Cross Country Murder Song (17 page)

He rented out a hire car and cruised the suburbs that buffered Las Vegas, always surprised by how close and how quickly the desert came rushing up to the city as if it was trying to reclaim the land the place was built on. He imagined a world where vegetation and dirt had enveloped the cities; tall buildings as a mass of creeping vines, the streets mud tracks, like a frontier town. He'd stopped to help or attack a man changing the flat tyre on his car, he wasn't sure which. He stood watching as he worked the wheel, fingering the blade in his pocket with the familiar current of elation running through his groin, but something in the man's eyes, a coldness, something dead, ran through him, making his fingers retract from the knife's handle. He didn't think the man would go quietly. Sometimes he enjoyed the dance he and his victims did, both physically and mentally, he didn't think he'd find any joy there out in the desert cutting the life out of this stranger.

On the final night of his holiday, while up at the far end of the Strip he'd been mugged. He'd killed a mugger before in Philadelphia, there he'd sensed it coming, saw the thief take him in, mark him as prey, he recognised the signs as his own. He'd loitered in a doorway and then made off slowly between two buildings and stood in the shadows lighting a cigarette while the mugger came in close, something glinting in his hand. He turned to meet him, grabbing the man's wrist suddenly and stubbing the cigarette out on his fingers, the knife clattered to the ground and as he yelled out in surprise and pain, he head-butted him and broke his wrist as he fell to the floor. He hefted the body into a dumpster, covered it with bags and boxes and rejoined the throng on the street who never stopped moving even as he'd throttled the life out of the would-be attacker less than fifty feet away. This time it was different, he'd been near wasteland, ground undergoing development between two of Vegas' oldest hotels on the now unfashionable end of the Strip. The earlier heat had given him a headache and what felt like a touch of sunstroke, he felt sluggish and the constant carnival of lights and sound had driven him away into the dusky reaches of the town as night fell. He'd been touching the back of his neck tentatively, feeling the warmth rising up from his skin when he felt the gun pushing him in the back. There were two of them, one indicating the waste ground to his left with a quick movement of his head. He wasn't even sure where his knife was; he absent-mindedly patted down his pockets until a sudden jab in the ribs sent him sprawling to his knees. One held the gun to his head, the other pulled the wallet from his back pocket and then a hard kick above his eyebrow punctuated the night with pinpricks of light and then he was lying there looking up at the dark green frame of the construction crane looming above him.

Stay down, fucker, someone shouted, but the voice was receding, already lost to the screech and wail of the cars cruising the Strip. He stood with a grunt and brushed the sand and dirt from his jacket, as he walked towards the road the glare of the halogen lights gave him a dusty aura. To the passenger in the passing cab he looked like he was floating slowly towards the street, his hair backlit so it looked like he was going up in flames.

The next morning he stood before the bathroom mirror, tentatively dabbing at the purple and black bloom above his right eye. His arm ached and there was a dull pain above the bridge of his nose like he'd been wearing a tight hat too long. His flight home out of McCarran Airport was booked for later that afternoon; he pulled on a shirt and lifted his jacket with a wince over an outstretched arm. He reached into his inside pocket and fished out his knife, he looked at himself holding it in the mirror and then quickly pocketed it and left. Outside he waved the doorman away and carried his suitcase to the street, hailing a cab as it came racing through the downtown traffic.

Airport, please, he told the driver, holding his stomach and easing himself into the back seat.

Could you, he asked, gesturing to the case sitting on the street. I'm not feeling so great, he said, I'll make it worth your while. The driver loaded his case and slammed the trunk shut, causing the back suspension to buckle momentarily.

You okay? asked the driver, his eyes wide in his rearview mirror as he picked out the bruising above his passenger's eye. Rough night? he asked.

I'm okay, he replied. I just picked up a stomach bug, too much of a good thing, he smiled before indicating his eye. Then I went over in the bathroom, rushing to get in there, you know, he said. The driver smiled an accomplice's smile. They drove on in silence until he doubled up in the back seat and yelped with pain.

You okay? asked the driver again, instinctively slowing down.

I'm alright, he said, grimacing with pain, he clutched at his stomach and let out a low moan, his eyes closing.

Want me to stop? asked the driver almost turning in his seat.

I need some cover, he said. You'll have to get off the highway.

The driver quickly scanned the lanes around him and nosed his way to an off ramp, made a circuit of the loops that criss-crossed the highway until they were facing the way they came, pulled onto a side road and then drove until the stream of cars quietened and shrubs and small trees began to appear at the roadside. The cab rolled to a stop, parking up on the verge, and he scrambled from the back seat and disappeared into the undergrowth. He sat there in the dappled light, enjoying the silence and the shade. He heard the driver's door open and then close.

You alright in there? the cab driver shouted. He grunted noncommittally in return then stood silently, his knife upturned in his hand as if he were preparing to fight. The next time the cab driver called out to him he feigned a terrified scream and he came scrambling through the bushes and onto the point of his blade. The driver gasped and tried to wrest himself away, but he held him by the small of the back like dancers in a clinch and worked the knife up towards his sternum until two folds of skin flopped open and his insides were outside, soaking through his shirt and pushing at the gash in the material and his belly. Sorry, he said as he laid the body onto the grass, pulling it into the shade and out of sight. He fished the car keys from his pocket and moments later he was navigating his way back towards the highway. He pulled into the airport and headed for the long-term parking lot, he found a space that bordered the runway and sat and admired the shape of the planes as they roared into view, casting the cab in fleeting shadows. He changed his shirt, locked the car up and dropped the keys in a bin near the departures lounge and when the girl behind the desk asked him if he'd like an upgrade he said that he would like that very much.

After they'd pulled his mother from the water, they sent for his father to come and get him. They'd divorced the year before, but were still friends as far as he could tell. He remembered his father rushing towards him through the hotel foyer and wrapping him up in his arms, the tears pouring from his already red-rimmed eyes. Later while they were packing her things up his father came across the snowglobe wrapped in tissue paper in the corner of the bag. Did your mother get this? he asked. I don't know, he said, taking the glass ball from him to study the dolphin arching through the air within. Give it a shake, said his father slowly and then he held him as the silver snow fell.

He checked he had everything one last time. A car horn sounded outside and he crossed to the window and waved to the cab driver who was leaning against his car bonnet, with a folded paper underneath one arm. He flicked through the city guide he'd bought for his trip and then dropped it into the side pocket of his case and zipped it shut. He hoisted the smaller bag onto his shoulder and lifted the suitcase with a grunt. He turned to look at his apartment and made his way down the stairs and out to the car, the cab driver took the suitcase from him with two hands and swung it in a half circle into the trunk, it barely made a sound as it slid into place.

You want to hold on to that, he asked, indicating the bag over his shoulder. He nodded and climbed into the car.

Airport, right? said the cab driver.

Yes, please, he replied.

Good to get away, said the cab driver. Yes, it was, he agreed, it always was good to get away.