The Butcher (37 page)

How had it come to this? He couldn't be sure Sam wasn't already dead
on the floor behind him. He couldn't be sure about anything anymore, because nothing made sense. The only thing he did know for sure was that his grandfather, the man who'd raised him and given him everything, was now standing in front of him with a gun pointed at his head.

“I don't want it to be like this,” Matt said. “Please, Chief. I don't give a shit who you really are or what you did, okay? I just want to call nine-one-one for Sam. She won't make it if I don't. Please, Chief. Give me my phone.”

“Have you ever thought about how you wanted to die, Matthew?” Edward said. His cheeks were rosy, his eyes shining with excitement. The gun, something small and black, rested in his liver-spotted hand easily. Matt hadn't even been aware that his grandfather was carrying it. “Because I know I think about it all the time.”

“Please. Chief, please.” Beads of sweat were dripping down Matt's temples and he swiped them away. “I will do anything you want, okay? Anything. Just give me the phone so I can call for help.”

“There's no point, because there isn't enough time.” Edward said this pleasantly, as if the words weren't completely horrific. “She hasn't got much longer, Matthew. There isn't a lot of blood on the outside, but I heard and felt something break, so I know she's bleeding internally. Do you want to say your goodbyes? I don't mind. I'll wait.”

“No!” Matt felt nothing but sheer panic. “No, I'm not saying goodbye to her, Chief. I love her. She is the love of my life.”

“You certainly have a strange way of showing it.” Edward looked down. “Doesn't he, Samantha? Didn't you just tell me the other day that Matthew was a lousy boyfriend to you? Or did I misinterpret?”

Behind him, Matt heard nothing, because of course Sam didn't respond to the question.

“See?” his grandfather said. “We're losing her. Sorry about that, kid.”

“Why?” Matt said. It seemed like a pointless question but it was all he could think of to say, and he needed to buy time. “Why hurt her? Why the gun? I'm your . . . son, for Christ's sake. If I wanted to turn you in, don't you think I would have done it by now?”

“You were going to turn me in. You thought about it, don't lie. It was just a matter of time.” Edward sighed deeply. “And that's not how I want to die, Matthew. I don't want to die in prison. Have you ever seen the inside of a men's prison? It's inhumane. That's not how I want to die. But neither do I want to die in an old folks' home, rotting away like yesterday's discarded supermarket produce.”

“So then how do you want to die?” Matt asked.

“Spectacularly,” the Chief said with a smile. “In a blaze of glory.”

Matt couldn't even begin to understand what the hell that meant.

“Tell me, would you kill me to get the phone to save Samantha's life?” his grandfather said.

“I . . .” Matt stopped. Oh God. Oh God what a horrible question. How could the Chief ask a question like that? What kind of answer was he expecting to hear? Taking a deep breath, he said the first thing that came to mind. “Yes. I would.”

“Even though I'm your father and she's just a girl you never wanted to marry?”

Goddamn him. “Yes.”

“Why?” Edward asked. His grandfather's eyes bored into him. “Explain it to me.”

“Because you're old,” Matt said. “And you're a fucking monster. Sam's young. And a good person. She deserves to live.” His eyes welled up with hot tears, but he blinked them back. He didn't want to show weakness around the Chief.

Edward nodded. The satisfied look on the old man's face told Matt that he'd just said the right answer, whatever “right” was in this scenario. “So you're saying it's time to put me down.”

“Chief, please. Just give me the gun.” Matt's tone stayed even. “Please. If you don't, I'll have no choice but to take it from you.”

“I expect nothing less from you, Matthew.”

Matt took a step forward. Edward gave him a small smile and raised the gun higher.

“You want me to shoot you in the face or in the heart, kid?”

“You won't shoot me, Chief.”

Matt reached forward and grabbed Edward's arm. His grandfather resisted a little, but not nearly as much as Matt expected him to, and a few seconds later he got a hold of it. He forced it out of the Chief's iron grip, fully expecting the gun to go off.

It didn't.

Matt pointed the gun at his grandfather. “Give me my phone, Chief.”

“Kill me first, kid. Then you can take it.”

“What?” Matt said, not sure he heard the old man correctly. “What did you just say?”

Edward sighed again, and this time it was heavier. “Put me down like the dog I am, kid. I'm tired. And this is how I want to go. Go on. You can do it. One shot. It'll be over in a second. The safety's off. All you have to do is pull the trigger. You can say it was self-defense. It's my gun, registered to me. My prints are on it, just like they are on the cleaver. They'll believe you.”

“I . . .” Matt didn't know what to think, how to feel. “What? No. That's ridiculous. I can't do that.”

“You're not getting your phone unless you do it.” Edward's voice was steel. “So you have no choice but to do it. Do it to save her.”

Matt squeezed the trigger ever so gently, but he couldn't bring himself to press it all the way.

“One quick squeeze and it's done,” the Chief said, somehow managing to sound reasonable. “Come on now, don't be a pansy. Think of all the people I've killed. Think about how much you hate me.”

“Shut up,” Matt said. “I can't think.”

“You don't have time to think. Come on, hurry now. Samantha's still breathing, but she doesn't have long. You need this phone, don't you? So go on. Do it. Shoot me. Remember, I raped your mother.”

Matt squeezed the trigger and the bang was louder than he expected.

Sanchez heard a sound ring out from inside the house as he was about to get out of his car, and there was no mistaking what it was.

“Christ,” he swore under his breath, pulling out his phone. He dialed 9-1-1. “This is Detective Robert Sanchez,” he said when the dispatcher asked him what his emergency was. “Badge three-two-four-two-seven. I've got shots fired at one-seven-eight-nine Poppy Lane in Sweetbay.”

“Roger that, Detective, we're sending backup.”

Stepping out of his car—his own Nissan, as he'd headed straight here from the airport—Sanchez drew his weapon from his holster. The gun felt a little foreign in his hand, even though he carried it every day. Despite what those shows on TV claimed, homicide detectives rarely had cause to draw their weapons, because usually by the time they arrived at the scene, everybody was dead. The only time he ever handled his gun was when he practiced at the gun range or cleaned it. He'd certainly never been in a situation like this before. Grimacing, he moved quickly up the porch steps of Matt Shank's house.

Peeking through the side window, he could see that the kitchen lights were on. He detected movement. Trying the doorknob, he found the front door unlocked. Sanchez entered the house quietly.

Reaching the kitchen a few seconds later, he froze at the scene before him.

Samantha was sitting propped up against the kitchen cabinet, jean-clad legs splayed in front of her. Her head was lolling to the side at an awkward, uncomfortable angle, and her eyes were partially open, her lips parted. Sanchez couldn't tell if she was breathing, and wouldn't be surprised if she wasn't, considering the huge stainless steel chef's cleaver stuck dead in the middle of her chest.

Matt Shank was crouched beside her, and he looked up at Sanchez. “Oh, thank God,” he said, his voice cracking. His eyes were wild, and he was shaking violently all over. “Thank God you're here. I don't—”

“Step away from her.” Sanchez aimed his gun at Matt's chest. “Step away from her, Matt.”

“But it wasn't me. I didn't do this. I—”

“Step the fuck away from her right now, Matt,” Sanchez said, his voice only one decibel lower than a shriek. “Don't make me ask you again.”

Matt stood up and moved a few feet away from Sam, closer to the opposite wall.

“Now face the wall,” Sanchez said. “Kneel down. Put your hands up over your head.”

The younger man did as he was instructed, and Sanchez stepped closer to Sam. Not taking his eyes off Matt, he reached down and pressed two fingers to her throat. There was a pulse, thank God, but it was extremely faint. Keeping the gun directed at Matt's back, he called 9-1-1 again from his phone.

“This is Detective Sanchez at one-seven-eight-nine Poppy Lane. I'm waiting for backup on shots fired. I need an ambulance. Female, age twenty-nine, chest wound. Hurry.”

He disconnected and stood back up. “Turn around,” he said to Matt.

Shuffling on his knees, Matt turned back around, facing Sanchez with this hands still up in the air.

“What the fuck happened?”

“Do you think she's going to be okay?” Tears were streaming down Matt's face. “I couldn't call for help, but I couldn't leave, and I didn't know what to do—”

In the distance, the screech of sirens could be heard. “The ambulance is coming. So are the police. Matt, what happened here?”

“It was the Chief,” Matt said, his voice choked. “My grandfather. He—he stabbed her.”

Of course that made no sense to Sanchez, but he barked, “Then where is he?”

“He ran. I had the gun. His gun. I shot at him but I missed.” He tried to slow down, to breathe. “I couldn't do it, Bob. I couldn't kill him. I wanted to, so badly, but . . . it would mean I'm like
him
. And I can't be like him, okay? I just wanted to get him away from Sam.”

Sanchez squeezed his eyes shut for a second, trying to decipher everything the younger man had just said. “Why in God's name would the Chief stab Samantha, Matt?”

From the kitchen floor, Matt looked up at the detective with bloodshot eyes. The younger man's entire body was still trembling, his armpits were soaked with sweat, and he looked much older than his thirty-two years. “Because he's the Butcher,” Matt said. “And he's a fucking psychopath.”

Sanchez stared at him as the words slowly processed. What Matthew
Shank had just said was absolutely insane. Edward Shank, the former chief of police of Seattle, was the serial killer known as the Butcher? Of course he wasn't.

A tingle ran up Sanchez's spine then.

Holy shit. Holy mother of God.

It was insane, yes, but somehow, it fit. It fucking fit.

On the floor, Sam moaned. Forgetting that he was supposed to keep his hands up in the air, Matt got up off his knees and rushed over to her. He cradled her head in his hands. “It's okay, baby,” he whispered, tears streaming down his face. “You hang on, okay? You hang on. Help is coming, and you're going to be fine. I promise. Just hang on. Please hang on.”

Sanchez lowered the gun. “Keep talking to her, okay?” Grabbing his phone again, he made another call. “Kim, this is Sanchez. I need a BOLO on Edward Shank . . . yes,
that
Edward Shank. We need to find him and bring him in immediately. He's our guy.” Covering the phone, he said to Matt, “What's he driving?”

“If you didn't see his Cadillac in the driveway, then he's in it,” Matt said. “But he knows how to hot-wire a car, so he's probably ditched it by now.”

Sanchez repeated this information to Kim Kellogg, and then summed up what Matt had said about the Chief.

“You're kidding, right?” the female detective said on the other line. “Please tell me you're joking, Bobby. I'm not putting it out there that the Chief is the Butcher. That's im—”

“
Now,
Kim.”

Sanchez disconnected and headed to the front door. He opened it to see the ambulance arriving, along with the fire department, four squad cars, and about two dozen neighbors milling around to see what
all the excitement was about. A minute later it was chaos inside the Shank house as the paramedics started working on Sam, and the officers secured the scene. He grabbed Matt's arm.

“I need to know where your grandfather would have gone, Matt.”

“I have no idea.” The younger man seemed dazed. The adrenaline was leaving his body, and soon he'd be so exhausted he'd probably be unable to answer any questions coherently. “He didn't tell me.”

“Think.”
Sanchez squeezed Matt's arm for emphasis. “The Butcher . . . he liked to leave his victims in wooded areas. The Chief liked to hunt. Did he have a favorite spot?”

Matt frowned, trying to concentrate. “Yes. Yes, he had a cabin. I don't know if he goes there much anymore, and I've only been there a couple of times myself. It's out in Raymond, about two hours from here. As far as I know, he still owns the land it's on.”

“Okay.” The detective hesitated, choosing his next words carefully. “I'd appreciate it if you didn't let him know we were coming.”

Matt looked at him, his eyes suddenly clear. “No fucking chance in hell. That son of a bitch hurt Sam.” Both men watched as Sam was lifted into a gurney. “And I wouldn't need to tell him, anyway.”

It was the detective's turn to frown. “What do you mean?”

“He knows you're coming.” Matt's tone was flat and fierce. “All of this? It's exactly what the Chief wants. So I hope you give it to him. Do what I couldn't do. Send the fucker to hell.”

The one-room cabin in Raymond, Washington, hadn't been used in a while as Edward didn't hunt much anymore. But the generator had gas, and so he had lights and hot water, at least for now. They weren't far behind him, he knew that, but it would take them a while to find his exact location.