The Butcher (6 page)

And almost choked.

One of the faces was her dead mother. There was no mistaking that the young woman on the left was Sarah Marquez. Wearing a bright smile, her dark eyes lit up Sam's computer screen. In one hand was a strawberry ice-cream cone that was just beginning to melt. The other face belonged to a young woman Sam didn't recognize, someone with green eyes and red hair.

Sam suddenly found it hard to type. Her fingers were shaking too badly.

Sam didn't know what to say. Her heart was pounding so hard she thought it might burst. At this point, she almost didn't care that the woman had information about the Butcher. KillerRed had known her
mother
. Sam had been put in foster care at the age of two. She had never met anyone who'd known her mother. Ever.

KillerRed logged off and Sam finally exhaled. She felt light-headed, slightly unable to process what had just happened. What an incredible coincidence, some random person online knowing her mom, and believing that her mother had been murdered by the real Butcher.

Or, maybe it wasn't? Maybe this random person wasn't so random, and had somehow figured out Sam's IP address and knew exactly who she was. Maybe this random person was an actual serial killer who used the site to lure his victims into meeting him, so he could perform unspeakable acts of violence.

Goddammit, it was totally crazy. Beyond crazy. It was insane.

Nevertheless, she was still totally going.

Sam picked up her iPhone and called Jason.

Edward Shank didn't like candy asses, and Jay Leno was a total candy ass.

He changed the channel to David Letterman, settling back into his recliner in room 214 of the Sweetbay Village Retirement Residence. He enjoyed Letterman. Unlike Leno, the man wasn't afraid to make his guests squirm. And Edward enjoyed it when people squirmed, because they didn't do it like other creatures in the animal kingdom. Human beings didn't wriggle or try to get away. They shifted uncomfortably in their chairs, they averted their eyes, they sweated, they stammered. And it was fun as hell to watch. Interrogations had always been Edward's specialty.

He missed making people squirm. He missed working. Doctors liked to say that stress killed, but Edward had decided that boredom was the real killer. The only visitor he'd had since he'd moved here had been Matthew's girlfriend, Samantha, and she'd visited twice. His grandson seemed to be too busy to stop by, but that was all right. Edward understood. The kid was working hard, as he should be.

Edward's room was small, but it had everything he needed,
including a kitchenette and small washer and dryer. He didn't mind it. He really didn't mind much about the place at all, except for the fact that it could get a little noisy. During the day there was always a lot going on, what with all the card tournaments, bingo, lawn bowling, and movies playing endlessly in the recreation room.

And the chatter. Oh, the chatter. It never stopped.

But after 10 p.m., the retirement home quieted down. By midnight, Edward's favorite time, it was a ghost village. Hell, of course it was, since they started serving breakfast at seven, which meant the place was up and at 'em by six. The food really wasn't half bad, if you liked gourmet omelets made with egg whites and low-fat turkey bacon (which wasn't bacon—if it didn't come from a pig, it wasn't bacon), and Edward was mostly fine with it, as it wasn't any different than what Marisol used to make him eat. His late wife had been more concerned about his cholesterol than he was.

And there were a few nurses on staff that were diddle-worthy, not that his pecker worked anymore (it had died around 2001, and only that marvelous drug known as Viagra could raise it from the dead now), but it was still nice to ponder. Certainly the female residents were nothing to get excited about. Most were halfway to dying, and the ones that weren't were so damned wrinkled you couldn't tell their pussy holes from their belly buttons.

He had a few buddies here, old-timers like him who enjoyed admiring the nurses' asses as much as he did (discreetly, of course—making open comments about women's body parts was seriously frowned upon nowadays, and could be construed as
harassment,
though in his day they called it
making a pass
). He liked his Monday and Thursday night gin rummy games. The macaroni and cheese they served on Sunday nights was better than edible. And on the first Wednesday of every month, a busload of them got to go to the Tulalip Casino, where they
had an All You Can Eat Buffet and five-cent slot machines and cute little Indian waitresses who served watered-down cocktails with umbrellas in them. Good times, indeed. It's how they kept the old folks busy. Sweetbay Village might be fancy, but it was still essentially a storage unit for elderly people with nothing but time to kill until death came for them.

It could be depressing. While the brochures for the place showed smiling, happy seniors enjoying their retirement in the luxury of the Village, the real message was that you lived here because you were old and could no longer risk living on your own. When Edward had bruised his hip, he knew it was time to move on, but he still missed his house. He missed the spaciousness, the way the floors creaked, and the backyard filled with berry bushes. He especially missed the magnolia tree in the front yard, which he'd planted a few days after he and Marisol had moved in, which was now full grown.

He drove by the house regularly in his old Seville, usually when he was bored, which was often. He hadn't been surprised to see that Matthew had begun renovations on the house. His grandson had talked about building a huge deck out back, and work had started, judging from the giant piles of lumber stacked at the side of the house, and the holes dug deep into the dirt.

Had they found the crate? Edward thought he had buried it pretty well, and though it wasn't likely, it was still a possibility that the workmen had dug into the ground in the exact spot where he'd hidden it all those years ago. If they'd had found it, Matthew hadn't said anything about it. Yet.

But if and when it ever happened, Edward was ready for that conversation. Part of him hoped Matthew would say something. Part of him hoped he wouldn't. Every man wanted to pass on his legacy,
and Edward was no different. It just wasn't quite the legacy Matthew would be expecting.

But Edward believed the kid would understand. Matthew reminded Edward so much of himself. The ambition, the aggression, the darkness that seethed just below the surface . . . it was all there, just waiting to be unleashed.

He'd seen Samantha's little white Mazda parked in the driveway a couple of times, but not lately, and he wondered how those two were doing. Edward approved of Sam. She was a sweet, respectful girl, and he could appreciate her intellectual curiosity. They talked often about Edward's career in law enforcement, and he was happy to regale her with stories of rapists and murderers and, of course, the Butcher. Who didn't like having a captive audience? One day, when Matthew was ready, she'd make a good wife and a good mother. She was a bit of a free spirit, maybe spoke her mind a little too much, but Edward had always liked his women spirited. He liked it when they fought back.

Yes, he liked Sam. She reminded him of Marisol. He wondered how much he would tell his grandson's girlfriend, when the time came. Maybe everything. It would certainly make for a bestseller. The Butcher would make her career, just as the Butcher had made his.

Glancing at the clock on the wall, Edward sighed. Twelve fifteen a.m. It was official. He was restless. What he wouldn't give for a cigar, but Sweetbay Village had a strict no-smoking policy. If he wanted to smoke, he'd have to go outside.

He didn't sleep much. He'd never needed much sleep, even in his prime, and at his age now, he felt like he needed it less than ever. While the body was beginning to shut down—bad hip, arthritic hands, creaky knees—his brain was as sharp as ever, maybe sharper. Christ, had it really been fifteen years since he'd retired? He'd done some consulting for
the department for a year afterward and then a little private sector stuff, but he hadn't worked in a very long time.

And goddammit, he was bored.

The itch was coming back.

He'd managed to squash it after Rufus Wedge was put down. He'd gotten rid of his souvenirs, burying everything but the cleaver in a safe spot he thought nobody would ever find until he was ready. But the itch hadn't gone away overnight. In fact, he'd slipped a few times. Okay, more than a few, but then he'd managed to quash it until Marisol.

But now the itch was beginning to come back. That damn itch, screaming out for relief, consuming him with desire. It was like being horny, only a hundred times more amplified. And he knew that soon, it would be time to scratch it properly. He would need the release, and there would be no other alternative. There never had been.

Lucy
. How he missed her.

A noise in the hallway brought him out of his chair, and he winced at the dull pain that bloomed in his hip as he stood up. Stepping toward the door, he leaned into the peephole. Old Greg Bonner was shuffling by, using his cane. Though the sound was mostly muffled on the carpeted floors, Edward could still hear him.

His old plaid robe was hanging on the back of his chair, and Edward slipped it on, tying the belt tight around his waist. Where was old Bonner going this time of night? Every room had its own full bathroom, so the only place Bonner could be headed was to the kitchen for a late-night snack. The Village kept a pantry and a fridge stocked with readily available snacks of all varieties—fruit, yogurt, cookies, crackers, cheese. Residents could help themselves. Bonner was probably hungry.

He opened the door and peeked down the hallway. Bonner was gone, and Edward stepped out, shutting the door quietly behind him,
not bothering to lock it. He made his way down the short hallway to the elevator and pressed the down button.

A second later he was on the main floor, and sure enough, he could hear Bonner's cane thumping from somewhere close to the kitchen. Moving soundlessly over the carpet in his socked feet, Edward found Bonner in the kitchen, cane resting against the center island, bald head buried deep inside the massive stainless steel refrigerator.

Three strides and Edward was behind him. Looking back in surprise, Bonner's mouth had barely opened to say hello before Edward grabbed the man by the throat. One deep breath, then Edward banged the man's head into the granite counter. Forcefully. Authoritatively. With a satisfying thud. In a moment like this, there was no room for half-assedness.

One hit was all it took. Bonner immediately sank to the tiled floor, blood streaming out of the wound in his right temple. Edward stood still, ears cocked for any strange sounds, watching as the life seeped out of Greg Bonner's face. His eyes were wide open, his mouth a flat O of surprise.

It didn't matter who it was—old, young, male, female, healthy, sick—people always looked the same way when they died. Bonner stared up at him with rheumy eyes, and then slowly his gaze became unfocused. And then blank. It was like someone had turned the lights off inside.

Greg Bonner was dead.

Edward exhaled. Quietly, he rested Bonner's cane on the floor beside him, then turned and headed back to his room.

He felt so much better. It wasn't quite enough, but it would have to do. For now.

Was it so hard not to be a dick? Sometimes Sam wondered. And then wondered about herself that she put up with it.

Adobo was bustling, typical for a Saturday night, and there were a dozen or so patrons waiting at the entrance for their tables. The bar area was even busier, and Sam squeezed in between a redheaded beauty and her much older husband. The husband gave Sam a lingering look as his wife ignored him in favor of her iPhone.

She recognized the bartender but couldn't remember his name. Smiling, he gave her a wink. “Hey, Sam. Usual?”

“Please.” She smiled with pleasure. As Matt's girlfriend, she was always treated well here. The Adobo staff always went out of their way to make sure she had whatever she wanted, and she couldn't deny she enjoyed it. Her mojito—extra simple syrup, extra mint—was ready in two minutes while others around her waited impatiently for their drinks. The bartender slid it over with a grin.

“Thanks,” she said. “What do I owe you?”