Page 32 of Long Pig

The Scent of Murder

Butch

Cindy lay curled asleep in the seat where no one could see her. Butch waited for the only car to leave the rest stop before he reluctantly touched her shoulder.

“What? Now?” she asked grumpily.

He grimaced. She thought he wanted sex, and that was the last thing on his mind. “Thought you might need the toilet,” he said, and somehow managed to keep his growing disgust hidden.

“Oh, sorry.” She smiled slightly, and he noticed one of her side bottom teeth was missing. “I’ll only be a minute.” She jumped down and walked quickly to the bathroom.

She wouldn’t be getting back into the cab. Her smell was nauseating, and along with rolling down his window, he’d had to turn on the fan to keep the journey bearable.

Butch checked out the rest area. He’d stopped here before but never ventured behind the restrooms. A few old tires and scattered garbage littered the ground. He found what he needed about twenty feet behind the building. He sauntered back to the front and waited.

“There’s a vending machine,” Cindy said when she left the restroom and saw him standing outside the door. “Do you have spare change?”

“I do,” he said, “but I found a gold mine in back. Come take a look.”

Her expression turned quizzical, but she followed.

“Nothing back here, but trash,” she said after they rounded the corner.

Butch stopped and faced her. He had to do this quickly in case another vehicle pulled in. Excitement sang through his blood, and his heart rate accelerated. He wanted more time to play with her and build her fear, but that wasn’t in the cards for now.

“It’s time to pay up,” he said with a grin that should have scared her.

“You want me to do you here?” she asked with a bit of anger entering her voice. Fear was absent.

“Something like that,” he replied, taking a step closer.

The odor from her body didn’t affect him now. He couldn’t help the giddy laugh that escaped his throat. Cindy had no idea what was about to happen.

He reached out and closed his fingers around her throat.

For a heartbeat, she didn’t panic. Her pupils went wide, but she leaned forward in careless intimacy. A smile ghosted her lips. “I like that,” she said as her hand ran over the front of his jeans.

His grip went from casual to steel.

The smile faltered. She blinked as realization snapped across her face like a switch being thrown. The pleasantness drained away and left a raw, animal panic. He felt a thrill in every part of his body. Heat prickled along his scalp. Excitement uncoiled and sharpened everything: the way her skin felt, thehorror she couldn’t escape, the need to fight. It caused a faint metallic tang at the back of his throat.

She kicked out, aiming low. Instinct protected him. He pivoted his hips away, and the kick met nothing but air. He shook her like the rag doll she reminded him of. She no longer seemed human. Her hands grasped his wrists; her fingers trying to pry his hold away. Her fingernails scored his skin, but he didn’t notice. She made an obscene gurgle.

“You’re going to die,” he said, his voice flat and conversational, as if discussing the weather. His fingers tightened, and her face went from red to purple. He watched her with detachment; fascinated by the things he hadn’t considered.

She swung her leg out again, and the kick thudded into his thigh. He barely registered the strike. Her fingers left his wrists, and she flailed, trying to reach his face. His elbows were locked, and she was unable to cause damage.

The fight drained from her in stages. First the frantic thrashing, then the slackening of her fingers. Her jaw worked, oxygen-starved, producing useless, wet sounds. The heightened color bled from her face to a peculiar pallor that made her seem smaller. Her eyes clouded, and the last spark of thought went out of them.

He thought of the slaughterhouse with clinical detachment. The animals at the end of the line with no room to turn and no way to avoid the inevitable. He kept his fingers in place until the last tremor in her hands stilled.

When her body went slack, he released her slowly. She sagged, a heap that smelled faintly of perfume and old fear. He caught the small, hollow sound of air leaving her lungs and then nothing.

He straightened, palms a little damp. Bending over, he turned her head slightly and looked into the dead, hollow eyes. He felt an untroubled satisfaction in what he’d just done.

His senses took in the small details. The smell of urine filled his nostrils. It somehow made the experience more satisfying. She’d defecated too, and he could only shake his head. She’d been undignified in life and went out the same way.

He didn’t have time to enjoy the adrenaline rush traveling through his veins. Reluctantly, he dragged her body to the side of the shallow ditch and rolled her into it. His hands and wrists were marked by her nails, one scratch broke the skin, and he bled slightly. In the men’s room, he washed himself thoroughly. The last thing he needed was an infection from her grimy fingers.