But somehow, he felt that the description fit him.
Maybe that’s the problem. I’ve been trying to be normal all of these years, but I’m not. I’m better than normal.
I’m exceptional.
“How do you know this stuff?” Donaldson asked.
“The more you understand death,” Mr. K said, “the more you appreciate life.”
“Sounds like fortune cookie bullshit.”
“It was something I learned in the war.”
“Vietnam?” Donaldson had been exempt from the draft because he didn’t pass the physical.
“A villager in Ca Lu said it to me, before I removed his intestines with a bayonet.”
“Was he talking about himself?” Donaldson asked. “Or you?”
“You tell me. Did you feel alive when you killed your father, Donaldson?”
Donaldson nodded.
“And when you killed the owner of the Pinto?” Mr. K continued.
“Goddamn piece of crap car. I wish I could kill that guy again.”
“How about someone else in his place?”
Donaldson squinted at Mr. K. “What do you mean?”
Another half smile. “The man in my trunk. If I gave you the chance to kill him, would you?”
This final bonus excerpt is from the eBook Perfect Little Town by Blake Crouch, also available in the Kindle Store for $2.99…
-1-
They arrive midmorning, the Benz G-Class rolling down Main Street with its California tags and rear end sagging under the weight of luggage, and though the windows are tinted, we bet the occupants are smiling. Everyone smiles when they come to our town, population 317. It’s the mountains and fir trees, the waterfall we light up at night and the clear western sky and the perfect houses painted in brilliant colors and the picket-fenced lawns and the shoppes we spell the olde English way and the sweet smell of the river running through.
Parking spaces are plentiful in the off-season. They choose a spot in front of the coffeehouse, climb out with their smiles intact, squinting against the high-altitude sun—a handsome couple just shy of forty, their fashionably-cut clothes and hair in league with their Mercedes SUV to make announcements of wealth that we all read loud and clear.
We serve them lattes, handmade Danishes from the pastry case, and they drop dollar bills into our tip vase, amused at the cleverness of the accompanying sign: “Don’t be chai to espresso your gratitude.” They lounge for a half hour in oversize chairs, sipping their hot drinks and admiring the local art hanging on the walls. As they finally rise to leave, the woman shakes her head and comments to her husband that they don’t make towns like this anymore.
-2-
They wander through the downtown, browsing our shops as the sky sheets over with leaden clouds.
From us they buy:
a half-pound of fudge
five postcards
energy bars from the hiking store
a pressed gold aspen leaf in a small frame
They tell us what a perfect little town we have and we say we know. Everywhere they go, they ask exuberant questions, and we answer with enthusiasm to match, and in turn solicit personal information under the guise of chitchat—Ron’s a plastic surgeon, Jessica a patent attorney. They drove from Los Angeles, this being their first vacation in four years.
We ask if they’re enjoying themselves.
Oh yes, they say. Oh yes.
-3-
They each have a camera. They shoot everything:
The soaring, jagged mountains in the backdrop
Deer grazing the yard of a residence
The quaint old theatre
The snow that has just begun to fall and frost the pavement
They ask us to take pictures of them together and, of course, we happily oblige.
-4-
The day wears on.
The light fades.
It snows harder with each passing hour.
Up and down Main, Christmas lights wink on.
It is winter solstice, the darkest evening of the year, and when the Stahls attempt to leave town, they find the highway closed going both directions, the gates lowered across the road and padlocked, since what has become a full-blown blizzard is sure to have made high-mountain travel exceedingly dangerous.
Or so we tell them.
-5-
They approach the front desk.
“Welcome to the Lone Cone Inn.” And we smile like we mean it from the bottom of our hearts.
Ron says, “It appears we’re stuck for the night in Lone Cone. Could we have a—”
“Oh, I’m sorry, we’re booked solid. I just sold our last room not two minutes before you walked in.”
We watch with subtle glee as they glance around the lobby, empty and quiet as a morgue, no sound but the fire burning in the hearth.
The wife chimes in with, “But we haven’t seen another tourist, and we’ve been here all day.”
“I apologize, but—”
“Is there another hotel in town?”
“There’s a motel, but it’s closed for the season.”
“What are we supposed to do?”
“I’m not sure I under—”
“It’s a blizzard out there, the roads are closed, and now you’re telling us you’re the only game in town, and you’re booked?”
“I’m really sorry.”
“Where are we supposed to sleep? Our car?”
Jessica appears on the verge of tears.
We hand Ron a notepad and tell him to write down his cell phone number, promising to call if something opens up.
-6-
Ron and Jessica sit in their Mercedes, watching the snow accumulate on the windshield, piling up in the city park, a deep bluish tint settling over Lone Cone.
“Are you fucking kidding me, Ron?”
“I know.”
“Do you? Because I thought you were the one who was supposed to call and get us room reservations.”
“We weren’t gonna stay here, Jess. Remember? Spend the day and drive to Aspen.”
“Well it didn’t work out that way, did it?”
“No.”
“So maybe having reservations as a backup plan might’ve been a bright idea. Right, Ron?” He’s been staring through the glass, his hands gripping the steering wheel, and now he glances over at his wife, into that wild-eyed, exacting glare he figures she terrorizes her firm’s paralegals and secretaries with.
“What?” he says.
“Why didn’t you take care of that?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Fuck you, Ron. I don’t want to sleep in my fucking car tonight. That isn’t what I had in mind for my Christmas vacation while busting my ass these last—”
“I get it, Jess.”
Ron pulls the key out of the ignition.
“What are you doing?”
“Baby, let’s go get a big, hot meal, drink the best wine on the list, and forget about all this shit for a while, okay?”
Jessica pushes her short brown hair behind her ears, Ron feeling, hoping he’s cut the right wire, disarmed the bomb.