Matt Hilton: Dead_s men dust

"Santa Monica, here I come," he said, laughing again. This time his laughter wasn't so bitter, the lemon rind sweetened with sugar. As he drove he shredded the slip of paper, depositing a tiny portion of it out the window every so often along the way.

A couple of hours would see him on the West Coast. Maybe he'd grab a little breakfast, see to the disposal of the VW, then go scout out the hotel. He'd locate the thief, then by tonight he'd be ready to move. He didn't care about regaining the SUV. It had served its purpose and would most likely have gone the way he was planning for the VW. But he did want his knife back.

Not to be sentimental about it, but the Bowie held a great number of satisfying memories. Some he liked to play back in his mind while holding the knife in his hand. He could soon buy or appropriate a replacement, but it wouldn't be the same. And besides, when he?nally allowed the world to know his name, he wanted his arsenal right there beside him. The police should have the capacity to match the blade with each corpse it had been used on. He wanted the genuine knife to be kept as a museum piece documenting his infamy, not some second-rate, virgin chunk of metal.

Westward he drove. And despite appearances, the VW was a steady if plodding workhorse. He had only two complaints. First, the air-conditioning system was archaic, achieved by winding down the windows to promote a cross draft. Second, the facility for music was as outmoded as the AC unit.

He searched through the glove compartment, pulling out a couple of music cassettes. One of them, some inane hip-hop crap, he tossed over his shoulder onto the backseat. The second was more to his taste. Cain didn't recognize the band, but the bluesy guitar was to his liking.

It wasn't as good as the swing music he preferred: playing air guitar wasn't as satisfying as imagining cutting away strips of?esh with a bandleader's baton.

The miles passed easily.

So did the gas in the tank.

Thirty miles short of his destination, he was forced to pull in to a gas station. Ten dollars' worth of gasoline would more than suffice. He would have paid his bill with the credit cards stolen from the dead couple back at the motel, but a credit trail would easily set the law on his path. It didn't irk him to have to use his own cash, not when it was so readily available to one who knew how to acquire it. The teller thanked him California-style and Cain smiled unashamedly. The girl-sun-bronzed and blond with a smattering of freckles on a cute nose-smiled back at him. Hey, it was good to be back on the West Coast.

Hungry, he purchased some prepacked sandwiches and a couple of Snicker bars plus a pint of chocolate milk. Skimmed milk, less than ninety-nine calories, he had a waistline to consider. He?nished it before he was even out the door.

Outside the store, he stood for a while, watching traf?c passing on the highway. Here the traf?c?ow was heavier than out in the desert. He watched vehicles sailing by like mirages through the shimmering heat, wondering what stories their occupants could tell. Where they were going, what they were doing. One thing he was certain of. None had a story to match his.

Beyond the gas station was a rest area. Picnic tables were set out on a patch of lawn so verdant it had to be fake. Bordering the grassy area, the land remained parched and gritty, the home of dust devils and windblown detritus. A family had set themselves up at one of the tables. Bottles of soda and food wrapped in tinfoil were laid out in front of them. Father was pointing out what the children should eat, while they ignored him and went straight for the potato chips. Mother sat on one of the benches, trying her hardest to coax some enjoyment out of a cigarette while squinting against blown dust and the high-pitched squalling of the kids.

Cain shook his head. "Family bliss," he said to himself. God, but he was happy he'd left those trappings behind.

He surveyed the remainder of the rest area. There was a public restroom abutting the gas station. With the pint of chilled milk forging toward his bladder, he decided a visit was in order before setting off.

Someone else had the same idea. A heavy-built guy with uncontrollable hair raced toward the door. His moon face was contorting as though he'd been caught short many miles distant. He was the epitome of desperation.

When Cain entered the restroom, the man had already disappeared behind a cubicle door. Cain could hear him struggling with his belt, issuing soft, urgent noises. Then there was the clunk of the seat followed by the indescribable sound of the man's very essence dropping into a porcelain bowl.

"Now that's either extremely gross or mildly amusing," Cain said to himself. The man's disembodied sigh decided the issue for him. "Extremely amusing."

Smiling, he unzipped at a urinal and relieved his own body of a growing urgency. That done, he could concentrate on another, more pressing ache that required assuaging.

The sink hadn't seen a cleaner's administrations in many an hour. He used a hot air blower to dry himself.

Water?ushed and the fat guy came out of the cubicle and bustled directly for the exit door. Cain caught his eye and the guy, looking momentarily abashed, turned?uidly toward the sink to wash his own hands. Cain nodded at him. "Things a little desperate there, buddy?"

Embarrassed, the man shrugged.

"Better out than in, eh?" Cain quipped.

"You betcha." The man grimaced. "Must have eaten some green meat. Didn't think I was gonna make it to the can."

"Lucky for you that you did. By the sound of things you'd have made quite a mess of yourself," Cain said. "Best to stay clean, though, don't you think?"

"Cleanliness is next to godliness," the man quoted, humiliated at having been caught out, "even when you're in a hurry."

The man made a brief run of his hands under the water, then turned toward the?lthy-looking towel hanging on the wall. He paused. Looked to Cain for guidance.

"Seems a little pointless, doesn't it?" Cain said.

"You're telling me," said the fat guy. His bulk formed a line of its own behind Cain at the automated hand drier. Energized by his need to get about his journey, he hopped from foot to foot in anticipation of his turn at the hot air.

Cain took his time dry-washing his hands to a point where his skin began to stick together. A tsk of frustration from the man. Cain was pleased. Finally he stood aside, gestured the man forward.

"It's all yours."

"Gee, thanks," said the fat guy, not really meaning it.

"My pleasure," Cain said. Not meaning it, either.

It would be nice to kill the fat guy. But in the end, he decided not to. Too dangerous. What if someone walked in before he was?nished concealing the gross body in one of the stalls? He could obviously kill them, too, but then he'd be right back to square one. Last thing he wanted was to end up in a loop where the only guarantee was that he'd?nally run out of places to conceal the dead. He would allow the man to live, but there was something he could do that'd bring him a modicum of ful?llment.

It was more than a friendly gesture as he patted the fat guy's shoulder. Two solid slaps of his hand. The man?inched at the contact, blinked at him.

"See you, friend," Cain said. He moved toward the exit. Happy. "Yeah, see you," the fat guy intoned. Then, stupidly, he muttered something under his breath. Cain turned and stared back at him. His look was that of a prowling leopard eyeing a wounded buffalo.

"You say something, buddy?"

The fat guy blinked rapid-?re. His jowls hung slack, framed by long, wiry curls. "No, I didn't say a thing."

Cain stepped toward him, and a piece of grit crunched beneath his boot. The sound was more invasive than loud, an expression of Cain's aversion to the man before him. The fat guy reacted as though it was a gunshot. He reared back, lifting his chin in anticipation of avoiding a blow. Cain shook his head at the overreaction. He said, "That's funny. I'm sure I heard you call me an asshole."