The Butcher (38 page)

He owned two hundred acres of undeveloped land out here, and the cabin was smack in the middle of it. There were no roads leading directly to it, and unless you knew exactly where you were going, it wouldn't take much to get lost. The woods were dense, and the huge trees above the cabin provided ample coverage should they decide to send out helicopters.

Oh, how he hoped they would send out helicopters.

He figured he had about an hour.

Standing at the old rusty kitchen sink, Edward stared at his reflection in the little locker-sized mirror he'd tacked up above it. The face staring back at him was that of a stranger. When had he gotten so old? His face was lined deeply, the jaw slacker, the eyes more sunken,
the lips thinner. He was still a reasonably handsome man, but getting older sucked donkey's balls.

He'd lived much longer than he'd ever expected.

He'd nearly been caught in 1985. It had been sheer luck that had finally allowed him to pin the murders on that loser Rufus Wedge.

Ah, Rufus. Had Rufus been just a little bit smarter, or a little bit stupider, Edward might never have had to stop being the Butcher. The dumb shit had ruined it for both of them.

APRIL 21, 1985

“Do you understand what needs to happen here?” Edward said.

The dim bulb of the storage room light swung slightly, casting moving shadows over Wedge's slack, pockmarked face. Wedge had worked at the U-Store-It for almost four months now, which was the longest amount of time he'd ever held down a job. They were standing inside a locker that had gone unpaid for three months, and Wedge was responsible for clearing out its contents.

“Yeah.” Wedge kicked at a box with his boot. “You're gonna arrest me. I go peacefully.”

“I'll make sure you get the best public defender. There are some good ones. The prosecution will try and indict you, but it won't stand, because there's not enough evidence. But we need to show the public that we're working hard on this case. There's so much heat.”

“And then I get the hundred grand?”

“No, Rufus, you get seventy-five,” Edward said, trying to be patient. “You already got twenty-five. The rest will be wired to the offshore account we'll set up after the trial. You'll be in jail for a few months, okay?
But nothing you can't handle. You're the Butcher. Nobody's going to fuck with you.”

“How do I know you'll give me the money?”

Edward smiled. “You'll have to trust me.” He leaned in. “I could have had you arrested for shit you really did, don't forget. That would put you away for ten years, maybe more. This is a good deal.”

Wedge still looked doubtful, but then again, that wasn't far off from his normal expression. “So why do you do it?” he finally asked, chewing on his lower lip. His teeth were stained brown. “Why do you kill them?”

“Because I need to. And because I can.”

The urges had been terrible lately. Whenever he had one, he'd drive over to whatever shit town Wedge was currently living in, and find a girl with brown hair.

A girl who looked like Lucy.

He'd slipped with his daughter. He'd gone too far, and once Matt was born, he promised never again. Rufus Wedge would be taking the fall for him tomorrow. The public would calm down. And then it would all be over. Fortunately, or unfortunately.

It would be the end of this chapter, and the beginning of something new.

*   *   *

Edward snapped out of his reverie when he heard the helicopters circling above.

He took one last look at the old man staring back at him in the cheap plastic mirror and nodded, smoothing his hair into place.

Reaching down, he picked up the Remington that was leaning against the side of the sink, lifted it, and cocked it. He loved holding the rifle. It was so solid, so wonderfully heavy.

“Showtime,” he said.

It had taken them more than an hour to find the cabin, but they found it.

Sanchez was dressed head-to-toe in tactical gear, as were the others in the unmarked police van that pulled up to the front of the cabin. The gear weighed a good thirty pounds, and while Sanchez wasn't considered a big guy, the adrenaline coursing through his veins made the heavy attire feel feather light. Five guys dressed in the same tactical gear looked at him, waiting for the order. They all seem slightly stunned, as if they couldn't really believe they were here.

Frankly, Sanchez could hardly believe it, either. Edward Shank was the Butcher?

What kind of terrible joke was this?

But it wasn't a joke.

Sanchez nodded to the team, and the rear doors of the van were pushed open. Everybody spilled out, spreading out and away from each other as they moved silently across the dirt and grass toward the cabin, weapons drawn.

The cabin was small, all right, and not exactly picturesque. The
wood exterior was dirty and decaying, and the entire area smelled faintly of rot. There were two windows at the front, and both were so crusted over with dirt that it was hard to tell if any lights were on inside. The front door wasn't much more than a thick sheet of plywood.

They shone their lights at the house. Taking a deep breath, Sanchez said loudly into the stillness, “Edward Shank! Police!”

The front door swung open immediately.

Shank stood there, tall and erect, his eyes bright as he surveyed the scene. He was wearing his formal dress blues. Gold tassels framed his broad shoulders, brass buttons ran straight down his chest, and there was a satin stripe running down each pant leg. At his side was a rifle. Buckshot. Sanchez blinked. Nothing about this picture was right.

“I was expecting you boys a half hour ago,” the Chief said with a grin. Putting a hand over his eyes to shield it from the bright lights, he said, “Robert? That you, my little Mexican friend?”

Sanchez was Chilean, not that it mattered now, and he wasn't about to correct the former chief of police–slash–serial killer. “Stand down, Chief,” he said instead. “Put your weapon down and get on your knees, hands in the air. You're under arrest.”

“For what, specifically?”

“Seventeen counts of first-degree murder.”

Shank nodded, seeming satisfied with the answer. Then he squinted. “Any chance you can kill those lights? I can't see a goddamned thing.”

Sanchez made a motion with his hand and the bright spotlights were reduced to two beams from two different Maglites.

“Better, thank you,” Shank said. Then he stepped forward, rifle still at his side.

“Don't move!” Sanchez shouted. Around him, his team raised their guns higher. “We're here to bring you in, Chief. You know how this goes.”

“I certainly do, and this was fairly close to how I imagined it would be.” The Chief sounded calm, almost eerily so. His authoritative voice rang out in the quiet area. “Is Matthew with you?”

“No, he's not.”

“How's Samantha?”

Sanchez hesitated, then finally said, “I'm told she's going to pull through.” He knew no such thing. On the way over he'd heard that Sam's vitals were worsening, but he had no intention of repeating that out loud. He couldn't even think about Sam right now.

“That's good,” Edward said. “I was neutral on Samantha. Didn't particularly want anything bad to happen to her, but she was getting on my nerves. Felt good to stick that cleaver in her chest and shut her up.”

“Chief, put your weapon down and get on your knees.”

Shank laughed. “That's not going to happen. I'm eighty years old now, and I can't remember the last time I kneeled. Come on, Robert. We all know how this is going to end.”

“And how's that, Chief?”

“I'm going to raise my rifle. When I do, you'll shoot me.”

Sanchez sucked in a breath. “Please don't do that, sir. Please.”

“Too late,” Shank said, raising his rifle quickly.

Within a second, multiple shots rang out, peppering the still night air with their staccato and bright sparks. The smoke from the guns was strong. Acrid.

From his stance thirty feet away, Sanchez heard the thud when the Butcher hit the soft, damp ground.

He pulled off his helmet and sighed deeply. Regretfully.

“No more now,” the detective said quietly. “No more now, you goddamned son of a bitch.”

FIVE DAYS LATER . . .

Sam watched the news from her hospital bed. The Butcher had made national and even international headlines, and she'd had countless calls from every major media outlet asking for her story. Not to mention three calls from publishers offering her a better book deal than the one she'd originally been contracted to write.

She didn't want any of it. Not anymore.

Her mother had been murdered by a serial killer, and the time had come to grieve for Sarah Marquez properly. Then, and only then, would she be able to move on.

Her phone pinged and she reached for it, wincing as the bandages strained against the wound on her chest. She saw that she had an email from Miguel, the nurse from Sweetbay Village, asking how she was doing. She put the phone back on her side table without responding.

Matt had been arrested for the murder of PJ Wu. The cops had searched the inside and outside of Adobo thoroughly, and traces of PJ's blood had been found in the alleyway behind the restaurant, and also
inside the dumpster. From what Sam had heard, he'd confessed everything once they'd brought him into the station. It had been an accident, he said. He'd panicked, he said. He'd only dismembered the body because the Chief had told him to, he said.

Sam had cringed when she'd heard that. Not in a million years would she have believed him capable of something so sickening, so gory.

Her ex-boyfriend would be going to prison for a long time. As soon as she was released from the hospital, she planned to visit him. Regardless of what he'd done, Matt had saved her life. She needed to make sure he was okay.

There was a knock on her open door and she looked up.

Jason was watching her from the doorway, holding a bag of greasy fast-food tacos. After two days of hospital food, nothing could possibly have smelled better.

“Miss me?” he said, putting the bag down on the table beside the bed.

“Yeah.” She smiled up at him, at the man she'd known almost her whole life. They'd been kids when they met, and looking at him now, she could still see traces of the boy she'd always loved.

And not like a brother.

“You have a funny look on your face,” he said with a knowing grin. “I think you want to kiss me.”

“Shut up. No I don't.” Pausing, she looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “But, hypothetically, what if I did?”

“I would then ask, hypothetically, if you brushed your teeth.”

Sam rolled her eyes. God, he could be so infuriating. She reached for the tacos, trying to ignore the burning pain where she'd been stabbed. She was healing, but she would have a scar. “Just forget it.”

He took a seat at the edge of the hospital bed, laughing. His finger brushed a lock of hair away from her face, his expression turning serious.

“Okay,” he said. “Ask me.”

“Nope, don't want to.”

Jason moved closer. Dammit, he smelled good, like soap and water. “Ask me,” he said again.

Why did he have to be goddamned cocky? Except . . . his hand was shaking. Just a little.

“Fine,” she said. She met his gaze, faking a confidence she didn't quite feel yet. “Will you kiss me?”

He grinned. “You didn't say please.”

She smacked him. He kissed her anyway.

I am forever grateful to do what I do, which is invent fictional people and make them do horrible things that I could never do myself in real life. I certainly could not murder people fictionally—and with great glee—without the help of my rock star agent, Victoria Skurnick, who is so supportive and always has my back. It's also been a pleasure working with my new editor, Natasha Simons, whose fresh input has made this book so much better. I owe a very special thank-you to Kathy Sagan for believing in me, and this story, from the beginning.

I'm so happy to continue to be part of the Gallery Books team. Huge thanks to Jennifer Bergstrom, Louise Burke, Karen Kosztolnyik, and my publicist, Stephanie DeLuca, for supporting this book, and all my books.

I will always be thankful to Steve Hillier, who didn't laugh six years ago when I announced I wanted to write a book, and who instead let me write as much as I wanted to and then bragged about me to everyone he knew.

My girlfriends do a stellar job of making me feel talented and important, even when I don't. So much love goes out to Dawn Robertson, Annabella Wong, Lori Cossetto, Shellon Baptiste, Micheleen Beaudreau, Jessica Szucs, Nancy Thompson, Jennifer Baum, Jennifer Bailey, Teri Orell, and Scott Kubacki (who's not a girl, but who is my counterpart in all things darkly funny).

I'm also grateful for my supportive family, especially my mom, Nida Allan (who'll read this book in one sitting), and my dad, Roberto Pestaño (who won't read it at all because of the sex scenes). My big brother John Perez also won't read this book, but he'll cheer me on anyway and hopefully listen to the audio version if he's bored at work.

Lastly, I'd like to thank Darren Blohowiak, the newest member of the family, my best friend, and my love. Thank you for not running the other way when I told you what I do for a living, and for only being mildly uncomfortable whenever you see me with a knife in my hand. I promise never to cut you. I love you too much.