Suspect Zero (2 page)

Chapter 2

T
he driver pointed to the glove compartment.

“Open it,” he said.

Gabriel pushed the release and the door fell open. It was stuffed with purple nitrile gloves. The driver leaned back, reached behind Gabriel’s seat and grabbed a clean T-shirt.

“Wear those next time,” he said, pulling the shirt over his head.

Gabriel glanced at the driver’s bare hands.

“You didn’t wear gloves.”

The driver held up his fingers in front of the boy’s face.

“Don’t need to. No prints,” he said.

“How’d that happen?”

The driver shrugged, slipping on his hunting jacket. He fired up the eighteen-wheeler’s big engine and they started to move.

“A gift of birth, I guess. I’m sort of special, but you already knew that, which is why you came looking for me.”

The driver released the brake and eased the truck forward, back onto the rainy street.

Gabriel’s voice was quiet, almost a whisper.

“Are you really him? I didn’t really think you were real. I’ve been traveling for such a long time. I was starting to think you were just a story.”

“I am a story, but not just a story.”

“Suspect Zero,” said Gabriel.

“I guess that’s what they call me these days. Kind of funny-sounding if you ask me. Like a space satellite or some kind of oven cleaner.”

Gabriel stared at man, wondering, if he looked long and hard enough, would he be able to see though him?

“Are you a ghost?”

The driver shook his head, his eyes scanning the road ahead.

“Naw. I’m a man just like you, only different. Go ahead. Ask your questions, son. I know you have a million.”

Gabriel couldn’t talk right then. He looked out the windshield and then closed his eyes to the smeary wet light. He breathed in the scent of diesel fumes and pressed his back into his seat, letting the truck’s vibrations rattle his bones, trying to lock into his memory all the sensations and feelings of the moment he met Suspect Zero. He’d waited for this moment for so long. It was like meeting the Headless Horseman or riding along with Godzilla. Had anyone in history single-handedly taken as many human souls as this ragged-looking man with the gray ponytail? And he never left any real clue as to who he was, where he came from or why he did what he did. He was the only name attached to hundreds of unsolved murders all across North America, not because any normal person believed in him, but because there was nothing else to call all those unsolved murders.

Gabriel’s true-crime-book-reading friends said Suspect Zero’s secret was that he was a man in constant motion, keeping to the road. That he never slept or ate. Gabriel didn’t believe that shit before and he sure didn’t believe it now the he was with him. The old man in the driver’s seat was, no damn doubt about it, a man. But Gabriel knew he was something else, too.

“How did you know it was okay to take me with you back there? That I wouldn’t freak out and call the cops?” he asked.

“First off, if you’d gone for the phone I’d have gutted you and hung you upside down from the rafters like a hog being cleaned for Sunday dinner. And second, I knew that wasn’t going to happen. I recognized you the same way you recognized me. A killer knows a killer when he sees one. That’s mostly why I picked you up. It’s nice to have some company where I can kick back and just be my own self, you know?”

“Yeah.”

Gabriel relaxed, knowing the man was right. It felt kind of good not to have to pretend anymore and hide what he really was.

“What kind of knife you got strapped to your leg? I noticed it when you first got in.”

Gabriel was almost embarrassed. How stupid was he to try and hide a weapon from the Super Bowl champ killer of killers?

“It’s a KA
-
BAR. It was my dad’s in Nam. He was a Marine.”

The driver held out his hand.

“Can I see it?”

Gabriel slid the knife from its sheath, but held on to it for a second, uncertain.

“Relax, kid. I told you. It’s nice to act normal with someone. Our special kind of normal.”

“The right kind of people normal.”

“Exactly.”

Gabriel handed Suspect Zero the knife. The killer hefted it in his hand, testing the weight of the thing. He twirled it between his fingers like a toy, like an extension of his body. Spun it like a top on the back of his hand. He flicked his wrist and the knife fell flat on his palm with a smack. He ran it once across his forearm and handed it back to Gabriel.

“Decent grip. Good weight and balance. Looks like it’s seen some use, too. Yours or your old man’s?”

“Mine, I guess. I don’t think he used it much in the war. He gave it to me when I was ten and never asked about it again.”

“You don’t sharpen it with one of those cheap-ass grocery-store kitchen sharpeners, do you?

“Never. Only by hand, slow and careful, with honing oil and a whetting stone.”

“Good boy. A sloppy workman does sloppy work. You’d never catch a world-class chef using one of those plastic housewife sharpeners and they use their knives a lot more than we do. ’Course, I don’t want to presume how you do your work. Maybe you’re out hunting every day.”

“No. I’m not looking to break any records.”

The killer turned the wheel and they rounded a corner. He chuckled quietly.

“Liar,” he said without malice. “You think about body counts all the time. You’re a young man and young men are ambitious. You want to outdo your elders. That’s good. Smart young men need goals.”

“How many people have you killed?”

“Truly, I have no idea. I gave up counting long ago. It’s like getting laid. You count the first few because it’s new and exciting, but after a few lays you’ve proved you can do it. After that, counting is kind of crude. Body count’s not the thing for me. It’s the work itself.”

“Want to know how many I’ve killed?”

“Sure. Tell me.”

“Ten. And I only started last Christmas.”

“Ten’s not too shabby. Ten puts you up there with Charlie Starkweather, but way behind that Green River fella. He got upwards of sixty. Chikatilo, that crazy Russian kid killer, got fifty-some-odd. And ten’s not half as many as some folks say Billy the Kid got, and he was dead before he was twenty-three. You look a bit older than that, so you’re already way behind. See what I mean about body counts? Going for it’s never going to make you happy.”

They rode in silence for a minute, but Gabriel couldn’t help himself.

“Just a guess though. Not an exact number. How many?”

“No idea. Seriously.”

Gabriel looked out at the buildings as the killer maneuvered the truck easily down unmarked service roads between the warehouses. He imagined he could hear the heartbeats of the workers beyond the wet walls. He was sure Suspect Zero could. He wondered if the man could read his thoughts. If he could, he was going to have to be quick, but now he wasn’t sure if the Ka-Bar was going to be enough.

“I like knives. You use a knife much?” Gabriel asked.

“I’ve used pretty much every weapon a man can use to kill another living thing. Knives. Guns. Garrotes. Spears. Arrows. A little strangulation here. A hammer to the back of the head there. Even poison a few times, though that’s pretty unsatisfying since you want to be gone by the time they keel over, so you don’t get to see the fruits of your labor. The important thing is to mix up your methods. Keeps Johnny Law on his toes.”

“It’s harder now than when you started, huh?”

The killer pulled a cigarette from an inside pocket of his jacket and lit it one-handed with the stolen silver lighter.

“Used to be, I could roll into a town, eat half the citizens and roll out again when I was done. Bury my clothes and boots and that was that. Now it’s all DNA, chemical trace analysis and carpet-fiber databases. They can track you through credit cards. Toll booths. Cell-phone towers. There’s cameras everywhere and they have biometric facial recognition software.”

“Seems kind of unfair if you ask me,” Gabriel said. “I thought about throwing Daddy’s knife away after the first couple of times I used it, but I couldn’t.”

The killer nodded.

“Just keep moving. That’s the best way nowadays. You do your work and get over the state line before anyone knows what’s happened. The simplest methods are the best and moving’ll do for now.”

“Driving this truck must be a good job for you.”

“The best. And I get paid well, too.” He turned to Gabriel. “That thing back at the warehouse. Don’t sweat it. Everyone misses from time to time. We’ll get your body count up. You’ll see.”

The killer craned his neck at something ahead. Gabriel couldn’t see anything until they were just a few yards away. The old man must see in the dark like a goddamn bat, Gabriel thought. The truck came to a stop on a street corner by an unlit bus stop. Three pretty girls in short dresses and high heels were huddled together holding damp newspapers over their heads so their hair wouldn’t get wet. The tallest of the girls, a heavyset redhead, was still waving at them as they stopped. The killer nodded for Gabriel to open his door. He leaned across the boy.

“You ladies look like you’re in need of a lift.”

“Can you? We’ve been waiting a goddamn hour for the bus.”

“You’ll have to squeeze in the back. There’s stuff there. It’ll be a wee bit tight.”

“That’s okay,” said the smallest and youngest of the three, a pretty blonde with hazel eyes and freckles. Gabriel thought she looked a lot like Penny Clark, a girl who’d lived down the street from him all through grade school, junior high and high school. He’d loved her the whole time and of the ten he’d done, hers was the only kill that hurt to remember. She was his first. It was on a balmy summer night parked at the old reservoir. He hadn’t planned it and it wasn’t fun at all. It was too quick and clumsy. And wet. He hadn’t expected that much blood. In the end, after he weighed Penny down with rocks and dumped her in the reservoir, he had to burn everything, his bloody clothes and secondhand Camaro. He’d loved that car.

When the three girls had wedged themselves into the back behind their seats, the killer let off the air brake and the truck moved back into the street. He gave Gabriel a quick smile and nod. His eyes looked darker than before, like a wolf’s.

“Thanks a lot, mister. We’re just trying to get to Club Wasteland and this silly bitch’s car broke down,” said the blonde. The brunette next to her crossed her arms and pretended to pout.

Suspect Zero asked, “Didn’t your mamas tell you girls it’s dangerous to hitchhike?”

The redhead leaned forward between their seats.

“We’re dangerous girls,” she said.

“Uh-oh,” said the killer, looking at Gabriel. “I think we might be in trouble.”

The girls laughed.

Chapter 3

T
he redhead said, “I’m Julia. Where are you men headed tonight?”

“It’s a work night for my young friend and me. No rest for the wicked. Say hello to the nice girls, boy.”

“Hi. I’m, uh, Gabriel,” he said. He could see some of Julia’s red hair out of his peripheral vision, but he didn’t want to turn his head in case he saw Penny.

“You’re cute, Gabe. You sure it’s a work night for you, too?”

“Definitely for him. He about screwed the pooch on our last job, so he’s going to make up for it on the next. Aren’t you?” The old man turned his wolf eyes on Gabriel. He slipped a hand into his hunting jacket and slid out the .45, tucking it under his leg with the grip out just a little.

Julia leaned back and whispered something to her friends. They all laughed, high-pitched and a little sloppy. Gabriel wondered if it was about him. He realized they were drunk. He set his hand on the knife.

“No fair keeping secrets in the cab,” said Suspect Zero. “First rule of trucking, ladies.”

The blonde spoke. Gabriel was relieved that her voice wasn’t anything like Penny’s.

“Rachel thinks that maybe you’re, you know. I mean this is like a rolling bedroom. Maybe you two are a little Brokeback Mountain?”

The killer glanced back over his shoulder at the drunken girls. All three of them started laughing. He elbowed Gabriel in the ribs and the boy smiled nervously.

“You hear that, boy? They think we’re fruit salad. A couple of dandelions. Tell them.”

Gabriel half turned in his seat.

“Uh no. It’s not. We’re not homosexuals.”

The girls burst into laughter.

The brunette repeated “homosexuals” in a low voice, mimicking him.

Gabriel slid the Ka-Bar out of its sheath.

Suspect Zero laughed along with the girls.

“Naw. It’s not like that, girls. We’re a couple of true-blue all-Americans and straight as apple pie.” He hooked a thumb at Gabriel. “The quiet one here is my apprentice.”

“Why does a truck driver need an apprentice?”

“ ’Cause the boy needs schooling. You think it’s easy reading a map and pissing in a jar while doing sixty down the interstate?”

Together the girls made an
ewww
sound.

“I never tried,” said the blonde.

“Give it a go sometime. Expand your horizons.”

The brunette spoke up for the first time.

“You don’t have any of those jars back here, do you?”

“No, little lady. They get chucked out the window over bridges and at parked highway patrol cars.”

He grinned at the girls as they whispered to each other. Julia leaned forward between their seats.

“Too bad we didn’t meet you two earlier. Maybe we could have walked on the wild side tonight.” The blonde and brunette fell on each other trying to stifle giggles.

“Never say never, girls.” The killer turned his nearly black eyes to Gabriel. “What do you think, son? Should we take these ripe young ladies on Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride?”

“I . . . I don’t know,” he said, moving the knife from down his leg and up into his coat.

The killer shook his head in mock disdain.

“You see? It’s not so much that I need an apprentice as the boy needs a teacher. He can’t even recognize Heaven when it’s breathing over his shoulder.”

“You talk funny, mister. I like it,” said Julia. She rested her hand on Gabriel’s arm. His body stiffened and sat up straighter.

“Why thank you, Julia. I like how you smell,” said the killer.

The brunette leaned forward between the seats and pointed.

“Can you turn left up here?”

“Sure.”

The killer jerked the wheel right hard enough that Gabriel and the girls slid against in their seats and hit the wall. They were on a narrow pitch-black block where all the streetlights had burned out. Gabriel saw the killer slip the pistol out from under his leg a little and pull back the hammer.

“Sorry, girls. Guess I heard wrong. The boy and me’ll get you sorted out in just a minute.”

“What’s with all the bags back here? They smell kind of funky,” said the blonde.

“I apologize for that,” the killer said. “Dirty laundry is part of the work and work has been messy lately. Leaks. Busted fan belts. A little blood, too. Everyone is skinning their knuckles and worse in this line of work. Isn’t that so, Gabriel?”

The boy nodded in reply, feeling Julia’s fingers flex on his shoulder.

“Why don’t you dig under your seat, son? Put on some music for the ladies.” He turned to Julia and flashed her a grin. “Something loud to cover up the sound of screams.”

Julia smiled back and slapped his arm playfully.

“Dirty old man.”

“When the wolf smells chicken he knows it’s dinnertime.”

The killer made two more sudden turns.

“Here,” said the brunette.

“Here? Here seems downright impolite.”

Julia pointed at dim lights ahead. “Club Wasteland’s right up there by the corner.”

The killer squinted.

“Really? Well I’ll be damned. I’ve been driving these streets for days and never noticed. Looks like fun. Wish I’d known about it earlier.”

“It’s probably not your kind of place,” said the blonde.

“Don’t judge a book by its cover, girls. You never know who you’re going to meet on a night like this.” He let the hammer down on the gun and pushed it back under his leg.

“Open the door for the young ladies, Gabe.”

Gabriel leaned forward as the three girls slid out from behind him and stepped down into the street. Julia gave his thigh a squeeze as she left.

“Thanks, mister,” she called.

“My pleasure, girls. You have a nice time tonight. Take a walk on the wild side for me and the boy.”

“We’ll do our best,” Julia said.

“Hey Gabe,” called the blonde.

He looked at her. Penny stared back.

“Yeah?” he said.

She smiled at him. “Good luck with the pissing lessons.”

The girl laughed and the killer joined in. Gabriel pulled the door closed.

They pulled away and when Gabriel looked out the window the girls waved to him and blew kisses. He gave them a small wave back.

He turned to the killer.

“You let them go.”

Suspect Zero slid the gun from beneath his leg and put it back in his pocket.

“You noticed that, did you?”

“You had your gun out.”

“And you had your knife. You waiting for an engraved invitation?”

Gabriel stared ahead not knowing what to say.

Suspect Zero backhanded him gently on the arm.

“I was just messing with you,” said the killer. “I wasn’t going to hurt ’em. Bunch of drunk girls? Too obvious. Too easy. We’re the random factor made flesh. What we do transcends regular people’s notions of reason, which means some get to live and others die and no one but us knows why. Tonight those girls’ll run wild and tomorrow they’ll hear about what happened at the warehouse back yonder. They’ll tell their friends that they were stranded right by there. How they could have run into the killers if a couple of friendly fags hadn’t picked them up. See what I’m saying? Knowing how close they came, each of those girls carries a little piece of us with them and when they tell their friends about tonight they’ll pass it on to them. And then they’ll pass it on. That’s how legends start. That’s the beginning of immortality.”

Gabriel looked at the killer hard, like he’d never seen him before.

“Immortality? All these fucking rules? This isn’t fun. When does it get to be fun?”

“Fun? You think this is Pac-Man? This is work.
The
work. We can take joy in it, try to make each kill as lively as possible, but fun and games aren’t why we’re here.”

It’s why I’m here, Gabriel thought. His stomach burned. This isn’t what he’d been looking for at all. Finding Suspect Zero, getting him at arm’s length from his blade wasn’t going to be like this. It was supposed to be perfect black madness. Racing engines, burning cars and the road boiling under their feet. Dice with devil heads and a landscape of pale skin with sticky red tracings like all the roads they would travel, crushing the weak, the stupid and the innocent under their wheels. And when he’d taken what he could from the man, there’d be the explosion of pleasure when he ripped Dad’s Ka-Bar across the older man’s throat and took the truck as his prize. That’s how it was supposed to be. Instead, here I am with a scrawny, fucked-up old Ward Cleaver. I swear to God, one more piece of advice and the knife comes out. He didn’t need this “Killing for Dummies” bullshit.

Gabriel asked, “How do you choose them?”

“We can talk business later. You hungry? I could use a bite.”