It was a good day to die. Most of them are, out here. This town isn't unfamiliar with bodies popping up like Robert Oliver's. After all, even the best men have secrets. Had secrets.
I got out of the Chevy, it was approaching noon. Don't ask me why I choose noon to work, it's the least sensible time of day I could do this.
Digging's awful hard when the Sun is dropping bricks on you. I tried to ignore the banging from the trunk for as long as I could. Finally, when I had had enough of it, I decided to let him out.
The stench hit me harder than I expected when I opened the trunk, I should have laid down a towel or something. Doesn't matter now, we're at the end of the line with no connections.
He was on his knees twenty miles north from El Paso, Texas. Forty or so miles from where I picked him up an hour ago. It was always this spot, here, where I took them.
I brushed off his jacket so he looked presentable while I made the preparations. It was hot, too hot, for something like this. It's the only way I'd have it.
The closest man to us would be at least ten miles away. The road itself is nearly that far from us. The sweat rolled down my face in the sun. I marked out an 'X' on the ground with my foot.
"Here." I said, pointing to the mark.
"Wh-what?" He stammered.
"Kneel here. It has to be here."
"Okay." He said as he shuffled into position.
I took the .337 Magnum out of my jacket and pointed it to his head. One silver bullet, that was all I needed. He whimpered as the metal touched his forehead, I glared until he composed himself.
You may be thinking that I have real balls pointing a gun at a man tied up on the ground.
Well, this isn't the Grand Arena, this is the fucking desert and if you're on your knees and covered in your own shit with a gun to your head it doesn't much matter.
"Are you ready for this?" I asked.
He shifted uncomfortably on the sand, "It's just... Death's awful lonely for a guy like me."
"I'll send you company." I replied.
Bang. His name was Robert Oliver, he was the eighteenth man I've killed. Eighteen times I've made this journey, eighteen silver bullets I've put between thirty six eyes.
I've dug eighteen holes and filled all eighteen of them.
Every one of the men and women I've killed has known why they died.
Robert Oliver owned two small print houses in the Bowery, he participated in charitable work when he was free and he had two foster children from troubled homes.
It was no surprise to him to be on his knees in the dessert with a stranger's gun to their head. I can say the same thing about the others.
I hear you ask what crimes these men and women committed to deserve this fate? How had they wronged me? Well, they all knew in their last moments why they were dead.
Y'know, it's funny how things work out that way. I just picked their names out of a hat.