might interfere with its function. Besides, he was expected to discard
it soon after the murders for which it was provided.
Halfway between Oklahoma City and Amarillo, east of the Texas border, he
pulls off the interstate into a rest area, where ten cars, two big
trucks, and two motorhomes have taken refuge from the storm.
In a surrounding grove of evergreens, the boughs of the trees droop as
if sodden with rain, and they appear charcoal gray instead of green.
The large pinecones are tumorous and strange.
A squat block building houses restrooms. He hurries through the cold
downpour to the men’s facilities.
While the killer is at the first of three urinals, rain drumming loudly
on the metal roof and the humid air heavy with the limy smell of damp
concrete, a man in his early sixties enters. At a glance, thick white
hair, deeply seamed face, bulbous nose patterned with broken
capillaries. He goes to the third of the urinals.
“Some storm, huh?” the stranger says.
“A real rat drowner,” the killer answers, having heard that phrase in a
movie.
“Hope it blows over soon.”
The killer notices that the older man is about his height and build.
As he zips up his pants, he says, “Where you headed?”
“Right now, Las Vegas, but then somewhere else and somewhere else after
that. Me and the wife, we’re retired, we pretty much live in that
motorhome. Always wanted to see the country, and we sure in blue blazes
are seeing it now. Nothing like life on the road, new sights every day,
pure freedom.”
“Sounds great.”
At the sink, washing his hands, the killer stalls, wondering if he dares
take the jabbering old fool right now, jam the body in a toilet stall.
But with all the people in the parking lot, somebody might walk in
unexpectedly.
Closing his fly, the stranger says, “Only problem is, Frannie that’s my
wife–she hates for me to drive in the rain. Anything more than the
tiniest drizzle, she wants to pull over and wait it out.”
He sighs. “This won’t be a day we make a lot of miles.”
The killer dries his hands under a hot-air machine. “Well, Vegas isn’t
going anywhere.”
“True. Even when the good Lord comes on Judgment Day, there’ll be
blackjack tables open.”
“Hope you break the bank,” the killer says, and leaves as the older man
goes to the sink.
In the Honda again, wet and shivering, he starts the engine and turns on
the heater. But he doesn’t put the car in gear.
Three motorhomes are parked in the deep spaces along the curb.
A minute later, Frannie’s husband comes out of the men’s room.
Through the rippling rain on the windshield, the killer watches the
white-haired man sprint to a large silver-and-blue Road King, which he
enters through the driver’s door at the front. Painted on the door is
the outline of a heart, and in the heart are two names in fancy script,
Jack and Frannie.
Luck is not with Jack, the Vegas-bound retiree. The Road King is only
four spaces away from the Honda, and this proximity makes it easier for
the killer to do what must be done.
The sky is purging itself of an entire ocean. The water falls straight
down through the windless day, continuously shattering the mirrorlike
puddles on the blacktop, gushing along the gutters in seemingly endless
torrents.
Cars and trucks come in off the highway, park for a while, leave, and
are replaced by new vehicles that pull in between the Honda and the Road
King.
He is patient. Patience is part of his training.
The engine of the motorhome is idling. Crystallized exhaust plumes rise
from the twin tail pipes. Warm amber light glows at the curtained
windows along the side.
He envies their comfortable home on wheels, which looks cozier than any
home he can yet hope to have. He also envies their long marriage.
What would it be like to have a wife? How would it feel to be a beloved
husband?
After forty minutes, the rain still isn’t easing off, but a flock of
cars leaves. The Honda is the only vehicle parked on the driver’s side