Inside the Serial Killer's Mind--Part 4

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Thrillers  |  House: Booksie Classic
Kevin Harrington's girlfriend has just broken up with him and now he has gone mad...dangerously mad. Kevin surprises himself as he discovers his inner demon that causes him to torture and kill. This is Part 4 of the fictional series.

Submitted: October 10, 2009

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Submitted: October 10, 2009

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I walked an hour backward down the Las Vegas highway, facing traffic with my right thumb out, lugging three duffle bags and a backpack before someone finally stopped. Just like in the movies, it was a semi-truck driver.

This guy was cautious though. He was your typical truck driver, a burly middle-aged man, just over six feet tall, a full goatee, and a baseball-style cap. He stepped out and approached me, but kept his distance.

“Yer nayme?” he demanded, in a very southern accent.

“Mark…Mark Smith.”

“I don’ usually pick up hitchhikers, jus’ so ya know." The trucker hesitated. “Butchya don’ look like yer homeless and ya don’ look crazy or nuttin’.”

He walked a little closer. “I wanna see yer bags. If ya have any potential weapons on ya, I wantchya ta hand ‘em over before ya get in mah truck. I hope ya understand whah I’m askin’ ya ta do all dis.”

“Of course,” I said, setting all my bags down. I told him I had a switchblade in my right pocket. He immediately stuck out his hand and asked for the blade. He even frisked me, which I thought was funny, but I was willing to do almost anything for a ride. I was running out of water. Even though it was early autumn, it was still very warm in Vegas.

Once he finished searching my bags, he reached out his right hand in greeting. “Harold Williams.”

I shook his hand. “Thank you so much, Harold,” I offered with a smile. It was the first time I had smiled since after I had fucked Rachel. Even Tami’s awesome fucking hadn’t made me happy enough to smile. I picked up my bags. “I’m gonna buy your next dinner.”

“I’ll take it. Where ya goin’?”

“Wherever you’re going, I guess,” I told him, as we climbed into the semi.

“Really?” Harold said, buckling up. He gestured for me to put my bags in the back of the cab. “I’m headin’ all dee way back to dee Lonestar.”

“You from there?”

“Texas is mah home, son. If I’m drivin’ ya all dee way der, yer payin’ me!” Harold stuck out his hand.

“How much?” I asked, pulling out my wallet.

“At leas' two hundred.”

I handed him two-fifty. Whatever. Why not?

Harold was surprised, but he took it and put the truck in gear, getting back onto the highway. “If ya have dat kinda money, whah dee hell ya hitchhikin’?”

I had to make up a story on the spot, but I’m good at that. “My girlfriend just kicked me out and took a lot of my shit. I stayed in a hotel room for a few nights, but I didn’t want to waste all my money. So I figured I’d hit the road, move out of the area, and find a new place.”

“Whah no vehicle?”

“It broke down recently. Transmission went out,” I said. Probably the only truth I had told so far. The transmission went out six months prior and I never earned enough money to buy a new car or to get it repaired. It was fifteen years old.

“Ya hungry? Er can ya wait a while? I jus’ had mah breakfas’.”

“I’m good,” I replied, slouching down a bit in the seat. “I snacked while I was walkin’ the road.”

“Well, I’m happy ta have me some company fer once, son,” Harold proclaimed. “Enjoy dee ride. Oh, an' thanks for dee monies.”

We arrived in Phoenix at about noon. We stopped at a small diner to get a bite to eat. We both had bacon cheeseburgers and fries.

“So, you okay with getting a hotel room for the night?” I asked. “It didn’t look like there was enough room in your cab for both of us.”

“Imma drive straight through dee trip, M,” Harold replied. “Ya can use mah cot in der.”

Just as he said that, I noticed something on the television above the front counter.

A news anchor came on the screen….“And to national news…A St. Louis family is in grief after one of their own, 24-year old Allison Renee Thomas, was murdered in her home Sunday. Found in her basement tied to a chair…”

I didn’t know what to do. I was sure they would show my picture in a minute. Do I run? Do I go to the restroom? Do I sit there and act like nothing is going on? The TV was behind Harold. The diner wasn’t very busy…maybe five tables were filled. So maybe I was okay.

All I could do was watch. “…stabbed, burned, obviously tortured to death,” the anchor continued. “The family speaks out…”

Ally’s mother appeared on the screen at a podium, along with other family behind her. At least ten microphones were attached to the podium. “I can’t believe this happened to my daughter…our angel,” her mother, Vivian, sobbed. “Oh, Ally...That demon did this to my daughter and—”

She was cut off by Ally’s older brother pushing Vivian aside, taking over the microphones. “Kevin Harrington, we know you did this!” He looked like he hadn’t had sleep in days. “Show your face you coward! Show your face!”

Harold was just clearing his plate as the waitress left the check and I suggested we go. “Yeh, I’m ready. Ya certainly di’n’t eat much, M.”

I threw down a fifty and nearly sprinted out of the diner ahead of Harold.

"Well, dat's a hella tip yer leavin'!" Harold exclaimed.

I looked up at the TV just as my picture came onto the screen. “Authorities are looking for this man suspected in Thomas’ murder…former boyfriend, Kevin Parker Harrington, 25 years old…”

At that point, people were looking at the screen, but I was on my way out. “Ya in a rush, M?” Harold called after me.

“Is this my new nickname, Harold?” I asked as we walked briskly toward the truck.

Harold was trying to keep up with me, but he was falling behind and running out of breath. A very large, out of shape man, he could have eaten five of those oversized, homemade bacon cheeseburgers if we had time.

“I jus’ don’ like dee name Mark.” He chuckled. “I jus’ keep callin’ ya ‘M’, okay? It sounds better.”

I was even more paranoid from there on. I kept checking for cop cars in my side mirror as we drove toward Tucson. At some point, Harold started noticing.

“Yer awful quiet over der, M. And yer squirmin’ like ya fixin’ ta shit in yer shorts. What in dee hell is botherin’ ya, son?”

“Nothin’,” I said, trying to calm down. “My stomach is just a little upset is all.”

Big mistake.

“Ya li’l sheet! Don’cha be retchin’ up no gahdayum dinna in mah truck!” Harold yanked the truck over from the left lane to the shoulder in one move, almost hitting at least one car in the right lane. “I drive dis here truck for a livin’ and I ain’t ‘bout ta drive it smellin’ like some ol’ beetch’s rottin’ cunt.”

We came to a stop. “Now getchyer ass out mah truck an’ blow yer ‘testines out fer all I care. Jus’ don’ be doin’ it in mah truck!”

Just as I was opening the door, I saw flashing lights. A State Trooper pulled up behind us.

“Shit!” I said out loud, at the same time as Harold.

“Now look whatcha done, M!”

I closed the door as we sat silent waiting for the officer to approach. Harold rolled down his window in anticipation, but the officer was approaching my side, probably for his safety.

I rolled down my window as the officer arrived at my door. “I need you both to step out of the truck please.”

Harold and I climbed out and met with the trooper on my side of the truck.

“I’m Officer Knudson. Do you fellas know why I pulled you over today?” the officer asked, hiding behind dark sunglasses.

“Prolly 'cause I done pulled over too quick," Harold admitted. "Mah friend here had ta chuck up his lunch, Officer, and I di’n’t want him doin’ it in mah truck.”

“Well, sir, the way you pulled off the road was extremely reckless and you almost ran a car off the road in the process. I need to see your driver’s license, insurance, and registration.”

Harold handed him the items straight out of his large wallet. The officer ordered us back in the truck while he ran the information.

“I got some bad news for ya, M,” Harold revealed solemnly as we climbed back in the cab.

“What? Everything sounded fine.”

“I got me a warrant out.”

I was awestruck. “What the fuck for?!”

“Mah home is in Houston. Dat’s where I grew up me childhood. But me and mah woman, we lived in Seattle for a bit…’bout twelve years. She done pissed me off ‘bout a year ago…Last straw, ya know? And I beat dee sheet outta her. She okay, doh. But she called dem gahdayum cops on me an’ I ran. I been on dee run seence.”

“Well, fuck, Harold!” I exclaimed, checking the side mirror again. “What the hell are you going to do?”

He made eye contact with me, looking very worried. “Well, I guess it mah time, M. But I never been to dee big house b'fore. I really not a bad guy.”

I had an idea. I slowly opened the door to the truck. “What dee hell ya doin’, M?” Harold yelled, surprised. “Close dat gahdayum door!”

“Trust me, Harold. Just stay put.” I climbed out of the truck and lightly closed the door. I could still hear Harold yelling.

The way the officer was parked, there was no way he or his camera were going to be able to see me. He parked closer to the pavement of the highway than we did. I climbed under the trailer of the semi and waited for the officer to approach.

I waited for at least five minutes, but it seemed like a half hour. Finally I heard the State Trooper vehicle’s door open and close. And footsteps on the soft shoulder. Then I saw his feet.


Harold didn’t know it, but I saw him wedge my switchblade in the back of his seat, and I had grabbed it before he got back in the truck at the diner. I had gotten back to the truck long before him.

I had the blade ready as the officer walked by my location under the trailer and…my plan failed. I was going to slice his Achilles tendon, but he was wearing boots!

He stopped at the cab and knocked on the door. I could hear Harold exiting. I had to attack…and quick. I scrambled out from under the trailer, stabbed his left calf muscle and tackled him to the ditch. The officer cried out in pain. He reached for his radio.

I was too quick and tried to stab him in the throat, but he knocked my hand away. Grunting and squirming, he tried reaching for his gun. I stabbed him in his right bicep. Another cry of pain.

Harold came around the truck and was caught by surprise. “M, what in dee hell ya doin’?!”

Harold rushed us, and I thought he was going to grab me, but to my surprise, he punched the officer in his face as hard as he could.

The officer was dazed for a moment. Harold grabbed his gun and flipped the safety switch. Before the officer could utter a word, he shot him three times in the head. I just managed to scramble out of the way in time.

I sat on the ground and stared at the dead officer, and then at Harold for a moment...completely confused.

"Now getchyer ass back in dee truck, M," Harold ordered, sticking the gun in his belt. "An' gimme back yer fuckin' knife, ya dirty muthafuckin' son of a beetch."

...TO BE CONTINUED...


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