First chapter from my novella No Escape
This contains adult material.
Murder One
Green, fucking, River, what a shit hole. If I don’t get a ride in the next few minutes, I’m going to grab one from the pumps. In the dark, I’ll make it to the interstate before they know I’m gone. I can ditch it and catch another while the cops are trying to get their shit together.
Hey, here we go. The red Charger slows. The driver eyeballs me. He stops.
“Where you headed?” he asks.
“East, as far as I can get.”
“You got a license. I’m getting pretty sleepy, and there’s a long stretch of desert coming up. Can you drive?”
“Sure.”
I throw my pack in the backseat and slide under the wheel.
“Al’s my name. Yours?”
“Dale.”
“Where you from Dale?”
“A little bit of everywhere, no place in particular.”
“So you’re a drifter? Well, I’m from La Jolla. I’m a fireman there. Headed to Chicago to see my brother. He’s been sick. Need to make time, can’t stop to sleep. Where did you say you were going?”
“I didn’t.”
“Not much of a talker, huh. That’s okay. I’ll be sleeping.”
He opens the door, walks around to the passenger side and gets in. I take the driver seat and head toward the interstate. By the second Green River exit, he’s snoring like a walrus. I hit it. The Charger jumps to a hundred cruising quietly. I’ll bet I can cover some country in this one. I feel for the .25 in my waist band.
There are few cars on the interstate. The Moab and Thompson exits pass by in close succession. The next exit reads Yellow Cat. There are no lights—looks good. I pull the .25 and palm it. I slow down. He wakes, confused and bleary eyed.
“Where are we? Why are you stopping?”
“You’ll see.”
It’s perfect, dark and in the middle of nowhere. There is no road, only a dirt track at the top of the exit.
“Hey, what are you doing?”
I turn the .25 on him and hear him suck in his breath.
“I don’t want trouble. You want the car, it’s yours.” I point the pistol at his head and stare at him.
“Money, I got three hundred and some in my wallet, a thousand or so in the trunk. Take it. I just don’t want trouble.”
I pull the keys, open the door, keep the .25 on him, and stand.
“Get out.”
He does. He’s shaking. He starts to beg.
“Please, just take it, take it all. Don’t hurt me. I’ll forget what you look like. I won’t tell the police enough for them to find you. Please…Please.”
I’m around the car now. I stand in front of him, the .25 inches from his face. I’ve always wanted to know what it’s like to kill a man.
“On your knees.”
Still calm, I move behind him.
He sinks to his knees, blubbering now.
“No…No…Please…No…No.”
I press the .25 behind his ear and squeeze. He falls forward.
I reach in his back pocket and pull out his wallet. There are credit cards, and three hundred and forty-one dollars. The guy was telling the truth. I pat his side pockets, nothing, only a couple of bucks in change. I roll him over with my foot. His eyes are open, wide open. His mouth is still gaping.
Funny how quick it all can end—one minute crying, sobbing, begging, shitting his pants, wanting to live, the next, it’s all gone. So that’s all there is to life?
#
Do I leave him here? No, I should put some distance between him and where he picked me up. Put him in the trunk and dump him somewhere in the mountains. With any luck, No one will ever find him.
I pop the trunk. There’s only a small suitcase and green plaid blanket—plenty of time later to check out the suitcase. I grab the blanket and wrap him in it. I heft the torso then the legs into the trunk and slam the lid. Time to get the hell out of here.
I’m pumped and keep pushing the accelerator. At a hundred and nineteen, the car stops accelerating. Damned speed control sensors. I know it’s got more, if it had a chance. There’s no moon, only stars. It’s like speeding though blank space.
It seems like only minutes and the flat desert starts to rise and dip. I see the Welcome to Colorado sign. Minutes later there are lights, more lights, and then a city, Grand Junction. I slow it down. Don’t want to be talking to a cop with a dead guy in the trunk. The dark bulk of the mountains comes closer, and soon the interstate winds through a canyon. I see a sign, Colbran. That ought to do.
At the top of the exit there is only one way to go. I follow a small creek. There are no cars. The twisting road climbs. The creek is now maybe a hundred feet below. Here’s a pull out. No lights no cars, haven’t seen any for miles. I stop and get out. The creek looks deep. The slope is steep right down to the water. This will do. I open the trunk and lift the bulky bundle, now stiff, and roll it over the side. “Sianora—what was it—oh yeah, Al.” I hear the splash when it hits the creek.
Time to put some space between me and him, I get back to the interstate and head east. There are few towns, and the ones there are are far apart. Why am I so tired all of a sudden. I can’t keep my eyes from shutting. I open them just in time to miss the guardrail. I got to stop. I pull off at the next exit. Ramble Inn, that ought to do. I got no idea what time it is. There’s no one at the desk. I lean on a buzzer. An old guy opens the door behind the counter.
“Okay, I heard you. Lay off the buzzer.”
“Got a room?”
“Smoking or non?”
“Don’t care.”
He’s checking me over. “I got a smoking room on the second level.”
“Okay”
“That’ll be forty-five dollars.”
I hand him a fifty.
He pushes a sign-in card at me. I scribble Jesse Cassidy.
He hands me a key and five dollars change. “Number 206. Check out’s at 11:00, Mr”—he looks at the scribble—Cassidy.”
I pull in front of 206, reach for my pack, get out, open the trunk, and grab the suitcase. Inside, I fall on top of the bed.
To keep reading go to:
https://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_no...
Murder One
Green, fucking, River, what a shit hole. If I don’t get a ride in the next few minutes, I’m going to grab one from the pumps. In the dark, I’ll make it to the interstate before they know I’m gone. I can ditch it and catch another while the cops are trying to get their shit together.
Hey, here we go. The red Charger slows. The driver eyeballs me. He stops.
“Where you headed?” he asks.
“East, as far as I can get.”
“You got a license. I’m getting pretty sleepy, and there’s a long stretch of desert coming up. Can you drive?”
“Sure.”
I throw my pack in the backseat and slide under the wheel.
“Al’s my name. Yours?”
“Dale.”
“Where you from Dale?”
“A little bit of everywhere, no place in particular.”
“So you’re a drifter? Well, I’m from La Jolla. I’m a fireman there. Headed to Chicago to see my brother. He’s been sick. Need to make time, can’t stop to sleep. Where did you say you were going?”
“I didn’t.”
“Not much of a talker, huh. That’s okay. I’ll be sleeping.”
He opens the door, walks around to the passenger side and gets in. I take the driver seat and head toward the interstate. By the second Green River exit, he’s snoring like a walrus. I hit it. The Charger jumps to a hundred cruising quietly. I’ll bet I can cover some country in this one. I feel for the .25 in my waist band.
There are few cars on the interstate. The Moab and Thompson exits pass by in close succession. The next exit reads Yellow Cat. There are no lights—looks good. I pull the .25 and palm it. I slow down. He wakes, confused and bleary eyed.
“Where are we? Why are you stopping?”
“You’ll see.”
It’s perfect, dark and in the middle of nowhere. There is no road, only a dirt track at the top of the exit.
“Hey, what are you doing?”
I turn the .25 on him and hear him suck in his breath.
“I don’t want trouble. You want the car, it’s yours.” I point the pistol at his head and stare at him.
“Money, I got three hundred and some in my wallet, a thousand or so in the trunk. Take it. I just don’t want trouble.”
I pull the keys, open the door, keep the .25 on him, and stand.
“Get out.”
He does. He’s shaking. He starts to beg.
“Please, just take it, take it all. Don’t hurt me. I’ll forget what you look like. I won’t tell the police enough for them to find you. Please…Please.”
I’m around the car now. I stand in front of him, the .25 inches from his face. I’ve always wanted to know what it’s like to kill a man.
“On your knees.”
Still calm, I move behind him.
He sinks to his knees, blubbering now.
“No…No…Please…No…No.”
I press the .25 behind his ear and squeeze. He falls forward.
I reach in his back pocket and pull out his wallet. There are credit cards, and three hundred and forty-one dollars. The guy was telling the truth. I pat his side pockets, nothing, only a couple of bucks in change. I roll him over with my foot. His eyes are open, wide open. His mouth is still gaping.
Funny how quick it all can end—one minute crying, sobbing, begging, shitting his pants, wanting to live, the next, it’s all gone. So that’s all there is to life?
#
Do I leave him here? No, I should put some distance between him and where he picked me up. Put him in the trunk and dump him somewhere in the mountains. With any luck, No one will ever find him.
I pop the trunk. There’s only a small suitcase and green plaid blanket—plenty of time later to check out the suitcase. I grab the blanket and wrap him in it. I heft the torso then the legs into the trunk and slam the lid. Time to get the hell out of here.
I’m pumped and keep pushing the accelerator. At a hundred and nineteen, the car stops accelerating. Damned speed control sensors. I know it’s got more, if it had a chance. There’s no moon, only stars. It’s like speeding though blank space.
It seems like only minutes and the flat desert starts to rise and dip. I see the Welcome to Colorado sign. Minutes later there are lights, more lights, and then a city, Grand Junction. I slow it down. Don’t want to be talking to a cop with a dead guy in the trunk. The dark bulk of the mountains comes closer, and soon the interstate winds through a canyon. I see a sign, Colbran. That ought to do.
At the top of the exit there is only one way to go. I follow a small creek. There are no cars. The twisting road climbs. The creek is now maybe a hundred feet below. Here’s a pull out. No lights no cars, haven’t seen any for miles. I stop and get out. The creek looks deep. The slope is steep right down to the water. This will do. I open the trunk and lift the bulky bundle, now stiff, and roll it over the side. “Sianora—what was it—oh yeah, Al.” I hear the splash when it hits the creek.
Time to put some space between me and him, I get back to the interstate and head east. There are few towns, and the ones there are are far apart. Why am I so tired all of a sudden. I can’t keep my eyes from shutting. I open them just in time to miss the guardrail. I got to stop. I pull off at the next exit. Ramble Inn, that ought to do. I got no idea what time it is. There’s no one at the desk. I lean on a buzzer. An old guy opens the door behind the counter.
“Okay, I heard you. Lay off the buzzer.”
“Got a room?”
“Smoking or non?”
“Don’t care.”
He’s checking me over. “I got a smoking room on the second level.”
“Okay”
“That’ll be forty-five dollars.”
I hand him a fifty.
He pushes a sign-in card at me. I scribble Jesse Cassidy.
He hands me a key and five dollars change. “Number 206. Check out’s at 11:00, Mr”—he looks at the scribble—Cassidy.”
I pull in front of 206, reach for my pack, get out, open the trunk, and grab the suitcase. Inside, I fall on top of the bed.
To keep reading go to:
https://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_no...
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