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