3. [Chapter Three: Blizzard]
"When I first heard it, I felt it was written for me."
Thinking about it carefully, I'm probably not the first fool to mistake a serial killer for a kind person. In fact, apart from the murders, Lawrence seemed like a perfectly normal person. Even on the day I got on the truck, until I fell asleep, he didn't do anything frightening. Like any ordinary long-haul truck driver, he did a mechanical and boring job every day, and was fascinated by the roadside prostitutes soliciting business. They were their only source of amusement.
Lawrence's alluring appearance was irresistible; women were drawn to him like moths to a flame, boarding his truck with expressions of "I've struck gold," only to become the "highway butcher's" prey. Sometimes he would have sex with them, sometimes he would just make them perform oral sex on him, but he would always manage to knock them unconscious and drag them into the truck bed. Normally, the truck bed was my refuge, but it became a sadistic torture chamber. He would throw me out, handcuff me to the passenger seat, and I would listen to the piercing screams behind me, my heart pounding, but I was powerless to do anything. When a prostitute was tortured to the point of near death, he would pull me over and make me watch as her limbs were chopped off, then she would be tied to the crossbar at the back of the truck and dragged to her death in the pitch-black night.
He didn't just kill prostitutes; sometimes he'd kill hitchhikers like me. To be despicable, I'd rather he killed prostitutes, because then he wouldn't have to vent his pent-up lust on me. I don't know if it was my appearance that particularly appealed to him, or some other unfortunate reason, but he had no interest in other men. He'd just torture them, drag them to their deaths, and then leave them alone before raping me. The sheer brutality of the murders was enough to drive me insane; by the time he started to undress me, I had long since lost the will to resist. He really enjoyed my screams, like they were some kind of beautiful music. Once I stopped, he'd intensify his assault until I screamed again.
But he seemed to still prefer targeting prostitutes. Lawrence would usually be abusing them while rambling on and on, sometimes in short phrases, sometimes in long, lecturing sentences, which I had to quickly jot down, like a journalist at a press conference. But it was more like recording a random interview, because Lawrence had no prepared script; he was always so excited he was incoherent, sometimes describing his crimes, sometimes completely unrelated to what he was doing, like a maniacal tale of horror. No matter how terrified I was of his words, I had to faithfully record them, or I might end up being dragged along in the back of his car along with the prostitutes. I knew he wouldn't mind killing two people at once. I had seen the name "Highway Butcher" in the newspapers more than once before, and always thought those atrocities weren't real. After all, I studied journalism myself and knew my colleagues liked to exaggerate to grab readers' attention, but it wasn't until I met him in person that I dared to believe that humanity could really be so twisted.
After he finished, he would look at my notes. Since I was still alive, it meant he was fairly satisfied with my "work." Occasionally, we would stay overnight at a motel, and he would personally organize those notes, making revisions or copying them, like he was writing a crime record. Don't many psychopathic serial killers have the habit of returning to the crime scene to relive the killing or photographing the victim's horrific state? For Lawrence, these records of his ravings were probably similar to a murder photo album. He would often laugh as he wrote, while I would tremble under the covers. Besides that, most nights, the truck would roam the highway like a shark searching for prey. Once, it passed a highway prostitute seven times in twenty minutes, and I almost felt her fear too.
He really didn't seem like a truck driver; at least, I didn't believe it was his job. He was cautious, employing disguises befitting a driver, such as always wearing a black tank top and rough-textured camouflage waterproof trousers for easy loading and unloading and cleaning, even though his "cargo" was people, alive or dead. He wore sunglasses while driving, given the intense sunlight of this Nevada desert highway. He was quite tall, muscular, and objectively speaking, had a very attractive physique—the kind any man would envy—no wonder prostitutes always wanted to get in his truck.
These traits made him appear to be a manual laborer, but after spending some time with him, I always felt something was off. He spoke quite politely, was very intelligent, and could spout lies effortlessly and without error. Coupled with his habit of taking notes, I suspected he had received a very good education, at least not just a high school graduate. This isn't me glorifying murderers and rapists, nor is it that I have Stockholm syndrome; I simply needed to observe things that the police would need when I successfully escaped.
He was an undeniable sadist, as I've said countless times. He was also a random killer; I once suspected he might have erectile dysfunction, only able to get an erection when killing, but that proved not to be the case at all—I had reversed cause and effect. He was first and foremost an antisocial personality, and secondly, an excessively sexually voracious individual. It was precisely because his energy had nowhere to go that he roamed this lawless, no-man's-land, treating it as his hunting ground. Among his many prey, I was undoubtedly the one he was most interested in. He violated me every day, whether he killed anyone or not. In the driver's cab, in the blood-stained car, in motels, even in the roadside fields, I was like his prostitute, and simultaneously his prisoner, his secretary, his accomplice. I assisted him in his crimes more than once; I was forced, but I know my sins are grave.
It was a stormy, snowy night. As usual, I huddled in the pitch-black carriage, the stench of blood so strong I could hardly breathe. Only a small hole in the metal sheet allowed me to breathe in a little outside air. The wind howled, each breath of air feeling like it was cutting into my lungs, but it was so fresh, and I needed it. I tried my best not to look at the dried blood and rusty instruments of torture around me, instead closing my eyes and meditating, thinking about my ex-girlfriend Sarah, my days at school, what I would do after arriving in San Diego. I quickly realized that there was nothing to think about; either it wasn't worth remembering, or it was a distant dream. I suddenly became extremely agitated, but I didn't even dare to kick the carriage; I could only bite my clothes and sob. I felt utterly useless.
Just then, the car stopped, and I immediately peered through the air vent. A man was talking to Lawrence, saying his car had broken down and the repair shop was just ahead, hoping Lawrence could give him a ride.
I desperately wanted him to leave quickly. I dared not utter a sound, only praying for this poor stranger, hoping he would sense something was amiss, or that another vehicle would pass by. But no miracle occurred; he got into Lawrence's death truck. My despair deepened. I could almost see Lawrence's eyes watching me in the darkness, reminding me to shut my mouth and not do anything unnecessary. I pressed my ear to the other side of the driver's seat, listening as the man gratefully introduced himself, recounting his terrible day, while Lawrence, with his usual nonchalant tone, responded casually. He always perfectly concealed his madness before unleashing his claws on his prey.
“You’re such a good man, Mr. Lawrence! I’ve been standing in the snow for half an hour, and three cars have driven by, not one of them has stopped to look at me! This world is so cold-hearted. When I get back from Las Vegas, I’ll be rolling in money, and I don’t believe they’ll still dare to treat me differently!” He sounded like a penniless man hoping to get rich overnight.
Lawrence had never been interested in money. He only went to Las Vegas to wait for the right people to come along when we were starving, hoping to snag one or two lucky winners. They'd shout "Hallelujah" when they won, but the next moment they'd be cursing God as a fickle bastard.
"Oh, Mr. Rodin is a regular at Las Vegas?" Lawrence asked this, mostly out of boredom, not because he was particularly interested in the man.
“Yes, yes, I often go there… yawn…” Like countless other victims, including myself, the man began to feel sleepy. I knew Lawrence would spray something in the car that would make people drowsy; that’s how I’d fallen asleep. He, however, seemed unaffected. Perhaps he was too excited about the impending bloody feast, his adrenaline surging, or perhaps he was already used to the smell and his body had developed a resistance. In any case, death’s scythe was already at this unfortunate man’s neck; against a cunning butcher like Lawrence, he had no chance of survival.
“You seem very sleepy, Mr. Rodin,” Lawrence said. “Would you like to listen to some music?”
I was stunned. What did this mean? He wasn't going to kill him? That was so strange! I suddenly remembered a saying that if you play soothing music for an animal before slaughtering it, its muscles will relax, and if you suddenly stab it to death at that moment, the tender meat will be perfectly preserved and taste even better. I'm a vegetarian and have never been interested in exploring these things; I only knew a little about them because I'd heard animal rights activists condemn these practices as cruel. I guessed Lawrence thought the same thing, and a chill ran down my spine.
He did play music, very soft and soothing, quite unlike Lawrence. It was a piano piece I had never heard before, with a beautiful melody interspersed with melancholic violin notes, before transitioning into staccato piano notes like raindrops. First, it was a light drizzle, then suddenly it became rapid, like a sudden downpour, each note urgent and urging. A sudden, inexplicable sadness welled up inside me, a dull ache that pierced my very soul. I couldn't bear to listen any longer, so I pressed my head against the metal sheet, my hands tightly covering my ears. Then I heard a soft laugh from Lawrence, and the murmur of that "Mr. Rodin": "A very beautiful piece..."
“It suits a snowy day like this perfectly, doesn’t it?” Lawrence said to himself. “When I first heard it, I felt like it was written for me.”
What was he doing? Was he whispering sweet nothings to his prey? I was utterly baffled. If, as that man said, the repair shop was just ahead, then the further we went, the more people and cars there would be, and we'd be spotted! He was wasting time, courting death! If Lawrence got arrested, I wouldn't be able to explain why I was in that car. If the police found those notes and matched them to my handwriting, wouldn't I be proven to be his accomplice? What should I do then?
I was anxious and scared, but there was nothing I could do. Control was always firmly in Lawrence's hands; even if he wanted to drive straight into the police station, it was just a fleeting thought for him. I knew he was an unpredictable madman, and that's why I was always on edge and filled with dread around him.
The wind and snow outside were getting heavier. Cold winds and snowflakes poured into the icy, cavernous cargo compartment through the small opening, whistling sharply like a ripped whistle. I could no longer hear what they were saying. The freight truck continued to move forward steadily, my heart pounding in my chest. Time ticked by, and they were still talking. I couldn't bear the torment any longer. My fingers tapped the side panel at a fixed frequency; I both hoped Lawrence would hear them and dreaded it. I hoped he would interpret the tapping as a friendly urging, not an intentional interruption.
The car stopped. "We've arrived, Mr. Rodin," Lawrence said.
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