Driven (12 page)

K
rogan was awakened by the sound of the forklift working at the lumberyard next to his shack of a house. Judging from the angle
of the sunlight coming around the yellowed window shades, it was morning. He didn’t remember going to sleep. He rarely did.
His mouth was terribly dry; his tongue felt swollen and stuck in place.

Before rolling out from under the single thin blanket he paused, checking for any new pains he should be aware of. There were
none. In fact, the soreness he’d had for the last couple of days was
almost gone. No new aches meant nothing interesting in the newspaper.

He groaned as he sat up on the bloodstained mattress. As thirsty as he was, he didn’t want water. Only more liquor would be
able to cut through the tacky dryness he felt. He reached for an empty vodka bottle on the floor, the stretch aggravating
his bruised ribcage, and held it upside down over his open mouth, hoping for a few stray drops. Nothing. Maybe the refrigerator.
He dropped the bottle behind him and heard it roll as he walked stiffly to the kitchen, his bare feet sporadically sticking
to months, maybe years, of spilt liquor that added an additional glaze to an already thickly painted pine floor. He glanced
lazily at the table as he passed it; a half-full quart of malt beer with a cigarette butt floating in it failed to lure him.

The unleveled refrigerator was old and made a loud hum he no longer heard. He yanked open its door and squinted into the cold
shadows. The unlatched interior freezer door above slowly opened by itself as it always did, revealing frozen baitfish, their
eyes bulging redly from exploded blood vessels. Below them in the fridge sat a bottle of ketchup without the cap, a few open
Chinese take-out containers, a half-eaten apple pie broken from random fingerings, and some Tabasco sauce, also without a
cap. Nothing to drink. He cursed and threw the door closed, then turned to the beer on the table. Without pausing, he grabbed
its neck and guzzled it down, then spit the butt in the direction of a dented tin garbage can.

He wondered what day it was. Through the window he could see the forklift busy at work. It wasn’t Sunday, then. When had he
last checked the lobster traps? Ah… today’s date would be on the newspaper. He opened the front door and stepped onto the
small porch. The warm sunlight felt good on his bare mass, but annoyed his unadjusted pupils. With narrowed eyes he searched
for the paper and found it laying on the cracked and buckled concrete path
that divided the lawn of uncut grass and weeds. With much less difficulty than yesterday, he walked down the porch steps and
retrieved the paper. It was bound by a single green rubber band, which he immediately broke off. The paper unfolded in his
hands: Friday, August 29.

Krogan turned the paper over and was instantly startled out of his morning daze. The likeness he saw was astonishing for a
sketch, so much so that he thought he could have been looking at a photo. He wanted to find a mirror and compare. He was so
completely fascinated with the drawing that he didn’t at first notice the headline. When he did, he was stunned a second time.
Above his face, which took up three quarters of the front page, was his name in giant, bold print: “GHOST DRIVER OR KROGAN?”

He quickly crushed the paper closed. He felt exposed and reflexively crouched, snapping his gaze back and forth as if he’d
been physically spotted. To his right, a couple hundred feet down the street, a large, yellow utility truck was parked. The
boom was stretched up over thirty feet to an electric transformer and a man with a yellow hard-hat was in the bucket. To his
left, the forklift was still at work behind a tall, rusted chain-link fence. Nobody seemed to have noticed him.

With the paper tightly clenched in his right fist he went back into the house and closed the door. In the bathroom he reopened
the paper and held it up next to the cracked medicine-cabinet mirror. He stared at himself, then at the sketch, then at himself
again, and finally decided they hadn’t done as good a job as he’d first thought. He laughed and spit at the mirror for being
so stupidly concerned. He was the one who was in control, not them. He was the hunter, the trapper, the executioner. And if
they caught him— which they would not, could not—he would still be in control.

He left the bathroom and plopped into an old, overstuffed chair with pea-sized burn holes all over the arm rests. Leaning
his head
back and looking at the cracked plaster ceiling, he tried to remember the past few days. He could imagine someone seeing him
good enough to give a description, but how had they gotten his name?

He opened the paper to the story on page three and began to read:

KROGAN?

The Ghost Driver now has a face and possibly even a name. Police have revealed an artist’s rendering of the serial killer
who uses motor vehicles as his choice of murder weapons and who turns accomplices into victims. Among others, the Ghost Driver
was responsible for the recent crash at the Hempstead Harbor Marina that took the lives of Lori Hayslip and Michael Clayborne
and left Mr. Clayborne’s wife, Amber, in Glen Cove Hospital, where she remains in a coma.

Police have also uncovered a possible alias or nickname for the Ghost Driver: Krogan. Details have not yet been released on
how the police obtained this possible alias. Detective Gavin Pierce, who heads up the task force assigned to this case, has
detailed only that someone has come forward with the name.

Anyone with information regarding the Ghost Driver should contact either
The Daily Post
or Detective Gavin Pierce at police headquarters in Mineola at 212-555-1455. The killer should be regarded as extremely dangerous.

Krogan threw his head back and laughed loudly. “You don’t have a clue, do ya, Cop?” he said. He noted the byline for the story—a
Mel Gasman. “And Newsboy called me by name. He wants to be contacted. He thinks being contacted is a
good
thing.”

He continued to laugh as he threw the newspaper down on an avalanching pile of old papers at the side of the chair. Heading
to the bedroom, he found a wrinkled gray T-shirt and pair of jeans crumpled over a pair of worn work boots at the foot of
the bed. The wrinkles in the shirt vanished as he pulled it down over his massive chest and shoulders. He took a moment to
stare at himself in an old, cracked mirror leaning against the wall, flexing his muscles hard and long until they started
to cramp. The tension and pain felt good as the veins running down the sides of his neck swelled. He looked into his eyes,
two silver streaks cutting diagonally across the bridge of his nose like frozen lightning. The eyes of a warrior, he thought.
A hunter.

He pulled the boots on over his bare feet and thought again of how the newsboy had called him by name—a name the newsboy was
unworthy to speak, much less write publicly for the world to see. He had to be taught a lesson. A lesson the world at large
would heed and remember.

He closed his eyes and envisioned himself holding a long pole in the air with the newsboy impaled on it, clearly beaten, clearly
punished. He knew the hunt would be pleasurable. He would not simply drive into this one. That was too simple. He would play
with this newsboy as a cat plays with its prey. He would enjoy his supremacy—his utter dominance. He didn’t know how, but
he knew the hunt would be special. And, most important, fun.

He stretched across the bed and reached for the windowshade bottom, then tugged and released. The weak spring gave up when
the shade reached the halfway point. Between the shade and dirty windowpane a large spider had spun an impressive web. The
spider was busy wrapping up a recent catch. Krogan watched approvingly.

Peering through the clouded glass and the bare branches of a
dead tree outside, he could see the electric company bucket truck was still there with its boom stretched out to the pole.
He stared at the man and the truck for several minutes and then refocused on the spider, which had clearly conquered the weaker
bug. Foolish prey deserve to die; that’s what they’re there for, Krogan thought. To die. He rolled onto his back and laughed
softly before getting up and going to the kitchen. The day would belong to him.

On a cast-iron radiator under the kitchen window he found a Yellow Pages phone book and flicked the pages until he reached
the listings for
Aircraft Charter, Rental and Leasing Service.
Sweeping his arm across the table and knocking a few beer cans onto the floor, he pulled the phone to the table’s edge and
dialed.

“Executive Airways. This is Cheryl. Can I help you?”

“How much advance notice do you need for a flight to Albany in a Learjet?”

“We could have you in the air in an hour, sir.”

“Perfect,” he said deeply, then looked at the clock. It was nine o’clock. “I’d like to reserve a flight leaving Republic Airport
at exactly twelve-thirty.”

“And your name, sir?”

“Mel Gasman. I’ll call back with my credit card number in about an hour.”

“Very good, Mr. Gasman. And thank you for choosing Executive.”

With a laugh, Krogan hung up the phone. “Oh, but it is
I
who should be thanking
you
.”

He went back into the bedroom and reached under the bed, slowly withdrawing a large black case. Inside the case was his father’s
ninety-pound-draw hunting bow—a Browning. Mounted in foam rubber on the case’s lid were a dozen arrows, three of them already
fixed with broadhead hunting tips. He freed one of the arrows and smiled as he saw sunlight reflect off the silvery triple-razor
head. He tapped the point with his index finger; a small, round drop of blood appeared.

His breathing quickened with excitement as he pulled his bed out of the way of the window. The old sash weights could be heard
as the window opened. The spider dashed away as its web tore in half. The screen was already gashed open with a hole large
enough that he didn’t have to bother removing it.

Looking out, he cursed. There was a problem. The arc he would need to hit his target was blocked by a dead tree branch. He
had to change his vantage point. Quickly snatching his three razor-sharp arrows, he exited through the back door and went
left through an overgrown empty lot marked with a No Dumping sign. Judging by the litter, the sign had not been much of a
deterrent.

There was no need to hurry; his prey had less of a chance than the spider’s bug.

Krogan passed unnoticed behind his target, taking note of a Thermos and clipboard on the seat of the open cab. Perversely,
he continued further so his shot would not be too easy—he wanted to make the game interesting. He finally came to an abandoned
and stripped car at the curb and set his arrows on its rusted trunk.

He grasped the bow tightly in his powerful left hand. It felt good—even better than it had when he used to target shoot with
his father, before he was half the warrior he was now. He picked up an arrow and made sure the three feathers aligned perfectly
with the three glistening blades as he had been taught. After a slight adjustment, he placed the arrow on its rest, then drew
back on the high-tension string with three fingers of his right hand. His back and shoulder muscles rippled as he dropped
to one knee and brought the string to his cheek. He estimated his target at about seventy yards. A long shot, but his bow
had enough power to drop a Kodiak bear at that range, if the shot was accurate.

He calmed his breathing as the man working from the bucket
fell into his sights. The man appeared to be wrapping up his work. Perfect. If his job was completed they would likely assume
he had left to go to his next assignment. Whatever. He exhaled slowly through his mouth, breathed in and held… then released,
making sure the arrow was safely on its way before moving the bow.

Sssssssssss. The arrow silently whizzed by a couple of inches behind the back of the man’s neck and disappeared over distant
tree-tops. Krogan’s eyebrows raised; he was surprised he’d missed. He wondered briefly where the errant arrow would land.
Hopefully
in
someone, he thought as he nestled out of view.

The man in the bucket had immediately turned around, presumably hearing or feeling the wind as the arrow passed by. He continued
to scan the surrounding area for another twenty seconds or so, then went back to putting his tools away.

Krogan’s laugh was low and raspy as he set the next arrow. This was fun. The fool didn’t have a clue he’d just been granted
another minute of life. Back in position, with the bow drawn in full, Krogan adjusted slightly to the left.

Ssssssssppp. Krogan heard the thunk as the arrow found its mark in the man’s left shoulder. The man screamed in terror, looking
down at the arrow sticking out the front of his light-blue shirt, which was rapidly darkening. He dropped into the bucket,
presumably to hide.

“Just when you figure it’s a beautiful morning,” Krogan laughed as he loaded his last arrow.

With only the man’s hand visible on the controls, the boom began to lower. When the bucket touched the truck, the man’s anguished
face appeared over the top. Krogan drew back again. He knew the man would have to try to get out of the bucket and into the
truck. The inexperienced fool was terrified enough to chance that it had all been a terrible mistake. The blood alone would
convince him he needed to get to the hospital… fast.

As predicted, the man rose, his right hand clutching his shoulder, his fingers split around the protruding arrow. He clumsily
tried to lift one of his legs over the rim of the bucket.

Ssssssssssppp.

This time the man was knocked to the back of the bucket, the arrow having gone cleanly through the bottom of his neck, held
only by the feathers from going completely through. The man then fell forward, back to the bottom of the bucket, where he
would surely stay.

The chance his victim was still alive and suffering was exciting to Krogan. He sought to thrill himself further, trying to
sense the horror of pain and fear in the man’s mind, then remembered what was to come. There was so much to do and he didn’t
want to be late for his appointment. He hoped the keys were in the ignition of his new vehicle—and that the coffee in the
Thermos was still hot.