He locked the catch with a padlock, and then set the stock in between the floor mats, where it fit snuggly into a brace, secured by two more padlocks.
Play time.
Taylor lay on his stomach, taking Candi's right foot in his hands. He cupped her heel, running a finger up along her sole, bringing his lips up to her toes.
He licked them once, tasting sweat, grime, smelling a slight foot odor and a faint residue of nail polish. His pulse went up even higher, and time seemed to slow down.
Her little toe came off surprisingly easy, no harder than nibbling the cartilage top off a fried chicken leg.
Taylor watched the blood seep out as he chewed on the severed digit—a blood and gristle-flavored piece of gum—and then swallowed.
This little piggy went to market.
He opened up his mouth to accommodate the second little piggy, the one who stayed home, when he realized something was missing.
Where was the screaming? Where was the begging? Where was the thrashing around in agony?
He crawled around the stock, alongside Candi's head. Ether was a pain in the ass to get the dose right, and he'd lost more than one girl by giving her too big a whiff. Luckily, Candi was still breathing. But she was too deeply sedated to let some playful toe-munching wake her up.
Taylor frowned. Like sex, murder was best with two active participants. He gathered up the whore's belongings, then rolled away from her, over to the trap door.
He'd get a bite to eat, maybe enjoy one of Murray's famous free showers. Hopefully, when he got back, Sleeping Homely would be awake.
Taylor used one of the ether-soaked paper towels to wipe the blood off his chin and fingers, stuffed them back into the bag, then headed for the diner.
-2-
“Where are you?”
“I have no idea.” My cell was tucked between my shoulder and my ear as I drove. “I think I'm still in Wisconsin. Wouldn't there be some kind of sign if I entered another state?”
“Don't you have the map I gave you?” Latham asked. “The directions?”
“Yeah. But they aren't helping.”
“Are you looking at the map right now?”
“Yes.”
The map might have done me some good if I'd been able to see what was on it. But the highway was dark, and the interior light in my 1989 Nova had burned out last month.
“You can't see it, can you?”
“Define see.”
I heard my fiancée sigh. “I just bought you a replacement bulb for that overhead lamp. I saw you put it in your purse. It's still in your purse, isn't it?”
“Maybe.”
“And you can't replace the bulb now, because it's too dark.”
“That's a good deduction. You should become a cop.”
“One cop in this relationship is enough. Why didn't you take my GPS when I insisted?”
“Because I didn't want you to get lost.”
A billboard was coming up on my right. MURRAY'S - NEXT EXIT. That was nice to know, but I had no idea what Murray's was, or how far the exit was. Not a very effective advertisement.
“My interior light works, Jackie. I could have used Mapquest.”
“Mapquest lies. And don't call me Jackie. You know I hate it when people call me Jackie.”
“And I hate it when you say you'd be here three hours ago, and you're still not here. You could have left at a reasonable hour, Jack.”
He had a point. This was my first real vacation—and by that I mean one that involved actually travelling somewhere—in a few years. Latham had rented a cabin on Rice Lake, and he had driven there yesterday from Chicago to meet the rental owners and get the keys. I was supposed to go with him, and we'd been planning this for weeks, but the murder trial I'd been testifying at had gone longer than expected, and since I was the arresting officer I needed to be there. As much as I loved Latham, and as much as I needed some time away from work, my duty to put criminals away ranked slightly higher.
“Your told-you-so tone isn't going to get you laid later,” I said. “Just help me figure out where I am.”
Another sigh. I shrugged it off. My long-suffering boyfriend had suffered a lot worse than this in order to be with me. I figured he had to be incredibly desperate, or a closet masochist. Either way, he was a cutie, and I loved him.
“Do you see the mile markers alongside the road?”
I didn't see any such thing. The highway was dark, and I hadn't noticed any signs, off-ramps, exits, or mile markers since I'd left Illinois. But I hadn't exactly been paying much attention, either. I was pretty damn tired, and had been zoning out to AM radio for the last hour. FM didn't work. Sometimes I wish someone would shoot my car, put it out of my misery.
“No. There's nothing out here, Latham. Except Murray's.”
“What's Murray's?”
“I have no idea. I just saw the sign. Could be a gas station. Could be a waterpark.”
“I don't remember passing anything called Murray's. Did the sign have the exit number?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
I made a face. “The defense attorney never asked me if I was sure. The defense attorney took me at my word.”
“He should have also made you take my GPS. You see those posts alongside the road with the reflectors on them?”
“Yeah.”
“Keep watching them.”
“Why should—” The next reflector had a number on top. “Oh. Okay, I'm at mile marker 231.”
“I don't have Internet access here at the cabin. I'll call you back when I find out where you are. You're okay, right? Not going to fall asleep while driving?”
I yawned. “I'm fine, hon. Just a little hungry.”
“Stop for something if it will keep you awake.”
“Sure. I'll just pull over and grab the nearest cow.”
“If you do, bring me a tenderloin.”
“Really? Is your appetite back?” Latham was still recovering from a bad case of food poisoning.
“It's getting there.”
“Aren't you tired? You should rest, honey.”
“I'm fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“I'm sure. I'll call soon with your location.”
My human GPS unit hung up. I yawned again, and gave my head a little shake.
On the plus side, my testimony had gone well, and all signs pointed to a conviction.
On the minus side, I'd been driving for six straight hours, and I was hungry, tired, and needed to pee. I also needed gas, according to my gauge.
Maybe Murray could take care of all my needs. Assuming I could find Murray's before falling asleep, running out of fuel, starving to death, and wetting my pants.
The road stretched onward into the never-ending darkness. I hadn't seen another car in a while. Even though this was a major highway (as far as I knew), traffic was pretty light. Who would have thought that Northern Wisconsin at two in the morning on a Wednesday night was so deserted?
I heard my cell phone ring. My hero, to the rescue.
“You're not on I-94,” he said. “You're on 39.”
“You sound annoyed.”
“You went the wrong way when the Interstate split.”
“Which means?”
“You drove three hours out of the way.”
Shit.
I yawned. “So where do I go to get to you?”
“You need some sleep, Jack. You can get here in the morning.”
“Three hours is nothing. I can be there in time for an early breakfast.”
“You sound exhausted.”
“I'll be fine. Lemme just close my eyes for a second.”
“That's not even funny.”
I smiled. The poor sap really did care about me.
“I love you, Latham.”
“I love you, too. That's why I want you to find a room somewhere and get some rest.”
“Just tell me how to get to you. I don't want to sleep alone in some cheap hotel with threadbare sheets and a mattress with questionable stains. I want to sleep next to you in that cabin with the big stone fireplace. But first I want to rip off those cute boxer-briefs you wear and… hello? Latham?”