know that I study geography.” He flashed another
easy smile. “So what art stuff do you do?”
“Photography emphasis. Hey, could you get me a pack of
cigarettes out of the back seat?”
“Sure.” He reached in the backseat. “What’s this?” He turned
around holding a cabbage head decorated with shredded carrot hair, eyes made of
cucumber and olives, and radish lips.
A mischievous smile split Carly’s face. “Oh. That. Part of a
project I’ve been working on. I was shooting these in the fields and stuff.”
“Inspired by that killer—”
“The Reaper. Yeah.”
“Seems a bit morbid. People have died.” Peter’s voice filled
with a chastising tone that annoyed Carly.
“Art doesn’t kill people. People kill people. Besides,
morbidity is an artistic topic.” Her voice rose with fire. “Look at the works
of Francis Bacon, or one of my favorites, Ivan Albright. His paintings were
beautiful in their grotesquery.”
Peter frowned. “Still, seems … thoughtless for the
families.” He turned in the seat to face her. “That sounds like an elevator
speech.”
“Yeah, I have to defend my work a lot against censor-happy
Puritans.” Carly glanced at him and turned her eyes back to the road. “Look, I’m
trying to draw attention to the fact that this guy’s rampaging across the
countryside, killing people, cutting off their heads and replacing them with
cabbages—”
“And leaving the heads in cabbage fields.”
“And that—and the police are nowhere. Really, with
technology today, how hard could it be? All they need is one hair. Just one!”
“So how does your art do this and not exploit the situation?”
Carly heaved a weary people-never-understand-artists sigh. “Man,
I’m taking shots that show how ludicrous this whole thing is. Cabbages for
heads, really?”
“I still don’t see it. Maybe if it happened to someone you loved, you wouldn’t be so callous.” He turned his head and glared out the
window. “Maybe if you got a good scare.” Peter turned his head slowly, a grin
shifting his face from anger. “Hey, did you know he leaves a note on the bodies?”
“No. I didn’t know that,” she replied without interest.
“Sure. It says, ‘Call me The Reaper, for I will mow, humans,
like little cabbage, all in a row.’”
“I thought the press just picked his name. Huh. I’ve done so
much research and didn’t come across that.”
“Really? That’s odd.” He shifted in his seat, his eyes
trained on her. “Hey, did you also hear that he’s killed at least 20 people?”
“I thought it was only ten. I mean, it’s pretty
unmistakable. I guess there could be copycat killers, but—”
“No. Twenty. For sure.”
“Hmmm.” Carly glanced at him out of the corner of her eye and
then focused on the small sphere of light her headlights cut in the darkness.
“They think he started killing at a young age, maybe twelve,
but it started with animals, you know?”
“That’s pretty common for serial killers, I think.”
“Suppose so. But he’s been killing people since he was about
16—that’s young. They think he’s only about 26 now.”
“So young.” Carly tightened her hands on the steering wheel,
felt her breath catch in her throat. She clenched her eyes to dispel the chill
crawling up her skin.
“Know what Ted Bundy used to do?”
“What?” Carly whispered, unsure she wanted to know.
“Buy junker cars and set ‘em by the road, waiting for girls
to pick him up. Works like a charm.”
Fear, like spiders racing across her skin, shot up her back
and down her arms. Carly braked for a stop sign. “Did you see those cigarettes?”
Carly cut her eyes to her hands, trembling on the steering wheel. The car
glowed red around them from the brake lights.
“No, but —”
“How about a pop?” She slipped the car into park. She
shifted her eyes toward Peter, judging his size, age.
“Sure. You know, I really appreciate the ride.” He flashed another
sweet
easy smile. “So what art stuff do you do?”
“Photography emphasis. Hey, could you get me a pack of
cigarettes out of the back seat?”
“Sure.” He reached in the backseat. “What’s this?” He turned
around holding a cabbage head decorated with shredded carrot hair, eyes made of
cucumber and olives, and radish lips.
A mischievous smile split Carly’s face. “Oh. That. Part of a
project I’ve been working on. I was shooting these in the fields and stuff.”
“Inspired by that killer—”
“The Reaper. Yeah.”
“Seems a bit morbid. People have died.” Peter’s voice filled
with a chastising tone that annoyed Carly.
“Art doesn’t kill people. People kill people. Besides,
morbidity is an artistic topic.” Her voice rose with fire. “Look at the works
of Francis Bacon, or one of my favorites, Ivan Albright. His paintings were
beautiful in their grotesquery.”
Peter frowned. “Still, seems … thoughtless for the
families.” He turned in the seat to face her. “That sounds like an elevator
speech.”
“Yeah, I have to defend my work a lot against censor-happy
Puritans.” Carly glanced at him and turned her eyes back to the road. “Look, I’m
trying to draw attention to the fact that this guy’s rampaging across the
countryside, killing people, cutting off their heads and replacing them with
cabbages—”
“And leaving the heads in cabbage fields.”
“And that—and the police are nowhere. Really, with
technology today, how hard could it be? All they need is one hair. Just one!”
“So how does your art do this and not exploit the situation?”
Carly heaved a weary people-never-understand-artists sigh. “Man,
I’m taking shots that show how ludicrous this whole thing is. Cabbages for
heads, really?”
“I still don’t see it. Maybe if it happened to someone you loved, you wouldn’t be so callous.” He turned his head and glared out the
window. “Maybe if you got a good scare.” Peter turned his head slowly, a grin
shifting his face from anger. “Hey, did you know he leaves a note on the bodies?”
“No. I didn’t know that,” she replied without interest.
“Sure. It says, ‘Call me The Reaper, for I will mow, humans,
like little cabbage, all in a row.’”
“I thought the press just picked his name. Huh. I’ve done so
much research and didn’t come across that.”
“Really? That’s odd.” He shifted in his seat, his eyes
trained on her. “Hey, did you also hear that he’s killed at least 20 people?”
“I thought it was only ten. I mean, it’s pretty
unmistakable. I guess there could be copycat killers, but—”
“No. Twenty. For sure.”
“Hmmm.” Carly glanced at him out of the corner of her eye and
then focused on the small sphere of light her headlights cut in the darkness.
“They think he started killing at a young age, maybe twelve,
but it started with animals, you know?”
“That’s pretty common for serial killers, I think.”
“Suppose so. But he’s been killing people since he was about
16—that’s young. They think he’s only about 26 now.”
“So young.” Carly tightened her hands on the steering wheel,
felt her breath catch in her throat. She clenched her eyes to dispel the chill
crawling up her skin.
“Know what Ted Bundy used to do?”
“What?” Carly whispered, unsure she wanted to know.
“Buy junker cars and set ‘em by the road, waiting for girls
to pick him up. Works like a charm.”
Fear, like spiders racing across her skin, shot up her back
and down her arms. Carly braked for a stop sign. “Did you see those cigarettes?”
Carly cut her eyes to her hands, trembling on the steering wheel. The car
glowed red around them from the brake lights.
“No, but —”
“How about a pop?” She slipped the car into park. She
shifted her eyes toward Peter, judging his size, age.
“Sure. You know, I really appreciate the ride.” He flashed another
sweet
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