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The Braying Mule is the last stop in civilization before the forest begins.
It’s a bar just off of the highway, after the strip club but before the motel and gas station, difficult to miss with half a dozen flickering neon signs in the window. The location means it sees a little bit of everything; veteran hikers swapping trail stories with their backpacks leaning against the bar counter at their feet, burly truck drivers with a tramp-stamped lot lizard on their arm, confused couples holding tightly to one another trying to find the bathroom and some directions back to the freeway.
“What I’m getting at,” Strade says, “is that I can always find someone there.”
It’s almost midnight. The radio softly croons out the vocals to a pop song, turned down so low it’s nearly inaudible until the car comes to a stop. Orange orbs of streetlamp light pass overhead and briefly illuminate the inside of Strade’s car, roaming across the pristine leather seats.
(Freshly cleaned, in fact, because the last time I got into this car I left a lot of blood in passenger seat.
And that’s not strange because I wouldn’t want blood on my seats either, but it definitely makes me wonder because how much hydrogen peroxide did he have to use and where did he buy it from? We sell it in aisle 12 but I can’t recall ever ringing him up for that, so where else has he been going?)
“It’s popular with the local college kids, too,” he goes on, “But I mostly stick to people who are just passing through. Easier that way, you know? Takes a lot longer for people to start looking.”
“You’re a regular, though, aren’t you?” I ask. “Someone’s gonna notice eventually, right?”
“Not necessarily.” The streetlights dance across his face, making his eyes glint and casting a shadow over his smile. “You’ll see what I mean when we get there.”
“Speaking of,” I begin uneasily, and shift in my seat in an effort to look like I’m trying to get comfortable,
(And not like I’m keeping a close eye on his body language to make sure he doesn’t pull over and stab me in the side for saying the wrong thing)
“Why am I coming with you for this, anyway?”
Strade’s eyes briefly leave the road to meet mine, and despite the relative lack of tension in his shoulders and pleased smile on his face, I still feel like cornered prey. “Why’d you get in the car when I offered?” he shoots back.
This should be a question I know the answer to, but I just shrug helplessly.
He grins. “I’ll tell you why; it’s because of that connection of ours I keep bringing up. Makes you do things you usually wouldn’t. Makes us trust each other.”
I glance out the window at cars passing us going the other way, wondering if they’re bar patrons on their way home and if they might have some sort of instinct that makes them leave just as Strade is coming, like animals in a zoo that panic before an earthquake. “I don’t trust you,” I tell him, thinking it should really go without saying.
It’s the right answer. Strade gives a sharp bark of laughter and one of his hands falls heavily on my shoulder.
“Just making sure you’re still being honest with me,” he says.
He parks on a poorly-lit street a block away, but just as I open my mouth to ask why, he cuts me off with a sharp glance in my direction. I never really noticed the true color of Strade’s eyes before. They seem warmer in the store light, a welcoming almond or honey, but I see amber now. Like an owl or a wolf.
(Like something that wants to tear me apart.)
“Here’s what gonna happen,” he says, speaking in a low and authoritative tone to lay the ground rules. “We’ll go inside and find somewhere to sit. You’ll look around and guess who you think I’m gonna pick.”
My hands twist nervously in my lap. “Uh. Why?”
“Because I want to teach you something.”
“You’re…” I stop abruptly when I hear someone coming and my eyes follow a pair of women walking across the street in front of us, giggling and falling all over their own feet, not old enough to be out of college yet. Suddenly it sinks in. “You’re gonna kill them, right?” I whisper.
Strade doesn’t say a word, and he really doesn’t have to. Those glinting, predatory eyes are warning me that it’s too late to back out now.
“Does…does it make a difference who I pick?” I ask nervously. “Like, if I guess wrong, are you gonna…uh….”
The corner of his lips quirk up in amusement and he chuckles, low and dangerous. “Buddy,” he says in a soft and almost patronizing tone, “I forget how jumpy you are sometimes. Nothing’s gonna happen to you if you’re wrong.” He rests a hand on my hip
(and I’m immediately transported back to the last time I sat here and the last time he touched me, covered in dirt and dead grass, bleeding out all over the leather).
“But,” he adds, and he starts to lean in closer, “if you’re right, I might give you a little reward.”
He smells like musk and copper. A stranger might believe he’s just a mechanic. I wonder if he waits to wash the blood off until he knows he’ll have more on his hands soon.
Strade walks in first, holding the door open for me without looking back. I find my gaze wandering self-consciously, scanning the people packed into the Braying Mule for any suspicious eyes or wary glances, but no one really pays any attention to us.
Strade is halfway across the room by the time I look back at him, walking faster than he was outside, and I hurry to join him on the other side of the bar furthest from the door. The people sitting near him don’t look up and the bartender doesn’t seem to notice he’s even there. He nudges me in the side with his elbow. “Look around,” he murmurs.
There are a couple of rough-looking biker types in ripped denim a few seats over. A trio of college students are hunched over one of the tables arguing over how to phrase a part of their upcoming presentation. A woman in the corner chokes back tears as she goes through her text messages, sipping gingerly at her beer.
“What about her?” I ask, trying not to point or gesture, but he seems to know who I’m talking about, eyes flicking over to her.
He rests an arm over the bar and props one hand under his chin, regarding me with an impish grin. “You sure, buddy?”
I stare at him. “Not anymore.”
He just laughs.
“Can I have a hint or something?”
“No,” he says adamantly. “You can figure it out on your own, I’m sure. Look again. Carefully.”
I don’t really want to look but I pretend to, glancing instead at the kitschy pop art pictures on the walls of blond women and chocolate bars. My attention ends up drawn back to Strade and the way he’s sitting; an unassuming posture and slight slouch, eyes half-lidded as though he’s bored or half-asleep. He looks far less threatening like this, smaller and less noticeable, and as it starts to dawn on me that he’s doing this on purpose, I see him.
He’s leaning over the bar counter with his head bowed and his shoulders drawn, gazing forlornly into his beer. I try not to stare openly as I take in his face in profile and see his eyes bloodshot and rimmed red with exhaustion or maybe grief. His hands shake as he brings his beer close to his face and he spills some on the counter. The people on either side of him don’t say a word.
I look at Strade. He’s trying to cover his mouth with one hand, but I can see him grinning madly from where I’m sitting. “Is that…?”
He nods. I don’t know what it is, but suddenly his eyes seem to shine that same intimidating gold again. “That’s the one.” He flags down the bartender, who seems startled to see him and apologizes when he comes over, and orders something strong for the man sitting by himself. “You know why?” he asks me.
I shrug. “He’s alone?”
“Well, sure. But so is the woman over there. What’s the difference?”
I pretend to stretch and look back over my shoulder at her. She has her phone pressed to her ear and her lips pursed as she waits for someone to answer. “She’s…on her phone?”
Strade gets off of his bar stool and pats me on the shoulder, murmuring, “Keep watching,” as he abandons me for the hunt. I watch him drift over to the other end of the bar, sliding into the open seat beside the man just as the bartender sets a tall glass down in front of him and he looks up in confusion. He catches Strade’s eye and I don’t hear his voice but I can see the words “hey, buddy,” pass his lips, and the man’s surprise fades into something like relief.
(It feels wrong to watch. It feels like a video of a horrific accident after reading about it in the news, knowing that there will be skid marks and shattered glass and crumpled metal and someone will have to be scraped off of the pavement or pulled from the middle of the wreckage in bits and pieces. It feels like that, except this is happening in real time and I’m just waiting, holding my breath, knowing the car is going to come around the corner any second now.
And I could say something—I should say something. I could fuck everything up for Strade with just a few words, just “don’t get in the car, he’s going to kill you.”)
Strade glances briefly in my direction and meets my eyes, and I don’t breathe. He knows I won’t say anything. We have a connection, after all,
(fuck I hate that word)
this thing that doesn’t foster an ounce of trust but brings us at least some sort of understanding. I get him and he gets me
(and there’s something wrong about that).
Strade says something that has the man laughing. When his glass is half-empty, he orders a refill and slides his stool a little closer. Nobody is looking.
(Why is nobody looking? Doesn’t this look suspicious? Can’t they see that Strade is way too interested, nodding emphatically at everything the other man says and creeping closer with every word that comes out of his mouth? Don’t they know what a predator looks like?
He’s going to take him, he’s going to cram him into the trunk with rope around his wrists, and no one is going to see him ever again. Strade will hurt him, break him down to nothing but the frightened animal that every human is deep down, and then he’s going to kill him. And nobody is going to stop it because nobody knows, they’re all looking right past him, right through him, anywhere but right at him.)
Strade puts a hand on his shoulder and gives a firm squeeze, looking him in the eye with a vacant smile, the only one in the room who can see him.
Yet another bridge of understanding forms between us, and I feel even more uncomfortable.
Suddenly they’re leaving. Strade slides some bills on the table that nobody sees and pointedly makes eye contact with me over the man’s shoulder, eyes glinting that same animalistic yellow. I’m slow to follow, waiting until they’re out of sight to begin moving because I don’t really want to know what Strade’s going to do.
(I wonder, though. Just in passing. Just out of morbid curiosity. I wonder if he’ll hit him over the head with something. If he has a washrag soaked with chloroform in his pocket. I wonder if he’ll cut his face up like he did that girl, thin slices that peel off of the skull and flash just a hint of muscle, teasing. I wonder if he’ll cut pieces off, if he’ll keep them, if he’ll want them taken off of his hands.
I wonder if he’ll let me have a look.)
I don’t even remember leaving but the bar is behind me and my legs are carrying me back down the dark side street Strade parked on, but I freeze when I hear the resounding thump of something heavy hitting the ground. Strade stands over his target, breathing heavily with exertion—or more likely, excitement—blood spattered across his knuckles.
“Hey,” he calls breathlessly when he sees me across the street, “come help me with this, alright?”
(I know this tone of voice. I heard it once when it was me there under him, lying naked in the woods.)
His face is flushed and he’s smiling crookedly, pupils dilated and shirt clinging to his sweat-soaked body. When he holds out a hand, beckoning, I see his fingers shaking. “Come on, buddy,” he says, and he almost sounds like he’s begging.
I glance back to make sure no one’s around and hurry over to Strade’s car, opening the trunk while he struggles to lift the man’s unconscious body. I flinch when he slams the door shut and his hungry gaze turns on me again.
“Thanks,” he says. He still sounds a little off. He’s probably hard
(not looking down to verify).
“No problem,” I say weakly. “Guess that’s it. I should probably go home.”
“You wanna go home?” he asks, mock hurt in his voice. “You sure you don’t wanna watch the next part, too? You already came this far.”
I shake my head stiffly.
The grin he gives me makes me take a retreating step away from. “Or do you wanna wait until I’m done?” he asks, and takes two steps closer. “That’d be better, right? You wouldn’t be interested in him until then.”
“Y-you promised me a reward if I guessed right,” I say frantically, trying to divert his attention.
Strade tilts his head. “Your first guess was wrong.”
“You never said it had to be the first one.”
He grins at that. “I guess I didn’t.” When he lunges forward I flinch and close my eyes reflexively, expecting a knife in the side, but he just slings an arm over my shoulder and guides me back to the car, walking way closer than he needs to.
(Yep he’s definitely hard.)
“I’ll call you in a couple days,” he says, starting the car. “We’ll go on another night drive, and we’ll have some fun.”
I don’t like the sound of that. “I was just messing around,” I say. “Don’t worry about it.”
He smiles at me like I’m an ignorant child and places a hand on my leg, but the touch is different. It wanders, trails up my thigh with a ghostly, barely-there presence.
“I insist,” he says quietly, and I look out the window and hope he drives fast.
When he drops me off, I stand on the front porch and return his wave with a half-hearted one of my own, feeling dirty somehow. Just as he pulls out of the driveway, I think I hear screams coming from the trunk.