The Butcher

by Jennifer Hillier

  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.

  7

  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 h
usband. 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?”

  The bartender gave her a look. “As if.”

  She slipped him a five-dollar bill, anyway. “At least let me tip you. Matt around?”

  Another look, but this time it was an expression Sam couldn’t read. “Yeah, he’s out back. I’d wait a few minutes, though. I heard he was cussing someone out.”

  “Really? Who?”

  He shrugged, throwing a dish towel over one shoulder as he wiped down the bar with a washcloth. “Wait’ll you see. If he’s getting in trouble, we’re all in trouble. What I will tell you is that the dude got into a fender bender on the way here, which made him almost an hour late, and I’m sure you know how Matt is about punctuality. He’s not being very understanding about it.”

  “I do know, but . . . you’re kidding. It was a car accident.”

  The bartender leaned in. “You didn’t hear this from me, but the boss has been in one helluva shit mood the last few days. Screaming at everyone, difficult to talk to. Everyone’s been tiptoeing around him and nobody wants to set him off. Any idea what’s going on with him?”

  Sam hesitated, not sure what she could say. She didn’t know anything, and it made her feel stupid. “I’m sure it’s just stress.”

  “What does he have to be stressed about? This place is kicking ass, the food trucks are making mad money, and he’s going to be on a reality show. The guy’s about to blow up.” The bartender stopped, his face reddening. “Oh shit. I shouldn’t talk about it. You’re his girlfriend.”

  Sam downed her mojito and patted his arm. “We’ll keep it between us. Thanks for the drink.”

  She maneuvered her way through the busy restaurant with its cappuccino walls, distressed wood tables, and cream leather chairs. Matt had done a great job of creating a warm and cozy, yet slightly upscale, ambience. Adobo had been open for less than two years, and thanks to the popularity of the food trucks strategically placed at all the big farmers’ markets and food fairs around the greater Seattle area, the restaurant had become quite successful. Pretty impressive considering how competitive the Seattle food business was.

  Adobo was a tribute to Matt’s Filipino grandmother’s cuisine, and had long been her boyfriend’s dream.

  She ordinarily wouldn’t drop in this close to the dinner rush, but Sam hadn’t heard from Matt in almost two days. He hadn’t returned her calls or texts, and while Sam was trying not to take it personally, she was irritated. The whole world didn’t revolve around Matt Shank, despite what he liked to think, and his arrogance was the one thing about him she truly disliked.

  But he got like this sometimes, especially when under pressure. He was the most ambitious person she’d ever known, and she couldn’t deny that his drive was one of the things she was most attracted to. She never doubted that he would be extremely successful at anything he wanted to do, and so far, she was right.

  Their relationship was going on three years now, certainly not the longest in the history of relationships, but long enough that discussions of the future and “Where is this going?” were happening a little more frequently. She knew Matt loved her. Of course he did. She loved him, too. But unlike Matt, Sam knew what she wanted. Marriage. House. Kids. Preferably in that order, but she was learning to be flexible.

  You had to be, if you were Matthew Shank’s girlfriend. Nothing was ever linear with him, and his career always came first. But it wasn’t sitting well with Sam anymore. She was twenty-nine years old. She was ready. Matt was thirty-two, and he still wasn’t.

  She entered the kitchen. Heads looked up and several of the kitchen staff smiled at her. Raoul, Matt’s head chef, caught her eye.

  “Out back, mama,” he said, flicking his head toward the back door. “I’d wait a few minutes, though. He’s having a . . . discussion.” He said the last word distastefully.

  “I heard,” Sam said, squeezing Raoul’s arm as she passed. Crossing the kitchen, she pushed open the door and was met with a cool breeze and loud voices.

  “I run a restaurant. A busy fucking restaurant.” Matt was barking and Sam didn’t have to see his face to know her boyfriend was enraged. “If you’re going to be late, you call me. You’re my assistant head chef. You don’t leave me short for a half hour on a Friday night when we’ve got a lineup waiting for tables.”

  “I already told you, dude, I got held up because this kid rear-ended me—”

  “Did he rear-end your phone, too?”

  “No, but dude, he—”

  “And stop calling me dude. When we’re at work, I’m your boss, not your friend.”

  Sam peeked through the door and was shocked when she saw who it was Matt was yelling at. It was PJ, his old college friend, someone they’d both known for years. The same PJ who’d just been through a terrible divorce, and who’d been working with Matt since day one when Matt only had a food truck and a dream.

  “You know, dude, I don’t need this shit, okay?” PJ said, sounding scarily close to tears. “Sharon cleaned me out, my apartment is shit, and now my car is fucked. You could have a little sympathy. We’ve been friends for a long time, man. I always have your back.”

  “And I haven’t had yours? I brought you in from the beginning, didn’t I?” Matt’s face was red. “I made you an assistant head chef. I give you advances on your pay when you blow all your dough on poker and sports betting, which is every other month. I’ve let a lot of things slide over the years, dude, and you still can’t get your shit together.”

  Under the dim lights of the alley, PJ’s face went dark. “Wow. Thanks for making me feel even worse, bro.”

  “You don’t need this job, you say the word.” Matt’s tone was icy. “I mean it.”

  PJ opened his mouth to respond, but then seemed to think the better of it and snapped it shut.

  Matt jerked his head toward the door. “Get back inside. You’re closing tonight. You’re the last one to leave.”

  Sam moved aside as PJ pushed past her. Giving her a look that was half despair, half anger, he said, “Talk to your boy, Sam. He’s losing it.”

  Before Sam could think of what to say, Matt was in her face. “What are you doing here? Can’t you see I’m busy? I’ve had a shit day.”

  “I was worried about you. You haven’t returned my texts and I called you this morning.”

  “You don’t have to check up on me. I do actually work, you know.”

  He made as if to move to past her, and she grabbed his arm. “Hey. You don’t speak to me like that. Ever. I don’t work for you. Got that, dude?”

  Matt sighed and ran a hand over his face, suddenly looking very tired. “Fuck. I’m sorry, babe. I’ve had a busy few days, and I haven’t been sleeping, and I’m not feeling well. There’s just . . . there’s been a lot going on.”

  Sam softened and touched her palm to his forehead. “You feel okay. Want me to stay over tonight? I’ll wait up, have a little food ready for you when you get in, and I can make you breakfast tomorrow.”

  Matt checked his watch. “That won’t be until at least one a.m. Mario has to leave early so I have to—”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’ll wait up.”

  He smiled. Leaning down, he kissed her on the tip of her nose. “Okay. I’ll try and get out as fast as I can.”

  “I’ll need your key.”

  He stopped. “Oh. Right.” He cleared his throat. “Um, you know what, I’ll just come over
to your place. My house is a disaster, and I didn’t go shopping so there’s nothing in the fridge . . .”

  “You don’t want me at your place?”

  “It’s just really messy.” An uncomfortable pause followed, and then he said, “What are you up to tomorrow?”

  “Meeting Jase for coffee.” Sam hesitated, unsure how much she wanted to tell Matt. Another look at his face told her that in this case, less was more. “I’m bouncing some ideas off him for the book.”

  It was Matt’s turn to stiffen. “Feeding your obsession, I see.”

  “Stop.” Sam punched his arm. “It’s my job, okay? I write about true crime. You knew that when we met.”

  “I guess I’ll just never understand it.”

  “You don’t have to understand it. You just have to support me.”

  “Like Jase does?”

  She backed up a step and looked up at him. “What’s going on with you? He and I have been friends for a long time.”

  “I’m well aware of that, thanks.”

  Sam waited a few beats, not sure how to respond. Matt had always been a little bit jealous of her relationship with Jason, not that he had any reason to be—after all, Jason was the one who’d introduced them to each other three years ago. She’d known Jason since grade school, and he was like family to her.

  Finally she said, “I’ll tell him you said hello.”

  “You do that.”

  “Don’t be jealous.” Sam kept her tone light. “He’s practically my brother.”

  Matt smiled, but it didn’t touch his eyes. “So you always say.”

  “He’s your friend, too.”

  “He’s your friend more.”

  There was no point in arguing, because they both knew he was right.

  8

  Sam loved Pike Place market.

  It hadn’t changed much since she was a little girl, other than that it was much busier than she remembered. Tourists from all over the world flocked in to watch the fishermen throw salmon at each other, which was happening right now. Sam stood, captivated, as a hunky twenty-something fisherman dressed in fish-blood-spattered coveralls expertly wrapped brown paper around a huge piece of fresh salmon in record time. He then threw it football-style to his coworker at the cash register, who was a good twenty feet away. The waiting customer, along with the rest of the crowd, laughed and clapped, and pictures on smartphones were snapped.