John was almost fifty miles north of where he had left the truck. He felt relaxed now that nobody knew what kind of vehicle he was driving. Hiding in plain sight came easy in that gray Buick LaCrosse, and it was a car he could get used to—luxurious and roomy for a man his size. With a full gas tank, he wouldn’t have to stop for hours. But then there was Jane.
I should have gutted her and left her in the truck. Now I’m dragging her ass around with me, and I don’t trust her enough to leave her in the car by herself.
John checked the time on the dash—10:55. He’d call it a night somewhere on the southern outskirts of Chicago. He had nearly two hours of driving time to come up with a plan for Jane, if he could hold out that long.
A horn blasted next to the Buick, jarring John awake. He felt the rumble strips vibrate under the tires, and he jerked the wheel to his left. He rubbed his eyes and squinted at the clock. A half hour had passed that he couldn’t account for. A highway sign came into focus on his right and showed the next exit was two miles ahead. He’d get off the highway, check out the area, and dispose of Jane. He needed to rent a cheap motel room and get a decent night’s sleep.
Minutes later, he pulled off the highway and turned right at the stop sign. A small unincorporated town lay ahead. A green street sign illuminated from his headlights and caught his attention.
Smith Lake Road, huh? I wonder what I’ll find back there.
John turned in. A “Dead End” sign on a post stood fifty feet ahead.
Looks like my luck is already improving.
The road was narrow and riddled with potholes. The unkempt condition told him that wasn’t an often-traveled road. It suited him just fine, and he continued on. A half mile back, the road stopped, and a wooden barricade that had seen better days closed off the end. He clicked on his high beams to get a better look. Brush filled in the area that might have been a continuation of the road back in the day. He got out and approached the barricade. Soft ground gave way under his feet, and swamp grass stood behind that barrier.
Looks like the ground sank back here. I must be close to the lake.
John scanned the area. Dead silent and not a light to be seen.
This is the perfect spot to dump her.
He returned to the car, opened the door, and sat inside under the dome light. With the backpack unzipped, he pulled out various killing tools and placed them on the seat. The gun would be fast and clean, but he couldn’t take the chance of it being heard. Anyone that lived within two miles would hear the shot. The hatchet was best used during daylight hours. He liked to witness the devastation it created. He sighed with uncertainty. He couldn’t risk getting blood on his clothes when he was about to check into a motel. John pulled out the ice pick, and a slow grin crossed his face.
Fast and clean, right to the temple. I’ll drag her behind the barricade and leave her to the animals. She’ll never be found.
He stuffed the pick into his rear pocket, pointed end up, and then popped the trunk. He heard her muffled cries as he walked to the back of the car. The trunk light illuminated the fear written across her face. John smiled at her.
“Have a nice ride, Jane? I bet it was pretty chilly back here, icy in fact. I have just the thing for that.” He reached to his back pocket, pulled out the ice pick, and jammed it in her right temple.
Her body stiffened, then she fell limp.
That was easy.
John lifted her out of the trunk by her armpits and dragged her across the darkened dirt road. The ribbon of blood that trailed behind them was evident once he reached the beam of the headlights. With Jane tossed behind the barricade, John kicked dirt over the blood trail as he returned to the car. He slammed the trunk, climbed in behind the wheel, and drove away.
Back on Interstate 57, John turned up the radio and cracked the window open a few inches to circulate fresh air through the car. He rubbed his tired left eye when an image of the semi, still parked on that desolate road just north of Thomasboro, sprang to mind. He punched the dash, cursed his stupidity, and then spun around in the grassy median. The letter, half written, remained in the driver’s side door pocket, and the Neko Te gloves still lay under the driver’s seat. In his rush to get out of the area, he had completely forgotten them, and they needed to be retrieved before the truck was discovered.