a bit sloppy at times.

It wouldn’t do to have blood all over the upholstery.

***

Hagan led the way, the driver trailing close behind. The restroom door creaked as it swung open on old, rusted hinges. Hagan was instantly assaulted by the stench of urine and mildew. He resisted the urge to gag. The filthy restroom, with puddles of stinking piss collected on the floor, disgusted Hagan. At the same time, though, the scene elated him. The stained green tiles of the floor and the utter corruption of the restroom seemed an appropriate burial ground for the middle-aged man, whose life Hagan imagined was as empty and squalid as this restroom.

The door swung shut, cutting off the light from the lamps in the parking lot, leaving the restroom in darkness. Hagan reached out to the wall, found the light switch and flipped it. Nothing happened. In the impenetrable blackness, Hagan smiled.

***

At first Ferwin couldn’t even make out his own nose in the darkness that enfolded him, but gradually his eyes adjusted to the gloom. The hitchhiker stood a few feet away, shrugging off his backpack.

In the dark, the hitchhiker’s eyes seemed to burn with some inner fire. Ferwin couldn’t wait to snuff out that flame.

“Want a beer?” the hitchhiker asked, reaching into his bag.

“Sure.” Ferwin stepped farther into the restroom, glancing at his surroundings, what little of it he could see. The restroom was narrow and ran straight back, one wall equipped with a long metal trough-like sink. The other wall held six urinals and six toilet stalls, only two of which had doors. Ferwin hated this place, hated the stench of human excrement.

He could hear the clinking of glass against glass behind him and the sound of the young man’s footsteps on the tile as he approached. Yes, Ferwin could definitely use a beer, even if it was lukewarm from being in the hitchhiker’s pack for a while.

Ferwin started to turn when something hard smashed against the side of his head, and he went sprawling to the floor. In the last few seconds before he lost consciousness, he could make out the hitchhiker standing over him, staring down and laughing.

***

The driver lay on the floor, blood seeping from the wound in his right temple to pool beneath his head. He was motionless except for the steady rise and fall of his chest—evidence that he was merely unconscious and not yet dead. That was good. Hagan wanted to get inventive with this one.

Hagan pulled a bundle of sturdy rope from his pack and tied the catatonic driver’s wrists securely together. Dragging the man to the nearest stall, Hagan propped him up on the toilet. He returned to his backpack and unloaded some of his goodies; the tools of his trade. He had knives of every variety, pliers, a hammer and nails, a small blowtorch, a battery-operated electric drill, and his personal favorite, a corkscrew. Hagan never used guns, considering them too crude and unimaginative. He laid these items out on the floor and mulled them over, deciding which he would start with.

***

When Ferwin came to, his vision blurred and his mind was groggy. Gradually he became aware that his wrists were bound. He wiggled his hands, trying to free them, but the rope was too tight. He could hear the hitchhiker breathing somewhere beyond the stall. Ferwin knew he had to act quickly and had only once chance—the switchblade he kept tucked inside his sock.

He bent over and snagged the blade with his fingers, flicking it open with the ease of someone who had performed this act countless times. Ferwin began cutting through the rope, aware of a soft murmuring coming from somewhere outside the stall. It sounded like the hitchhiker was naming off items from a list.

Ferwin managed to cut through the thick rope in a matter of minutes. When he tried to stand, the world went gray around the edges. Ferwin slumped back against the toilet. His head pounded. Eventually the dizziness passed and he stood, a little uncertainly, but this time he maintained his balance. Crouching so that his head wouldn’t show over the top of the stall, he clutched the switchblade in his right hand, and waited for the hitchhiker.

***

For starters, Hagan settled on the blowtorch. It may have been compact, but it was capable of generating intense heat—an unavailable prototype, obtained through one of Hagan’s illegal suppliers. Hagan got his hands on any weapon he wanted, illegal or not, with only a few simple phone calls and an exchange of cash.

Although he trembled with anticipation, an inner calm had descended over him. Working on his art was the only time Hagan felt truly at peace. Everything shifted into perspective, and life was full of purpose and meaning.

Hagan walked slowly toward the stall where he’d left the driver. As much as he loved his art, he dreaded that moment when his victim took his last breath. It always left Hagan feeling empty. Therefore, he liked to make the kill last as long as possible, like a lover trying to hold off orgasm to receive the fullest possible pleasure.

As he reached the first stall, a well-honed intuition told him something had gone wrong. He’d learned over the years to trust that intuition, so he stopped short of the stall and stood very still. He held his breath for a moment, his ears straining to hear the slightest noise. He heard nothing, only the even rasping of the driver’s breath. Steeling himself and lighting the torch, Hagan stepped in front of the doorless stall.

***

Ferwin listened as the hitchhiker walked toward the stall, ready to pounce as soon as the young man was in view. Before the hitchhiker reached the opening though, he stopped. The hitchhiker’s breathing also stopped, momentarily.

He’s on to me, Ferwin thought.

He quickly sat down on the toilet, holding his hands together between his knees as if they were still bound. He closed his eyes and opened his ears, biding his time to make a move.

***

Hagan stepped in front of the stall, torch held out in front of him, expecting to find the driver poised to strike. Instead, the middle-aged man was as Hagan had left him.

You’re getting paranoid, Hagan told himself.

He turned off the torch, not quite ready to use it, and leaned over the driver.

“Wakey, wakey,” he called out softly. “C’mon now, I want you awake for this. It wouldn’t be as much fun if you weren’t.”

***

Ferwin sensed the closeness of the hitchhiker, felt the heat of his breath as he lowered forward. When Ferwin’s instincts told him the time was right, he raised the blade and thrust it toward the hitchhiker, sending all his weight flying forward. The blade sank into the hitchhiker’s left shoulder, up to its polished-wood hilt. The force of Ferwin’s assault caught the hitchhiker by surprise, and the two men went sprawling onto the floor.

***

When Hagan collided with the floor, his glasses flew from his face, transforming the world into an indecipherable collage of blurred images. Miraculously, he managed to maintain his grip on the blowtorch.

The driver was on top of him, trying to pull the blade from Hagan’s shoulder. Hagan knew he had to act before that could happen. If the driver got the blade free, he would no doubt find a deadlier location in which to plunge it.