Chance Meetings

by Chuck Hartsell
copyright 2002 Chuck Hartsell

This story contains language and situations that some may find offensive, and is not intended for anyone under 18 years of age or anyone who is easily offended.

Highway 263 is a winding often narrow road to nowhere running through back woods and between empty fields, missing all the bigger cities and major attractions on its route from North Georgia to South Alabama. Long neglected, having been forsaken for the convenience of freeway travel, what's left of the pavement is riddled with cracks and pots. Dangerous curves lie in wait at the bottom of steep hills with the signs that once warned of their presence lying face down in thick weeds or hanging on various frat house walls across the two states. Most of the homes and shops that can be spotted along the roadside stand about as sturdy as a house of cards; unkept and abandoned, they're now nothing more than motels for insects, woodland creatures, and occasionally a vagrant or two — just passing thru.

There are certain stretches where on cloudy nights the darkness is so complete it seems if you were to cut your headlights it would wrap around you, grab tight, and stop you dead. It was on one of these parts of U.S. 263, on just such a night, somewhere between here and there, that a metallic clunk and rumble disturbed the natural sounds of the night. A green Chevy pickup truck, unintentionally decorated with great patches of rust, traveled south.

The driver was a big, beefy man whose hairline had said its final farewell long ago. The cab of the truck was filled with smoke coming from the cigar packed tight into one corner of his mouth. He rubbed the moisture from his reddening eyes, started to roll down the window for the seventh time, and, for the seventh time, rolled it right back up when the first hot and humid tentacle of southern summer air reached thru the window and slapped him across the face. The asthmatic breathe of the truck’s half-assed air conditioner was no match for its intensity.

"Sombitch," he said under his breath.

He was far too pissed off to not be smoking, but damned if it wasn't getting thick in there. Too hot to open a window, too angry to not smoke. Rock and a hard place. Just one more thing that couldn't be controlled. You just had to live with it.

The truck found another bump in the road or perhaps an animal. He adjusted the rearview mirror in order to check the cargo he was carrying. The large plastic sack was rolling back and forth, having been set in motion by the bump/animal the truck had hit. Its bulk and awkward shape caused it to move without rhythm or balance like someone who's drank more beer than their body agreed to. With a thud the sack came to rest against one side of the truck bed.

"You sombitch," the driver said, his words riding on a thick plumb of cigar smoke. "You. Son. Of. A. Bitch!" He took the cigar from his mouth, spat in the floor of the passenger's seat, wiped away some brown saliva which had trickled down to his chin, and replaced the cigar.

In the distance, just at the outskirts of his headlight's vision, the driver of the old green truck thought he saw something dart across the road, moving from the left shoulder to the right. At first there was no way to tell what it might have been, nor did he really care, but as he drove on he found the culprit was still there standing alongside the road with a crooked thumb jutting out from the end of a bony arm like a flesh covered hook ready to snag hold of the truck as it drove past. The arm was connected to a young, gangly boy, maybe eighteen, nineteen. Dressed smartly if not expensively (a blue oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled half way up, an argyle sweater tied around his neck prep-school style, faded jeans, and brown hair combed back with some type of grease or gel giving it the appearance of polished leather), the boy looked hell and gone from his element down here deep in the bowels of the South.

As he drew closer to the poor lost soul the driver began easing on the brakes.

"Why not?" he thought out loud. After all, he was still angrier than an unfed pit bull. A hitchhiker might help to improve his mood. At the very least it couldn't make things any worse. Nope, nothing to lose.

When the truck came to a stop the boy jumped in, all smiles and thank yous. He got in the truck so quickly in fact that he didn't notice the grease-caked tire iron or the hefty sized romance novel with sultry pink lettering on its cover and frayed corners which were both lying there in the passenger's seat. He just plopped his ass right down on both with out a complaint.

"Thank God," he said, "I was afraid I was going to be out here all night." His voice was polished and clear as light, untainted by accent, giving no hint of his origins. But they for damn sure weren't around here.

The driver put the truck into gear, and started off again.

"You was on the wrong side," the driver said.

"I'm sorry?"

"I saw you run across the road. You shoulda been on this side in the first place, in the direction you was goin'."

"Actually, I was originally intending to go the other way. But yours is the first car I've seen in..." he looked at the flashy silver watch on his left wrist, "more than three hours. Frankly, I don't care what direction I travel now, just as long as it takes me out of here."

"Must not be goin' no where important, huh?"

There was a moment of silence as the driver put the truck in gear over the protests of the transmission, and they were off. Then...

“Superman with the sweater,” the driver mumbled to himself.

“What was that?”

“Nothing. Just admiring your cape.”

“Oh yeah,” the boy said, fingering the knotted sleeves beneath his chin. “My mother dressed me this morning.” “Really,” the driver said chuckling.

“Oh hell," the boy said, rubbing his eyes. He then reached one hand around behind his back as if he were going for his wallet or perhaps to pull that book out of his ass. "I apologize, but I'm exhausted. I really just don't think I can go through the whole...routine this evening." With that he brought his arm back around. In his hand he held not his wallet or the novel, but a hunting knife with a six inch blade; sharp as lightning on one edge, serrated on the other, and painted black so as not to reflect light which would catch the eye and draw attention to it. "Could you just pull over please."

For a moment the driver watched the boy out of the corner of his eye as he continued to drive without slowing, his round face blank, expressing nothing. Then slowly, he pulled the cigar from his meaty lips as they parted into a grin. And from that smiling mouth came a deep, sickly laugh born from diseased lungs and edged with phlegm.

"I hardly see what could be humorous. I guarantee you this is no joke." The boy growled as he spoke, quite visibly becoming angry over the driver's apparent lack of fear.

The older man just seemed to laugh harder, his mouth stretched open so wide it was now supported by four chins as opposed to the original two, and was at work constructing a fifth. Tremors ran across his body so violently you'd have thought he was sitting smack dab on the business end of a jackhammer.

"What's so fucking funny!" the boy screamed as he moved on the driver with surprising speed for someone who looked as though he'd blow away in a strong breeze. He put the knife's finely honed edge to the driver's throat. It nestled itself between chins two and three.

"Oh lordy me," the driver sighed as his laughter abated. "You're that Marauder, right? The Roadside Marauder?"

The boy's face twitched at the mention of the name. After a moment, "That's what the newspapers say."

"Well, Marauder, take yourself a look there in the glove box. I think you might get a laugh yourself."

For a time there was silence, save the growl of the engine. "Go on," the driver finally said. "This ain't no trick. Nothin' to worry about. Just want you to see what I find so funny."

Carefully, with sharp eyes covering the driver's every movement, the Marauder eased back into his seat sliding the black steel gently across the other man's neck.

"All right, I’ll play along, big man," the Marauder said with a smile, a wave of calm replacing the rage that had surface only a moment before. "But don't get wise. You're no hero. And I'm not the push over you might think."

"Okee dokee," the driver said, raising his hands for a moment in mock surrender.

As he opened the glove box, a wad of newspaper clippings packed in too tightly came spilling into the Marauder's lap. In the pile certain words in large print — part of the headlines — caught his eye. "Murder", "Bloody", and "7th Victim" among them.

"Not those," the driver said. "The case. In the back."

With his right hand the Marauder raked the remaining clippings from the glove box, uncovering a small black leather case. Silver zipper teeth ran around three fourths of the case's perimeter, clenched tight together, holding it closed. As the case was opened, the weak light emanating from the dash board caught hold of the contents and reflected off giving them a hazy green glow, like emeralds in the moonlight. The Marauder was transfixed by what he gazed upon. He looked back to the news clippings scattered in his lap and the floor, then again at what lie inside the case; two polished scalpels, one with an edge about two inches in length, and snuggled close by in the gray velvet lining, a little brother of about average size.

"Well I'll be a son of..." The Marauder's words trickled off. He turned his eyes to the pudgy, smiling face of the driver. "You're the Surgeon!" he said, smiling with excitement. "I'll be a son of a goddamn bitch if you're not the Night Surgeon!"

"That's what they're callin' me these days," he said with a laugh.

"Oh my God, this is unbelievable. You're...well, I mean...you're a legend! One of my heroes!" The Marauder was absolutely bubbling. His thoughts, which only moments before had seen only the desire for murder on the road ahead, had now fishtailed, done a donut, and changed direction altogether moving towards a giddy, teen idol-like fascination.

"How do you figure me a legend?" the Surgeon asked, seeming a little embarrassed.

"Oh, now don't play modest with me. I've been a fan of yours since back when they were calling you the Midnight Ripper."

"Really! Wow, you must only been about eight or nine."

"Ten."

"Man. That was my third spree, ya know. And you been keepin' up with me since back then — through all the different sprees and names the papers give me."

"Absolutely! Altogether, including your latest, you've been known to the world as seven different killers since the Ripper murders. And that was your third, you say. Which means you’re on your ninth spree."

"That's amazing. I'm truly impressed. And a little touched to be quite honest." the Surgeon said.

"Well, what can I say? You're my role model. You know, I used to read hundreds of news papers, from all over the country after one of your killing sprees would mysteriously end, trying to find where you had gone. It amazed me. You would just drop out of sight one place, then turn up as a totally different person a thousand miles away."

"One thing for sure, it takes discipline. You got to know when to move on, and do it. No matter how well things seem to be going." The Surgeon paused as if in deep concentration, then, "Say, you want me to tell you the best way to leave one spree and move on to the next?"

"Are you serious? I'd love know?” The Marauder focused fully on the Surgeon, anxiously awaiting the forthcoming knowledge as if he were an apostle about to receive the Holy Ghost.

"You see, you don't want to run a spree into the ground. That's were some of your more famous people in our line of work have messed up. I mean cops are dumb, but eventually even a blind squirrel will find a nut. So don't let your ego get the best of you. The only thing becoming famous means is that you fucked up.

"The thing to do is when you feel a spree has run long enough — that's just something you kind of get a feel for — you go and find some street bum schizo and take him to work with you. Show him in as much detail as he can handle what it is you do, then let him do it. After that — split. The cops will find this guy easy. They'll be so damn happy to have caught somebody with blood on his hands they don't even think to consider whether or not the poor bastard is capable of running a spree or not."

"I love it! Oh man, that, I swear, is genius. Absolute genius. You are the true master, I must tell you."

"Boy, you better stop. You gonna have my head swelled the size of a fuckin' hot air balloon." The Surgeon and Marauder laughed together like two old friends talking about good times — reminiscing.

"Besides," the Surgeon said, "you ain't so bad yourself. I been readin' about you, and I'll tell ya, you do some pretty impressive work."

The Marauder gasped. "Oh wow, I cannot tell you how much that means to me coming from you. I honestly never imagined someone of your caliber would care for my work. Admittedly, I'm a little...flamboyant."

"No, not really. Just a bit messy. But hey, that's your style. Me, I'm very exact, into precision, you know. Not that one style is better or worse than the other. It's just a matter of personal expression."

"Right, right, that's how I feel," the Marauder said. "Each individual has to create based on his own feelings and perceptions."

The Surgeon nodded his head in agreement. "Exactly. I've developed my style based on the experiences of my life. I've become very surgically minded, so to speak."

"Really? Did your parents try forcing you to become a doctor or something?"

"Oh no. See I wanted to be a doctor. My parents hated the idea. They were fairly ignorant people you see, and my father, he couldn't abide the thought that I might be more successful in life than he was. Any time I was caught reading or doing something he considered "intelligent", I got the shit kicked out of me."

"Parents are such awful creatures," the Marauder said shaking his head in disgust.

"You're telling me. Anyhow, I started studying in secret. I did autopsies on cats and dogs and squirrels, anything really. Until my Pop caught me doing one on a little girl from down the road. He damn near killed me himself, but decided he could just get rid of me legally by calling the cops. I felt that to be the day I became a man. I knew what I would do for the rest of my days, and I went into the house and began my career with mom and dad."

"Oh wow, you killed your parents?"

"Of course. Didn't you?" the Surgeon asked.

"No. As much as I hated them and truly, truly wanted to brutally end their lives, I just couldn't bring myself to do it. They had beat this idea of respecting authority into me everyday of my life since I was a kid. And, well, I wanted to kill them, but it just seemed too disrespectful."

"Well, I guess that's just part of what shaped you."

"I don't know," the Marauder mused. "At some point I must have overcome my problem with authority because I'd have no trouble whatsoever in killing a cop."

"Well now a cop ain’t authority," the Surgeon explained. "A cop is someone just like you and me, except his life experiences caused him to feel the need to be justified, under the law, in expressing his art."

"Huh. God, you know that makes sense."

"Course it does."

The Marauder started to speak again, but his words were cut off as he broke into a choked cough. The Surgeon looked at him, smiled, and stubbed out his cigar.

"Thanks," the Marauder said, and forced another cough to clear his throat.

"Anyway, they ain't awful bright...generally speaking of course."

"Who?"

"Cops."

"Oh yeah."

"You know what might be fun," the Surgeon said, "that is if you’re one who gets off on fucking with the cops."

"Oh hell yes. Count me in. What's the play."

"We could switch sprees."

"I don't get you."

The now familiar rat toothed smile began to make another out of place appearance on the face of the Surgeon. "We change, you know. See, you been working the highways as a hitchhiker. I've been doing my work in the area of break-ins. So lets switch. I hitchhike, you break-in. We swap work areas, but...we continue to work in our own styles."

"Oh, I get you," the Marauder said. "Oh God, that is brilliant. The goddamn cops will lose their minds completely."

"You like that?"

"Absolutely! It’s sort of Strangers on a Train with a twist."

“What?”

“You know. The Hitchcock movie.”

“No. I don’t care for movies.”

“Oh,” the Marauder said.

The two men drove on through the darkness of U.S. 263, the impending gag bolstering their spirits. After a time, a distant illumination interrupted the nothingness of the night. A sign ahead came into view; a large wooden board with hand painted letters and lit by five flashlights (only three of which worked) strapped to a two-by-four at its base. It read:

BENNY'S ONLY CHANCE
GAS & FOOD

The old green pick-up truck turned in, and ground to a halt in the gravel lot. A crumbling stucco shack sat in front of them trying hard to pass itself off as a building. The two men walked inside, an odd pair to say the least. They walked past three rows of shelves filled with canned food products, bags of assorted chips, and warm beer bottles to a counter in the back of the store. Behind the counter sat a elderly man—a fly crawling across his bald head—looking at a magazine. The cover of the magazine read "Spank Me" in hot, red letters; a nude blond pictured beneath the title was bent over the hood of a sports car. Behind the man stood an old fashion soda cooler.

"Pardon me, sir," the Marauder said.

The old man sat quiet.

"Need a couple of cokes, buddy," the Surgeon said.

"Got money for 'em, have at it," the old man said without looking up from his reading.

The Surgeon dropped a dollar on the counter, walked around, got two sodas from the cooler, came back and handed one to the Marauder along with the keys to the truck.

"You're giving me your truck?"

"Hell, it ain't much of a truck. Besides, we might as well go on and put our little plan into action."

For several moments the Marauder stood silent.

"Well," he finally said, "it's been an honor."

"For me as well."

“I’ll run out to the truck and get your tools from the glove box.”

“Naw,” the Night Surgeon said, stopping him. “I’ll get some new ones. You keep those. Sort of a souvenir.”

The Marauder had no words. He simply turned and walked out the door drinking his soda. The truck's engine barked as it started, gravel rained from its tires, and the Roadside Marauder was gone.

The dust was still settling on the parking lot when the Night Surgeon made his phone call to the Harden County Sheriff's Office to report the old rusted green truck stolen. It wasn't something he wanted to do. Goddamn, he hated doing it.

But there was the problem of Allen Brickman.

About two years ago, Allen Brickman’s wife was murdered by The Death Hunter (god, what a name) of Houston, Texas. Unbeknownst to the Death Hunter at the time, though, Mr. Brickman had spotted him as he left the scene of the crime, and the police were able to get a fairly accurate description to run in all the papers. Mr. Brickman even got his picture in the paper.

Shortly after, the Death Hunter vanished from Houston, Texas.

But not more than three hours before the Night Surgeon had picked up the Roadside Marauder, Mr. Allen Brickman and the Death Hunter, a.k.a. the Night Surgeon, bumped into each other outside a mini-mart in Opelika, Alabama. Recognition had flashed in both there eyes almost immediately — unfortunately for Mr. Brickman. As he’d opened his mouth to scream a fat, sweaty hand slapped over it, twisted his head around fast, giving him a brief glimps of his own ass before his eyes rolled back.

The Night Surgeon had wanted to find out what in the holy hell Allen Brickman of Houston, Texas was doing in Opelika. But there just wasn’t time. Now Mister Brickman was rolling around in a plastic sack in the back of a green pick-up truck heading northeast on U.S. 263.

Sorry kid, the Surgeon thought as he sat on the curb outside Benny's to drink his soda. I lost my temper with the guy. You lose it like that, out in public, you done fucked up. I coulda got caught. Had to do something.

"Rock and a hard place," he said, voicing his frustration. "Nothing else I could do."

And for a moment the Night Surgeon felt something. Something in the pit of his gut. Something that didn’t belong. He wondered if maybe it was that thing people talked about — that thing the newspaper psychologists all said he didn’t have; remorse. Was that a bit of guilt stirring around and gnawing at his belly.

Then he belched and the feeling went away.

* * * The sound of sirens echoed for a time, up and down U.S. 263, interrupted occasionally by several rolling cracks of gun fire. Soon, though, the sirens died, and nothingness swept in quickly to swallow up U.S. 263 again.