Jack kilborn SErial blakE crouch

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Jack kilborn SErial blakE crouch
The hardest thing about killing a hitchhiker is finding one to
pick up.
Donaldson could remember just ten years ago,
when interstates boasted a hitcher every ten miles, and a
discriminating killer could pick and choose who looked the
easiest, the most fun, the juiciest. These days, cops kept the
expressways clear of easy marks, and Donaldson was forced
to cruise off-ramps, underpasses, and rest areas, prowl back
roads, take one hour coffee breaks at oases. recreational
murder was becoming more trouble than it was worth.
he’d found this one standing in a cracker barrel parking
lot. The kid had been obvious, leaning against the cement
ashtray near the entrance, an oversize hiking pack strapped
to his back. he was approaching every patron leaving the
restaurant, practicing his grin between rejections.
a ripe plum, ready to pluck.
Donaldson didn’t even have to initiate contact. he
walked in to use the bathroom and strolled out car keys in
hand, letting them jingle a bit. The kid solicited him almost
immediately.
“Excuse me, sir. are you heading up north?”
Donaldson stopped, pretending to notice the man for the
first time. he was young, maybe mid-twenties. Short, reddish
hair, a few freckles on his face, mostly hidden by glasses. his
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