Flowers in a Dumpster (17 page)

Hagan fumbled for the torch’s switch, his sweaty fingers almost losing their purchase, but then the flame ignited with a soft hiss. Hagan brought the blowtorch up without hesitation, flaying away several layers of skin from the driver’s cheek.

***

Ferwin screamed.

The pain in his cheek was worse than anything he’d ever known. It felt as if his eye would explode. Relinquishing his hold on the blade, still buried in the hitchhiker’s shoulder, he rolled off the young man. Scrambling backwards, Ferwin tried to put as much distance as possible between himself and that blowtorch.

The hitchhiker rose slowly, dusting off his clothes, wincing at the pain in his shoulder. He glanced at the hilt of the switchblade then shifted his gaze to Ferwin. Ferwin imagined the stare to be something he’d given his own victims, and he found he didn’t like being on the receiving end.

Ferwin managed to get to his feet, expecting a charge at any moment. Instead, the young man remained in place, grabbed a hold of the blade and pulled it out of his flesh. It made a wet sucking sound like shoes in sticky mud. The hitchhiker tossed the blade casually over his shoulder.

It landed with a
plop
in one of the urinals.

Ferwin backed up, never taking his eyes off the hitchhiker. He made his way to the door, so that his back was covered. Ferwin got the impression the hitchhiker was merely toying with him, making a sport of it all, as Ferwin himself had done many times in the past. Was this some kind of poetic justice, Ferwin wondered? Karma, perhaps?

Ferwin’s foot landed on an object that rolled away beneath him. For a terrifying moment he thought he was going to fall. He regained his balance though. Risking a brief glance down, he discovered the object at his feet was a screwdriver. There were other tools laid out on the floor—a hammer, a drill, an object it took several seconds to recognize as a corkscrew.

He plucked the hammer from the floor, grateful to have a weapon, and continued backing toward the door.

***

Hagan watched the driver pick up the hammer with amusement. This was turning out far better than he’d ever imagined it would. Never before had any of his victims put up this much of a fight. Hagan had hoped for a challenge, and he’d gotten one.

He advanced on the driver, holding the torch down and out.

The driver raised the hammer and said, “Stay where you are.”

Hagan was impressed to hear not the slightest tremor in that voice. It was a voice of authority, a voice of someone who had power and knew how to use it. The driver was shaping up to be a worthy adversary, and Hagan was going to find it gratifying to take him down.

***

“Stay where you are,” Ferwin said again. He hadn’t bargained for this. The question was: would he come out on top this time?

The hitchhiker continued forward at a leisurely pace, making it obvious that he had experience at this sort of thing. While holding the hammer in one hand, Ferwin reached out behind him with the other, searching for the door. His fingers brushed only the cool, clammy tiles of the wall. Ferwin’s fear combined with this darkness disoriented him. He wasn’t sure if the door was to the right or left. The hitchhiker advanced. Ferwin needed to make a decision. He chose at random and moved left, trailing his fingers over the wall.

Ferwin had gone only a few steps when there was a creaking to his left. The bathroom door swung open. He pushed himself back against the wall to avoid being smashed in the nose, concealing him from the elderly gentleman who stepped inside.

***

Caught off guard by the sudden interruption, Hagan lost view of the driver. Someone else entered the restroom. Without his glasses, Hagan couldn’t make out any specifics. He could, however, hear his labored, halted movements and identified the newcomer as an older person.

The old man took two steps into the restroom before spotting Hagan. He stopped short, his eyes sliding down to the torch in Hagan’s hand.

“Um, excuse me,” he said as the door swung shut behind him. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I’ll just be a minute.”

Hagan grinned and raised the torch, starting forward again.

Two for the price of one.

The old man reached for the door behind him and said, “Please, me and my wife are on our way to see our newest grandbaby. Please, please don’t.”

***

When the old man started for the door, Ferwin acted on impulse, his ingrained desire for violence winning out. He lifted the hammer and brought it down hard, embedding it in the top of the old man’s head.

The crunch resounded before the old man fell to his knees and toppled over.

Only after the initial thrill of murder had subsided did Ferwin realize his mistake. The hitchhiker was still waiting for him, and Ferwin had relinquished his only weapon. He could bend over and yank the hammer from the old man’s skull, but could he do it before the hitchhiker could close the remaining distance between them? Ferwin didn’t think so.

***

Hagan was shocked. He had respected the driver’s will to survive, his cool-headedness in the face of danger, but now Hagan saw there was more to the driver than even he suspected. The killing of the old man, such an unprovoked and heartless act, shocked him. The driver’s apparent lack of remorse made it obvious to Hagan that this wasn’t the first time the driver had killed. There was an efficiency about the man, a professionalism, that told Hagan the driver was a seasoned pro.

Hagan started forward again, and the driver reached out for the door handle. “I’m not going to hurt you,” Hagan said.

“The fuck you’re not,” the driver said, running his fingers over the burned flesh of his cheek.

Hagan turned off the torch and tossed it away, holding up his hands to show he was unarmed. He stepped over the dead man’s body as if it were nothing more than a fallen branch. Along with Hagan’s realization that the driver was also an experienced murderer came a feeling of kinship, of brotherhood. They were cut from the same cloth, Hagan and the driver. United by the spilling of blood.

***

Ferwin didn’t know what to make of this turn of events. The hitchhiker had thrown away his weapon. Did he intend to battle Ferwin in a fistfight, man to man? Thoughts of escape left Ferwin’s mind and he stood his ground. Ferwin had no doubt that he could beat the hitchhiker in simple hand-to-hand combat.

But the hitchhiker didn’t seem to have combat in mind. He stopped in front of Ferwin, a grin spreading across his face, and said, “I had no idea. Will you accept my apology?”

“What are you talking about?”

Instead of answering, the hitchhiker asked another question. “How many have you killed?”

The question caught Ferwin by surprise. He fumbled a moment before saying, “I’m not sure, probably somewhere in the double digits. I don’t keep count.”

***

“Oh, I do,” Hagan said, grateful to have someone with which to discuss his art. He’d kept it bottled up so long that he now found himself rambling. “I’ve killed exactly thirty-seven people to date, twenty-six male and eleven female, thirty-two over the age of eighteen and five under the age of eighteen. After I read a book about Dahmer, I tried eating one of my victims. Christ, it was disgusting. I don’t see how anyone could be sick enough to enjoy something like that.”

***

Ferwin was mesmerized. Here was someone who had killed as many people as Ferwin—more in all likelihood—and the hitchhiker talked about it in such a nonchalant manner. It excited Ferwin, meeting someone who shared his dark desire.

“Pardon me,” Ferwin said after a few moments, “I hate to interrupt, but the old man on the floor said something about his wife being with him. She’s probably out in the car right now, wondering what’s keeping her hubby.”

“Of course, you’re right. May I take her? It’s only fair. After all, you got to do the old man.”

Ferwin smiled and said, “Be my guest.”

***

Hagan knelt on the floor and felt around until he found his glasses, thankfully still in one piece. He went back to his assortment of tools and picked out the corkscrew, hiding it in the pocket of his jacket. While the driver washed up at the sink, Hagan eased out of the restroom and stalked into the parking lot. The rain had stopped completely. Even the wind was letting up. There were two cars in the lot now—the driver’s Cadillac and, a few parking spaces over, an ancient gray Pinto. In the passenger’s seat was an equally ancient woman with fluffy white hair. She stared at Hagan, and he saw her push down the door lock. Hagan plastered on his most authentic smile and made his way to the Pinto.

The woman was visibly panicked. Hagan knelt by the car and rapped on the window. “Ma’am,” he said, his voice all innocent charm, “I’m so glad you and your husband happened by. I’m in a bit of a pinch.”

The woman looked toward the restrooms. “Where’s Raymond?”

“Your husband’s still in the bathroom, ma’am. I talked to him in there. See, my car’s battery is dead and I’m stranded. Your husband—Raymond—said he’d give me a jump.”

“We don’t have any jumper cables,” the old woman said, clutching her purse in her lap.

“Oh, I have the cables. If you’d open up—”

“Where’s Raymond?” the woman asked again.

“I told you, he’s still in the bathroom. He’s, um, he’s doing a number two.”

The old woman blushed and looked away. “I’ll wait for Raymond.”

“I understand,” Hagan said, and smashed his elbow into the window. Shards of glass rained down on the old woman. She scrambled across the seat, reaching for the driver’s door, but Hagan had the passenger’s door open and was hauling her out before she could even get hold of the handle. In the process, the old woman’s blouse was torn open, revealing a raggedy bra with one strap held up by a safety pin.

Hagan rolled her over onto her back and held her down by the throat. He applied enough pressure to make it hard for her to breathe without completely cutting off her supply of oxygen. She thrashed and struggled, but her frail limbs were useless against him.

“Please, don’t rape me,” she whispered, trying to cover herself with her ripped blouse.

Hagan laughed. “Don’t be silly, Grandma. I’m not going to rape you, just kill you.” He pulled the corkscrew from his jacket and showed it to the old woman. She began to struggle again, but Hagan banged her head sharply against the concrete, knocking her semi-unconscious. With a hungry grin, the aches and pains of his body forgotten at that moment, Hagan lowered the corkscrew toward the old woman’s left eye.

***

Ferwin came out of the restroom as the hitchhiker pulled the old woman from the Pinto. He watched with interest from afar, admiring the hitchhiker’s technique, his zealousness. It reminded Ferwin of himself. How refreshing it was to see a young person so dedicated, with so much real passion and ambition.

When the hitchhiker finished his work, he stood, blood coating his hands. He tucked the corkscrew back into his jacket, looking down at the body with obvious pride. He stood that way for several moments, entranced, then collected himself and walked over to Ferwin.

“You do nice work,” Ferwin said.

“That’s not all that much. It was too sloppy, but I was in a hurry.”

“Well, if that’s how you work when pressed for time, I’d love to see you at your best.” Ferwin tried to smile, but the pain in his cheek turned the effort into a grimace.

“Man, I’m sorry about that. I didn’t realize . . . ”

“That’s quite all right. Hazard of the job. It seems I did a bit of damage myself.”

***

Hagan looked down at the wound in his left shoulder as if noticing it for the first time. Blood soaked through the upper left part of his T-shirt.

“I’ve had worse,” he said, shrugging his right shoulder. “I know a few doctors who’ll fix me right up, no questions asked. Of course, they don’t actually have a license to practice medicine, but killers can’t be choosers.”

They shared a chuckle then stood in silence. Hagan was surprised to discover he actually respected this man, and that was something he’d never been able to say about anyone else he’d met. As a gesture of his esteem, Hagan held out his blood-streaked hand. The driver took it without hesitation.

***

When the handshake was over, Ferwin didn’t bother to wipe the blood from his hand. He liked its texture, the thick slickness. “Can I drop you somewhere?” he asked.

“Won’t be necessary. I find long walks invigorating, helps me think.”

“Well, I should be going. It’s late, and I have to take care of my cheek.”

“It was a genuine pleasure meeting you,” the hitchhiker said.

“Same here. Maybe our paths will cross again sometime.”

“Hope so. In the meantime, keep up the good work.”

“I will,” Ferwin said with a laugh. On the way to the Cadillac, he glanced approvingly at the old woman’s body and all the new holes the hitchhiker had added to her head. As he drove back to the highway, Ferwin raised his hand in a wave to the hitchhiker.

Driving toward town, Ferwin whistled a tune to himself. The hitchhiker had certainly been dynamic and interesting. Ferwin felt better about the future of America knowing there were young people like that out there.