Patricia Cornwell - Southern Cross

Smoke never carried the fantasy much beyond that point. A rational part of his brain realized that the last scenario most likely would be his death or imprisonment, but neither was enough to get his attention when he was consumed by lust so intense and seething that these days he did little beyond playing with plans.

It was five past three when Weed walked up to the car, knapsack limp in his hand. Smoke was silent as Weed climbed in, shut the door and fastened his shoulder harness. Smoke drove off, slowly making his way out of the parking lot. He turned onto Pump Road and followed it south to Patterson Avenue while Weed got increasingly nervous, licking his lips, staring out his side window.

'So how come you asked the cops all those questions?' Weed finally mustered up the courage to ask.

Smoke said nothing.

'I thought they was good questions.'

Smoke was silent as he turned east on Patterson Avenue. He started driving faster. He felt Weed's fear, and the heat of rage pressed against Smoke like a wall of fire.

'I thought the cops were fuckin' stupid.' Weed tried to sound big. 'Hey. You hungry, Smoke? I didn't eat my sandwich at lunch. You want it?'

A long silence followed. Smoke turned south on Parham Road.

'Hey, Smoke, how come you ain't talking to me?' Weed's voice jumped. 'I do something?'

Smoke's right hand flew out as if it were alive on its own. It chopped Weed hard between the legs.

'What time I tell you to meet me in the parking lot?' Smoke yelled as Weed shrieked, doubled over, arms locked under his crossed legs, head practically in his lap. 'What time, you fuckin' little shit!'

'Three!' Weed cried, tears running down his face in little rivers. 'Why'd you do that? I didn't do nothing.' He hiccuped. 'Smoke, I didn't!'

'And what time was it when you walked up to my car, you little fuck!' Smoke grabbed the back of Weed's woolly cornrows. 'It was five after three!'

He yanked. Weed screamed again.

'When I say three, what does that mean, retard?'

'I couldn't get away from Mrs. Grannis!' Weed choked, gasping and making awful faces as Smoke gripped Weed's hair, tearing some of it out by the roots. 'I'm sorry, Smoke! I'm sorry! Oh please don't hurt me no more.'

Smoke shoved him away and started laughing. He turned up 2 Pac on the CD player, every other word fuck and nigger. Smoke reached under his seat and snatched out the Glock. He shoved it between Weed's ribs, getting off on how bad the little shit was shaking. Weed put his hands over his face. He farted and burped.

'You pee or shit in here, and I'll blow your dick off,' Smoke told him.

'Please, Smoke,' Weed begged in a tiny, pitiful voice. 'Please don't, Smoke.'

'You gonna do what I say from now on?'

'Yes. I'll do anything you want me to, Smoke. I promise.'

Smoke tucked the pistol back under his seat. He turned up 2 Pac and started rapping along. There was no further conversation as Smoke headed across the river toward Huguenot Road, winding here and there, cutting over to Forest Hill, avoiding tolls whenever he could. Weed had gotten very quiet. He dried his eyes and kept his legs tightly crossed. The kid was so puny his Nikes barely touched the floor. Smoke knew all about timing. He knew exactly how to make people do what he wanted.

'Feeling better?' Smoke asked, turning down 2 Pac.

'Yes,' Weed answered politely.

They were on Midlothian Turnpike now, passing German School Road.

'You know what an oath is?' Smoke asked.

He was nice now, relaxed and taking his time, as if they were going out for a hamburger or just cruising.

'No,' Weed answered softly.

'You need to speak up,' Smoke said. 'I can hardly hear you.'

'I don't know what it is,' Weed said more loudly.

'You ever been a Boy Scout?'

'No.'

'Well, to be one you got to take an oath. On my honor I promise to do my best and on and on, whatever. That's an oath. Something you swear to, and if you break it, something really bad happens.'

Businesses along this stretch of Midlothian Turnpike were all about cars and trucks and everything that went with them. A Cheers restaurant had gone out of business, and an adult bookstore had only one car in the lot. Smoke cut up an unpaved side street and drove through the middle of a trailer park, where balding, muddy yards were littered with metal chairs, flowerpots and ceramic lawn ornaments. Scrawny cats darted out of the way. Wind chimes tinkled, and parked trucks reflected the sun.

They turned into the cracked, weed-infested parking lot of the Southside Motel, which had been out of business and boarded up for years. A chain was strung across either end of the drive leading into it, air conditioning units outside the rooms rusted, a breeze sucking dingy white curtains in and out of broken windows. Junipers had grown out of control in clumps, shielding entire blocks of rooms, and grass was dead and treacherous with broken glass. Smoke drove around to the back of the motel and parked next to a Dumpster.

'Remember when I drove you through here last week?' Smoke said. 'Remember, the first rule is, nobody parks back here. You see all the No Trespassing signs?" 'Yeah,' Weed answered, looking around and scared.

'Well, the cops don't come here, but I can't take the chance. They see your car, and you're fucked.'

He put the Escort in gear and drove back around to the front. Weed was quiet as Smoke backtracked and parked on the side of a rutted, muddy road on the outskirts of the trailer park.

This is how I go in,' Smoke said, cutting the engine and reaching down for his Glock. 'You gonna have to come in another way because they don't have nothing in here but white trash and you'll attract attention. They might even call the cops.'

'Then what do I do?' Weed asked, climbing out and casting furtively about.

'Cut in through Fast Track, Jiffy Tune, Turnpike Auto Parts, one of those other places on the strip, and just come through the woods behind the motel,' Smoke said, sticking the pistol down the front of his jeans and pulling his Chicago Bulls sweatshirt over it.

He kept a good pace along the unpaved road, Weed limping along as fast as he could, obviously hurting. Smoke knew his latest recruit was wondering if he was going to get his brains blown out behind an abandoned motel in the middle of nothing, and Smoke let him worry. Smoke understood fear. The gratification was instant when he made something suffer. He had learned this as a little boy when he could see panic in the eyes, when he could feel terror in the rapidly beating heart of the weaker creature he tortured to death.

Smoke came from a better home than most, one of comfortable, open-minded parents who had never gotten in his way or tried to hold him back or believed their son could be bad. They preferred to give permission rather than force the child into clandestine behavior. They believed if they were trusting and fair-minded, their three children would make the right choices. Smoke's older brother and sister had seemed to prove the philosophy right. They were making good grades in college and associated with nice people and had normal ambitions.

Smoke had always been different. During the interminable evaluations and counseling sessions in Durham and training school at Butner, he had not complained about his family or a single event that had or hadn't happened to him. He had blamed no one for who he was, and in fact, took full credit. He had diagnosed himself as a psychopath. He worked hard to be a good one. Smoke had no doubt that one day the world would know his name.

Smoke wasn't giving Weed a hard time right now, and Weed was grateful and appropriately cooperative. Their feet clinked bits of broken bottles and dislodged rocks, and acres of dense woods shielded the back of the motel from busy highways and streets just blocks away. Smoke headed straight for a large sheet of plywood propped against a wall behind a clump of junipers. His eyes narrowed as he looked around and listened. He slid the plywood to one side and stepped through the empty bent aluminum frame of what was left of sliding glass doors.