Birds of Prey

“But Dad—”
“Hit him in the head!”
Tears streaming down the boy’s face.
“What are you waiting for?”
Luther looked down at the man—bound, bleeding, gagged, his eyes begging for mercy.
He strained to raise the sixteen-pound sledgehammer.
“Hit him in the FUCKING HEAD!”
Luther hit the man in the head.
And liked it.
 A Wake of Buzzards 
 Sublette County, Wyoming, 1991 
Donaldson contemplated pulling over, but there was no place to pull over to. The desert road that ran straight off into the horizon as far as he could see was nothing more than two, faint tire tracks.
He pressed the brake pedal and eased to a gradual stop, not concerned about blocking traffic, because he hadn’t seen another car in over an hour.
The falling sun threw chevrons of red and orange over the burnt landscape, sagebrush fringed with light and glowing like they were ablaze.
A tumbleweed tumbled across the dirt road, thirty yards in front of the bumper.
Donaldson squinted at the fold-up map he’d bought at a gas station in Rock Springs, seventy miles south. He’d thought of it as a bumblefuck town at the time, but it was Manhattan compared to this.
The road he was on was represented by a faint, yellow dash—mapspeak for an unimproved piece of shit. He glanced at his odometer, attempting to judge how far he’d come, and wondering if he should turn back. Open spaces made him wary—and he’d never seen anything like this.
But the money for this particular job was good. So good, that Donaldson was suspicious about his cargo. Drugs maybe. Or guns. But he couldn’t check—they made you sign a contract upon hiring at the delivery service, attesting that you would never, under any circumstance, inspect the cargo you were delivering. A violation of customer confidence, they’d called it, or some shit he couldn’t have cared less about if there hadn’t been the implied threat of getting fired over the slightest customer complaint.
He eyed his rearview mirror, scoping the box in the back seat, sealed with yellow tape along every edge and corner to discourage tampering. It was maybe a foot long, a few inches in diameter.
He thought, for the hundredth time, about opening the box. But Donaldson liked his current gig as a courier, and didn’t want to lose it over something as stupid as curiosity. Being paid to travel was like having a license to kill folks nationwide. He knew that serial killers got caught because they left trails. But cops from different states didn’t compare notes. Hell, cops from different towns in the same state didn’t even talk to one another. Since taking the job six months ago, he’d disposed of bodies in four different time zones. No one would ever link his victims together, and Donaldson wanted to keep it that way.
Still, something about that box, and this job, was suspect. And it didn’t help matters that he’d been driving for almost four hours and still had no idea how close he was to his destination. Whatever was in that box must be worth a fortune. The delivery fee alone was almost three hundred.
He wiped his forearm across his sweaty brow—even the air conditioning couldn’t keep the desert heat at bay—and drained the dregs of lukewarm coffee from his thermos. Dispatch had instructed Donaldson to bring a jug of water in the event his car broke down, and Donaldson was beginning to realize he should have listened. Especially since he hadn’t been able to raise Dispatch since leaving Rock Springs. This place was so remote not even radio waves got through. Donaldson had considered investing in one of those cellular phones, but it probably wouldn’t have coverage way out here either. Besides, they were too big. He’d heard of a case in Chicago where a female cop escaped from a recreational killer by bashing him in the face with his own phone. Donaldson wanted to wait until the technology got better, and the phones got smaller.
He punched the gas.
The eddies of dust kicking up behind his rear tires looked like afterburners in the rays of fading sunlight. Ten more miles, and if he wasn’t there by then, he’d turn the hell around, and tell his boss the client was a no-show. Or maybe arrange for a pick-up in the nearest town. Might cut into some of the profit, but there was a little shit-kicker bar in Pinedale that Donaldson had passed through a few years ago, and he was certain he could pick up some little honey who wouldn’t be missed.
It had been three weeks since his last murder, and Donaldson was feeling the itch.
The sun was blinding in the rearview mirror.
Another scalding day in hell.
But he loved hell.
Through the windshield, he watched the Wind River range growing impossibly larger as he approached at forty-five miles per hour.
God, he couldn’t wait.
Three months ago, he’d placed the order.
Three. Long. Months.
He almost hadn’t sprung for it. $600 was half a month’s salary at Woodside College. Almost half of that was the delivery fee, due to the illegality of the contents. But this was worth it.
In the distance, he saw a cloud of dust.
That had to be his package.
Right on time, too.
He wondered how closely the delivery drivers of Failsafe Transportation were tracked.
It’d be so much fun to use what was coming on the driver. Bring him (or her) back to the shed. Getting rid of the car would be easy enough, though if the driver never showed back up for work, they’d probably trace them back to this western Wyoming desert. To his or her last delivery. But he’d paid with an anonymous money order and had used a false name. If a cop came to question him, he could simply play dumb. Say the driver never showed. But was it worth the risk? On the other hand, how often had someone actually driven themselves to him? Placed their life at his feet?
Never.
Definitely worth consideration.
Funny thing about the urge. Unlike a big meal, or even sex, where it would sustain you for a while, a good long murder session was more akin to a drug. Even though you’d just had some, you still wanted more. A better buzz. A longer high. For the party to go on and on and on.
The sun glinted off the chrome and glass of the approaching car, which was still a half mile out.
He checked his face in the mirror—still a few scratches from the previous night’s guest, but nothing too—
Shit.
He glanced down.
He’d forgotten to change, and the front of his tee-shirt was caked with day-old blood. It reeked, too, and not body odor reek.
Dead guy reek.
The sweet, rotting aroma of blood exposed to a hundred five degree heat.
He’d already driven three miles out from the cabin, but he wondered if he should go back, change into fresh clothes. Last thing he needed was to throw a red flag by smelling like decomp.
But chances were, the delivery driver had already seen him, or at least his dust trail.
Might follow him back to the cabin, and that would be a true disaster.
Fuck it.
He pulled his tee-shirt over his head and tossed it in the backseat.
He still stunk, but now it was just good old fashioned BO.
No crime in that.
When Donaldson saw the car approaching, he let his foot slide off the gas and brought his sedan to a stop. He sat for a moment, thinking.
If it’s a woman, maybe I’ll take her.
But the truth was, he wouldn’t really even have to take her anywhere. Could do her right here, out in the great wide open, under them skies of blue, just like the new Tom Petty song said. No one would hear her screams except him and the cacti.
Donaldson thought about the toolbox he had in the trunk. And the Polaroid. Supposedly the final rays of sunshine were considered the magic hour for photographers.
Donaldson had never seen how blood photographed in the twilight.
Okay, a woman, and she’s mine.