Midnight Grinding by Ronald Kelly Read Free Book Online

with the cowlicked crop of reddish blond hair and the slightly bucked teeth. Suddenly, as he stared into that freckled face, he realized that what he had initially interpreted as down-home naiveté had actually been a dark, underlying madness all along.
    “What do you think I’m a-doing?” giggled Clifford Lee. The honed edge of the shaving razor glinted sinisterly in the pale glow of the dashboard light. “I’m fixing to kill this nice gentleman. Now, don’t go looking so danged surprised, Mark. And don’t worry…I ain’t gonna hurt you none. You’re my friend.”
    Mark Casey watched in numb disbelief as Clifford Lee made his victim shut off the engine, unbuckle his seat belt and, ever so carefully, climb out into the stormy night. As if in a trance, Mark left the car also, walking around the rear bumper to watch the inevitable bloodletting. Clifford had Rudman’s head pulled back by the hair, the straight razor positioned at a deadly angle above the man’s carotid artery.
    “But why , man?” asked Mark, his stomach sinking at the dread of having to stand there and watch a crimson gorge open beneath Rudman’s double chin. “Why are you doing this?”
    Clifford Lee Gates gave his roadmate a toothy grin and shrugged. “Why not?”
    Then something very strange happened. Something that neither Mark nor Clifford anticipated. A.J. Rudman still had his hand tucked inside his raincoat. It had been there all during the tedious transition from dry car to wet pavement. Mark had just figured the poor guy’s ulcer was about to explode. But he saw now that hadn’t been the case.
    Rudman slowly withdrew his hand and—clutched in his pudgy fingers—was the biggest damned Bowie knife that Mark Casey had ever seen in his life.
    He didn’t know exactly why he did it, but he yelled “Look out, Clifford!” The razor-wielding musician leaped back just as Rudman turned and slashed in a broad arc that would have taken out most of the boy’s abdomen if he had been standing in the same spot. The twelve-inch blade sliced through the cold misty air with a loud swoosh .
    Rudman laughed. “The Butcher, like hell! You’re nothing but a damned copycat… and not a very good one at that. Oh, slitting throats is just fine and dandy, but it shows a great lack of creativity.” The middle-aged salesman passed the heavy knife teasingly from one hand to the other. “Come on, farmboy, let me show you how I express myself.”
    Mark could only stand and watch as the two men squared off in the twin beams of the Lincoln’s headlights. The guitar-picker stood poised and ready, the joint of the razor’s blade and handle gripped between thumb and forefinger. The salesman crouched in a classic fighter’s stance, the big Bowie held, long and perfectly balanced, in one chubby hand. Like a couple of duelists, they circled one another, appraising strengths and weaknesses, then came together in a violent fury of flashing steel and spurting blood.
    Mark knew he should have run for his life, but he was transfixed. Grunts of pain and the ripping of clothing and flesh echoed across the empty lanes of Interstate 53. The frightened hitchhiker witnessed the awful blood feud, torn between revulsion and fascination. He rooted for neither man, although one had been a newfound friend until only a few moments ago.
    The fight ended abruptly when the two men struggled to the pavement and rolled toward the front of the car, away from Mark’s view. A torturous scream split the air, followed by a wet gurgle. For a moment, the headlights revealed only the glistening pavement ahead and the driving rainfall. Then a single form stood up.
    “I won,” grinned Clifford Lee.
    Mark backed away as the young man started around the car for him. Clifford’s denim jacket was in bloody tatters, his face criss-crossed with deep gashes. He had traded his razor in for the broad-bladed Bowie. “You know when I said I wouldn’t hurt you, Mark?” asked Clifford Lee, brushing