The Devil's Road
The Devil's Road
In 2004 an Oklahoma Bureau of Investigations analyst discovered a crime pattern along the Interstate 40 corridor between Oklahoma and Mississippi. Subsequently, The Federal Bureau of Investigations (F.B.I.) started the Highway Serial Killings Initiative. They discovered over 500 bodies of women along the interstate highway system with more than 200 potential suspects, a trail of bloodshed that coats the heartland. The Devil’s Road is a serialized novel based on this horrific discovery.
Chapter 1: The Dance
gore, oklahoma
The storm clouds stretch across the open empty plains of Oklahoma like a goose-down blanket that protects against the horrors that might exist on the other side. Rain lightly patters on the warm blacktop road. Steam rises as it releases the heat of the day. Of all the days to take a ride across the prairie without air conditioning, today was a bad choice.
A shit-brown Chevy Caprice with Arkansas plates rolls down the highway toward a building in the distance, the Gore Motel. Despite its name, taken from the nearby incorporated township of Gore, Oklahoma, the two-story roadside cinderblock building is nothing short of quaint. The flowerbed full of colorful petunias gives an air of frivolity, and the large pink flamingos that line the roadside could make the eye tighten and the lip curl with a wry smile if in the proper mood.
The Caprice pulls into the parking lot in front of unit 107. The Driver slides the shifter into park and turns off the motor, but leaves the battery running. “The Dance” by Garth Brooks plays from the tinny busted speakers on the dash.
A mousy-looking lady sits in the front seat. She seems nervous and uncertain. We’ll call her Sandy.
Sandy opens her purse, pushes aside a palm-sized .22 pistol, and pulls out a pack of Capri menthol 120s. She glances up at the Driver to make sure he didn’t see the weapon. “Mind if I smoke?” The Driver doesn’t respond, just keeps listening to Garth.
The sun peaks from between the clouds as Sandy opens the passenger door. She walks under the balcony of the second-floor walkway looking for some shade and to keep dry. You know what they say when there’s a thunderstorm and the sun is shining.
She lights her cigarette and takes a long pull. It calms her. The red wig on her head has slipped a bit and she makes a couple of adjustments to keep it in place. One of her press-on nails snaps loose and falls to the concrete at her feet as she finishes putting her hair in place. She’s never gotten used to all the effort this line of work requires. She looks at the remaining soldiers at the end of her fingers, wondering if she should just pull off the rest. They are Tiffany blue, her favorite color.
Garth’s song finishes and the radio DJ starts warning about the wave of storms coming through the area. Tornados, hail … the Driver turns off the radio and climbs out of the Caprice. His work boots crunch in the gravel parking lot. He’s a heavy walker.
“I ain’t payin’ you to smoke.” The Driver takes the cigarette out of Sandy’s hand and thumps it into the rain just starting to fall. There’s a crack as lighting sparkles across the day-lit sky.
“He gave her a good smack on that one,” Sandy says as she reaches into the Driver’s pocket and pulls out the hotel key. The Driver gives her a confused look.
“Ain’t you never heard the expression, ‘the Devil’s beatin’ his wife’?”
“No.” He takes the key from Sandy, unlocks the door, and goes inside. Sandy looks at the half-smoked cigarette smoldering in the gravel of the parking lot daring the drops of rain to find it. They’re nearly three dollars a pack now. She walks into the rain, picks it up, takes another long pull, and then pulls again as she exhales from her nose. She drops it and crushes it with the heel of her boot. No sense in wasting it.
She looks up at the sky, watching the drops fall around her, on top of her, and opens her mouth to let it drip inside of her. Rain’s supposed to be sweet according to the poets, but this rain is just wet.
a siren song
Sandy flips on the tiny light over the vanity inside their motel room bathroom. She leans into the mirror, looking for runs in her mascara and lipstick, and gives her reflection a little smile. Her misshapen jawline and teeth are exposed in the unflattering downlight. The smile fades but she keeps her lips parted, examining. She always had such a beautiful smile as a child.
Sandy puts her purse in the sink and unzips it again. She pulls out the small .22 pistol, unscrews the cylinder pin, and rolls the cylinder into her palm. Two of the bullets are spent giving her only three shots if she needs them. She pulls out the spent .22s, tosses them in the toilet, pushes the cylinder back into the pistol, replaces the pin, and flushes.
One eye squints as she stares down the iron sights with the other. She pulls back the hammer and watches as the unspent round rolls towards the barrel. She uncocks the gun and slides it into her boot. Her blouse comes up and off and her skirt slips to the floor. She looks at herself again and smiles in her underwear, this time remembering to keep her lips locked together.
Her hand hovers over the doorknob, but there is a pull in a different direction. She glances back at the sink. Both hands dive into her purse, rummaging inside for something she’d rather leave where it was. She can’t find it. “Baby, I can’t find the baggy.” She hollers through the bathroom door.
“Saw you put it in your purse,” the Driver says right from the other side.
She dumps the contents of the purse in the sink and finds a small baggy with white-bluish rocks inside, crystal meth. She pulls out one of the crystals, pipe, and lighter, and begins her ritual. When the smoke finally enters her lungs, she smiles. There’s a tingle in the back of her throat. This is going to be a nice one.
She slowly exhales through her nostrils, increasing the chance to get a direct shot into her bloodstream. The warm and welcomed buzzy sensation starts at the back of her head, enwraps her skull, and then slowly floats down through her body until it reaches the floor. She’s grounded, ready. She kills the light and opens the door to the hotel room.
polaroids
Sandy pushes open the bathroom door and reenters the motel room. The curtains have been pulled closed, but it’s apparent the storm has gotten worse. There’s barely any sunshine coming from behind the shades and the lights are switched off. One of the two motel beds has been stripped. The sheets and covers lay on the floor. The Driver appears to be gone.
She steps further into the room, checking the closet. Nothing.
“We playin’ hide and seek, sweetie?”
There are polaroids spread across the raw mattress. Sandy’s warm calm from the meth begins to shift towards fear. The buzzy warmth starts to sting. She can feel the growing pressure mounting in her chest as she leans over and looks at the photos on the bed.
Broken, beaten, bloody bodies in each picture. She picks one up. In the photo, the face of a woman looks back at her. One eye is swollen shut, and the other one used to be blue, but now has a milky white finish. A few strands of her red hair are matted in the dried blood around her ears. She drops the Polaroid. The other photos are more of the same. Different women, some alive … some not.
There’s a soft sliding noise in the room. Sandy’s eyes dart around in the dimly lit room looking for anything moving. She backs towards the front door fumbling along the wall looking for the light switch. At the same time, she is unconsciously pulling at the red wig still on her head, dislodging the pins. It slips from her fingertips and falls to the floor, forgotten.
She finds the switch and light floods the room. She’s alone. She goes to the window and pulls back the curtain. The car is still parked outside. She hears the soft sliding noise again and spins on her heels. Again, nothing.
The gun. She pulls at the zipper on her boot. There’s a metal-on-metal creak as the bathroom door slowly swings closed. Sandy’s fingers find the .22. She looks up to see a blur of flesh charge at her. The white bloated naked body of the Driver flashes across the room and swings a wooden club that connects with her face. Everything goes black.
Sandy’s hands lay palm up in her lap. The hemp rope around her wrists hasn’t yet left her skin red and raw yet because she’s still unconscious. Same for her ankles and her midsection, all are tied to the chair. There is a little bit of dried blood on her forehead from the impact of the club. Otherwise, you might just assume she was peacefully sleeping.
The Driver sits on the raw mattress behind her. He flips through his photos, waiting on Sandy to wake. Sandy’s head rolls from one shoulder to the other. It’s nearly time.
He rolls her head straight back, exposing her neck as her head dangles unconsciously behind her, her mouth open. Long, hot, deep breaths come out as she struggles to regain reality. He uses a plastic comb to brush her hair out of her face and begins to reapply the wig. It’s a difficult process with worn leather work gloves, but he’s patient, meticulous. He continues to pin as he stands over Sandy looking down at her face, her looking up at his. Her eyelids flutter.
A tickling sensation fills Sandy’s head as the Driver whispers in her ear. “You think that when you look at folks, you see ‘em, but you don’t. Truth is, nobody wants to be seen. We hide in our little lives, worlds we create so that others don’t ever truly find out who we really are.” He finishes repining the wig and walks to the bathroom.
“The real person lives just under the surface of the skin. Maybe they’re a good person maybe they’re not. Don’t matter.” He returns with a washcloth and uses it to wipe the blood from her face.
“All we get is the show they put on. The image they draw for us to see. The mask they wear. But, if you’re lucky, you get to see what’s underneath … underneath all those lies.” He takes off one glove and slowly caresses her cheek, skin to skin.
A shock runs through her body as the world reignites in her eyes. The raw marks on her wrists and ankles are just starting. She opens her mouth to scream and a gag immediately covers her attempt.
“Shhh. I’m not finished.” She can see the Driver standing behind her in the mirror over the dresser. He’s nude except for the work gloves, and a short wooden bat hanging from his wrist by a leather strap. She bites and pulls at the gag with her teeth.
“Look at me,” he says. She closes her eyes and turns her head. He grabs her skull and turns her face back to the mirror and squeezes.
“LOOK,” he repeats. Sandy’s large brown eyes open and he loosens his grip. She’s able to get out a muffled, “Fuck you.”
“This is the raw, the real. There’s no mask here, and now I’m going to do the same for you.” He reaches down onto the bed and shuffles through the Polaroids until he finds what he’s looking for.
Sandy hears the click, click, click as the box cutter blade in the Driver’s hand opens. She pulls at her bounds with everything left in her body. She tries to scream, but can’t find her voice. The rope won’t give, but the chair’s old. It cracks and creaks as she strains its joints.
“Hold still.” The Driver tries to grab her face but she squirms away. One of the legs of the chair begins to crack. He slaps her and the momentum sends her to the floor. The chair leg snaps and one leg is free.
The Driver leans over her to pull her back up and she kicks out, finding his nose. It snaps under her heel and blood explodes across his face and eyes. She pulls at the other ankle, slipping it free from the bottom of the chair leg. She slips her hands down her legs undoing the knots around her wrists and she pulls at the bounds on her chest.
Leaning over the sink, the Driver’s nose drips into the bowl as he examines himself in the mirror. He’s forgotten his prey.
Sandy wiggles free from the bounds around her chest and stomach. She’s on her feet and launches for the door. Daylight floods the room as she rips it open. She’s going to live, and then the world goes black again.
When her body hits the ground in front of room 107, it makes a wet smack as her head finds a puddle in the gravel. The Driver glances around the parking lot as he stands over her naked, with his club firmly gripped in his right hand. He’s alone. The storm has passed and the sun is setting over the prairie. The normally brown and barren landscape turns golden in the low sunshine and the clouds that were threatening to rain now glow pink and purple. It’s an Oklahoma postcard. “Visit Gore, Oklahoma!” emblazoned in some bold font over top of the picture-perfect sunset in contrasting bright colors.
The Driver leans over, grabs Sandy by the feet, drags her inside, and shuts the door.
I sincerely hope you enjoyed this excerpt from my serialized novel The Devil’s Road. To keep up with current issues and read all back issues you must have a paid subscription which you can sign up for below. If you are a free subscriber please consider upgrading to a paid subscription to help support this work.