By the time Demyan Petrovich felt in the mood for pulling over, the sun had long since set. He’d been thinking delicious thoughts about the terror in the law agent he’d captured in his camper. He imagined the man looking at the body of his previous victim with growing fear and impotency.
America! What a place. Now that his cousin’s wife’s uncle sat in the White House he could get away with anything. Even if arrested, he’d be pardoned right away. Not because of the family thing, though. Because he was still useful.
He’d been in the United States now and then for years. In that time he’d stashed quite a few bodies. They never came back to bite him, so to say.
He drove a few miles along the narrow, dirt road to a rock quarry. This was a place he’d checked out ahead of time, so he knew what to expect. There would be no traffic. The nearest house – at least a mile away – was a vacation cottage with no one expected anytime soon. After that came the corn fields, but the farmer lived on the other side of the highway and so would hear nothing. Otherwise nothing but the crickets would hear the screams. By morning, the bodies would be under the piles of rock he’s prepared for them, and he would be on his way back to Yugoslavia.
Demyan stashed the pickup’s key in the ashtray along with old cigarette butts so even if his quarry – the man, not the rock – should get away from him, he would not be able to drive away the truck. No one except him was ever willing to dig through the filth of ashes for such a thing as the key.
He had to take the key to the camper with him, of course. In the silver moon shine the quiet of the evening seemed so peaceful. His beloved camper which he now would have to replace anyway, loomed in beautiful grays and ghostly white. Silent.
Too silent. Had the stops and starts of traffic been too much teasing? No one ever helped those screaming in his camper. It seemed to be an American thing. Wary glances, maybe, but no one helped his victims. Maybe the law agent knew that and so didn’t even try. Or maybe he’s pissed himself and passed out in fear. Demyan knew which he preferred.
In the light of the moon, he could just make out the dark, dried rivers dripping down the bumper. Sloppy. It must be blood from the decapitated man. Combined with the law agent’s shouts it might have…. Well, it didn’t. Everything was fine.
He pulled the blackjack from his pocket before inserting the key in the door. This guy was probably the type to spring an attack. Assuming he’d gotten out of that lousy rope work. It wasn’t like Demyan could do much in a parking lot. He’d been doing good to knock the law agent out when the man first stepped into the camper and saw Demyan’s little gift.
He stopped with hand on camper door knob to savor the memory of that perfect moment – the thud of impact, the shock on his quarry’s face, the splash of landing, right to the frantic activity of securing the man and getting quickly on the road.
Well, time for more frantic activity. With a grin, Demyan opened the door. Only instead of unlocking the door, it seemed more like he had locked it. He put the blackjack in his teeth while working the lock and opening the door. Quick, he spit it in his hand and braced for impact.
Nothing. Demyan turned on the light. The headless body, now as pale is it would ever get, lay on the floor. The rope that should have been around the quarry lay in a snarl in the pool of blood covering the floor. No sign of nosy law agents. Demyan took a step backward.
On the threshold where there should have been a tailgate except that he had long since gotten rid of such a thing, on this threshold a dark shoe print. The print was only from part of the shoe, facing out. Facing the road.
Escaped! Demyan’s quarry had gotten clean away!
Luckily, there was no one to hear his shouts of anger and frustration.
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