The Butcher

  “Then end it. You deserve better.”

  Her eyes welled up, and Jason pulled her into a bear hug.

  “You’ll be okay,” he said in her ear, his breath warm and comforting. “You have me, and I’m not going anywhere.”

  She opened her eyes and looked at Jason. All she saw in his face was compassion and concern, and in the soft light of the penthouse, he had never looked more beautiful.

  “Will you kiss me?” she asked softly.

  He stared intently at her. He didn’t seem surprised by the question. His eyes took in her face, her lips, her hair. He smoothed a dark strand away from her cheek, and with his other hand, he stroked her jawline.

  “No,” he said. “Because you’re not asking for the right reasons. When you do, I will.”

  24

  Edward couldn’t do it the way he used to anymore, not unless he drugged them. And that, of course, took all the fun out of it. It was only truly enjoyable when they were conscious of their fear, knowing death was imminent.

  It was the look in their eyes that turned him on. That look, the moment they understood that they were going to die, was what Edward craved.

  Did this make him a psychopath? He didn’t think it was that simple. People killed other people for lots of reasons. It was just that psychopath was such a trendy word, something folks liked to bandy around as a way to explain why people did bad things. But Edward knew better. Some folks just liked doing bad things. In his opinion, there was no need to question it. It was why he’d stayed a cop and had never been interested in working for the FBI when they’d come calling after he’d brought Rufus Wedge down. Edward had never had any interest in analyzing the whys . . . because the whys really weren’t that fascinating.

  Besides, everybody had hobbies. Some people golfed. Some people fished. Some people hunted deer. Edward killed. Because he liked it, goddammit. It was really that fucking simple. And the kills had helped his career. He’d felt great satisfaction in creating the Butcher, and almost as much satisfaction when he accepted his promotion to chief of police.

  The recreation room at Sweetbay Village was loud as always, filled with the usual bunch of residents engaged in various activities. Dinner wasn’t for another hour and this was the time of day when the rec room was at its fullest. Around him, old fogies were watching TV, playing board games, sitting and chatting. There was old Cecilia in the corner with her two closest friends, Esther and Deb, and the three of them were working on a quilt. In the other corner was old Millie, holding that annoying bastard Jack Shaw’s hand and laughing at every word he said.

  Edward sat across from old Donald Martini, who looked like he was falling asleep on the other side of their chess board. “Your move, Don.”

  “Eh?”

  Edward spoke louder. “Your move.”

  “Oh, right. Sorry, Edward.”

  He knew it would take Donald at least five minutes to decide whether to sacrifice his rook (and in the end he wouldn’t, which would win Edward the game—he’d played Don several times in chess over the past month and the old guy’s moves had become predictable), so he swiveled in his chair slightly to get a better of view of the TV mounted on the far wall. The King5 evening news was on, and there was an update about Matthew’s friend.

  “The identity of the man found in the dump has been released,” the anchorwoman was saying, a beautifully exotic lady who would have been described as “Oriental” back in Edward’s day, but now was known as Asian, thanks to the politically correct pundits. “Patrick Jason Wu, age thirty-one, was a Seattle resident originally from San Francisco. He worked at Adobo, a popular eatery in Fremont. Our sources tell us that Wu, whose dismembered body was discovered yesterday morning, might be the victim of the Wong crime family, as he had known affiliations with several of its members. Sources tell King5 that his death might be part of a turf war between the Wong and Chang families.” The news cut to an interview of the guy working at the dump site where Wu’s body had been found.

  Ha. It had been too easy, really.

  It hadn’t taken Edward long to find out exactly who PJ Wu was and what his weaknesses had been. He hadn’t even had to run a background check to know the kid was in deep debt—all he’d done was glance through Wu’s phone and he’d seen several texts about owing money, bets placed, and the like. Kids put everything in those goddamned smartphones nowadays.

  Edward normally never worried about covering up, as half the fun of killing was the discovery of the body and the flurry of investigation that ensued. But in this case, he’d had no choice but to put a fictional spin on PJ’s death. After all, he didn’t want Matthew to go to prison.

  He felt eyes on him and turned his attention to the next table, where Gloria Marsh was sitting across from Helena Rubenstein. The two women were playing gin rummy, and the rumor was that these two ladies were a little on the slutty side. Edward liked them both. They were fun.

  Gloria, in particular, was a perky little thing with a face full of makeup that seeped into her wrinkles. Even in her late seventies, she still wiggled when she walked and giggled when she talked, and hell yes, Edward could appreciate that. It wasn’t her fault she was getting old. She’d shown Edward a picture of herself back in the day once. She’d been beautiful in her prime. Movie star looks, pinup girl body, dark brown hair that offset red Cupid’s bow lips perfectly.

  Now she looked as if someone had deflated her, and all that was left were the wrinkles and hair dye where her youth used to be. Getting old sucked donkey’s balls, and he couldn’t blame her for fighting it as best she could. But age was winning the battle, as it always did.

  She smiled at him, her blue eyes still clear and twinkly even at the age of seventy-eight. It wasn’t hard to see that she had a thing for him, and Edward didn’t mind the attention. Not at all. In fact, it was time to do something about it. Lord knew it had been a long time . . . there’d been nobody since Marisol.

  He was ready.

  Returning her smile, Edward said, “Who’s winning, Gloria?”

  “Helena,” Gloria said with a girlish giggle. “As usual. I think she stacks the deck.”

  Helena, eighty-one years old, didn’t appear to hear her name mentioned and so she didn’t turn around. Edward winked at Gloria, who winked back.

  “By the way, have you ever tasted salted chocolate, Edward?” Gloria asked.

  “Can’t say that I have, Gloria.”

  “It’s quite lovely. My granddaughter brought me some the other day. The sea salt enhances the flavor of the dark chocolate, making it taste richer and sweeter.”

  “I do have a sweet tooth,” Edward said with a grin. “My grandson’s sweetheart brought me some cannolis the other day from the bakery, and they certainly didn’t last long.”

  “And you didn’t share any with me?” Gloria feigned a pout, then giggled again.

  “What was I thinking? Next time, my dear.”

  “Maybe later, after supper, you’d like to try some of my chocolate?” Gloria said, and her lips stayed parted just long enough for Edward to read her invitation loud and clear. “Around eight, perhaps?”

  “That sounds fine. I would love to.”

  They exchanged smiles again, and Edward turned his attention back to his chess opponent, who was still contemplating his next move. Don Martini was leaning forward, his chin resting in a liver-spotted hand, and he glanced at Edward with a sly grin. “Looks like somebody’s got a hot date.”

  “Ha,” Edward said. “Listen, Don, you going to be a few more minutes? I think I need to run to the john. Gotta drop some kids in the pool.”

  “Yeah, you go ahead, Edward,” Don said. “At least you’re regular. They got me on some new medication now for my heart, and I’ve hadn’t a decent shit all week. Maybe I’ll make a hot cup of tea and ponder my next move while you’re gone, so you take your time.”

  Both men stood up but they headed in opposite directions. Edward headed straight for his room. There was a restroom inside the recrea
tion area, but of course Edward didn’t really have to use the toilet.

  He entered his room and locked the door behind him. Opening the closet door, he reached into his jacket pocket and found the small prescription bottle of Viagra he’d picked up at the pharmacy the other day. He shook out four pills and placed them on the small coffee table, then retrieved a knife from the kitchenette so he could grind them up into powder. Then he ripped a little chunk of paper from the Village newsletter that was lying on the coffee table and carefully placed the powder inside it, folding it up neatly.

  He couldn’t kill the way he used to anymore, and he had to admit, he was bummed about that. It was why he didn’t bother going to his cabin in Raymond anymore. He owned over two hundred acres in a densely wooded area, but if he couldn’t really kill like before, what was the point of driving down there?

  He’d always been a strong man, and in a lot of ways still was, but after Jamie Chavez and Bonnie Tidwell, he’d been exhausted. The pain meds Dr. Ross had prescribed helped considerably, but he didn’t have the body of a fifty-year-old and he had to accept that. The urge to kill was back in full force and he had no desire to stop it . . . but that didn’t mean he could physically keep up with it. Adjustments were necessary.

  Jamie, especially, had worn him out. She’d been a squirmy little thing, and he’d had to stun her several times with the tree branch in order to keep her subdued. It had really taken the fun out of it, because then she’d been too out of it to fight anymore. Back in his prime, he’d been able to hold them down with one arm while doing whatever he’d wanted to them with the other.

  He had to acknowledge that it couldn’t be that way now. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t work around it. And old Donald Martini had always been on his nerves.

  He headed back to the recreation room, where Don was waiting with his mug of hot, steaming tea. He was currently flirting with Helena, and between the two of them and their bad hearing, the conversation was a few decibels louder than it needed to be. Gloria was nowhere to be found, but there was a small folded slip of paper on the table on Edward’s side of the chess board. It was a note.

  HOW ABOUT SIX P.M. INSTEAD?

  I’LL COOK DINNER. GLORIA.

  Edward grinned, and stuck the note in his pocket. Perfect. Deftly, while Don’s back was still turned, he withdrew the paper filled with Viagra powder into his opponent’s mug, where it dissolved quickly. The taste might be a little bitter, but he doubted Don would notice with all the honey he put into his tea. Finally, Helena left, waving at them both.

  Chuckling, Don turned back around to face the table. “We still got our charm, don’t we, Edward?” he said with a wink. “The ladies just love us. Wish my pecker still worked. They said I can’t take nothin’ right now with my heart condition, but boy do I miss a good go-round.”

  “Helena definitely likes you.” Edward grinned. “But I thought you and Millie had a thing. What’s she doing over there with that bastard Jack Shaw?”

  “Apparently he’s quite the ladies’ man,” Don said, reaching for his tea. “She dumped me when she found out the pecker don’t work.”

  “For that geezer? He looks like a retired midget wrestler.”

  “But he’s got more money than a rich Jew and he promised to take her to Europe this summer. And apparently the ding-dong still works without any help. That’s the rumor, anyway.”

  “Started by who, Jack Shaw?”

  The two men shared a laugh. Don shrugged good-naturedly. “She let me feel her tits, so I don’t mind. On to the next.”

  Edward watched as Don sipped his tea. Making a face, Don said, “Bitter. I didn’t put enough honey in it.”

  “I’m going to get a snack anyway. I’ll grab you some.”

  “Appreciate that, Edward.”

  He was back in two minutes with a slice of cheese and a few crackers, and a few packets of honey for Don’s tea. The old guy stirred all of it in, then sipped again. “There, that’s better. It’s your move, by the way.”

  Edward moved his knight and the two men continued to play. After about twenty minutes or so, he said, “Don, you’re looking a little flushed, my friend.”

  “You know what, I do have a headache.” Don squinted and rubbed his temples. “Oh boy. Haven’t had pain like this in a while.”

  “You want to call it a day?”

  “No, I’ll manage, let’s just finish. You’ve won four in a row, I gotta try and win one this week, at least.” He picked up his mug again and drained the last of his tea.

  A few minutes later, Don said, “You know what, Edward, maybe I will lie down.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I—” Don reeled back in his chair, clutching his chest, his eyes wide with panic. Then he fell over, onto the floor, landing on the carpet soundlessly.

  “Nurse,” Edward said, his voice raised just a little. “We need a nurse.”

  The recreation room was a loud place—the volumes on the televisions were always turned up, and since half the Village residents were deaf, everyone talked loud as well. Nobody moved. Nobody was paying attention. Edward waited another few seconds while Don lay on the floor, his hand over his heart. The man’s eyes finally closed. He was losing consciousness.

  Edward waited an extra beat before finally shouting, “Nurse! We need help here!”

  It was loud enough that there was a momentary pause of silence before the whole room exploded in commotion.

  Edward backed away, letting the two nurses on staff—there were always two, usually a female and a male—do their job.

  He knew they wouldn’t be able to save him. One hundred milligrams of Viagra combined with all the medications for his heart and blood pressure that Don was already taking . . . the old guy didn’t stand a chance.

  By the time the paramedics arrived, old Don was dead.

  Edward soaked up every moment of the exhilaration. He watched as the ambulance carted Don away, his face appropriately somber, but his insides brimming with pleasure.

  “He’s already gone,” said the male nurse to the female nurse. Miguel, his name was. “Damn. Poor guy.”

  “I can’t believe it,” someone beside Edward was saying. He turned. It was Helena, mascara staining her cheeks. “We were just talking. He seemed fine.”

  She turned to him for a hug, but Edward moved away. He didn’t want her feeling what just sprouted up in his pants.

  “There now,” he said instead, reaching out and patting her shoulder “It’s terrible, but to be expected. Don wasn’t in the best health. He was on so many medications.”

  She nodded, dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief.

  He turned away from her, heading quickly down the hallway toward the elevators. Checking his watch, he saw that it was five minutes to six. Perfect timing. Like Don had commented earlier, Edward had a hot date.

  By the time Gloria opened the door, his cock was throbbing.

  “Oh my,” she said, when she saw the look on his face. Edward reached for her, kissing her hard, before shutting the door behind him.

  A moment later, when he pulled down his pants, she said even louder, “Oh my!”

  “Oh my, indeed,” Edward said. “Now stop talking. Don’t make me gag you.”

  Who needed Viagra?

  25

  It was the third reported death at the Sweetbay Village Retirement Residence, and Sam couldn’t help but wonder if Matt’s grandfather knew something about it. How could Edward Shank not know? You’d think that if anyone would be suspicious about three deaths so close together, he would be.

  According to a news report she’d read online, three Village residents had died in the past month. The first was Greg Bonner, age eighty-eight, who’d fallen and hit his head in the middle of the night while hunting for a snack in the kitchen, something he was known to do. Ruled accidental.

  The second death was Donald Martini, age seventy-nine. Martini hadn’t been in the greatest health and he’d suffered a massive heart att
ack while playing chess with another resident. The article suggested he’d suffered complications from all the medications he’d been taking. Ruled accidental.

  The third death, which happened just last night, was Gloria Marsh, a once-divorced, once-widowed seventy-eight-year-old who’d been found dead in her bed. Cause of death was still unknown, but Village staffers had confirmed that Marsh had been in excellent health and was still very physically active up till the day of her death. The police were conducting an investigation.

  Sam pulled up to the retirement home and cut the engine. She hadn’t visited the Chief since their last awkward conversation about the Butcher and she was worried that the old man was annoyed with her. She also wanted his advice about Matt.

  Her phone buzzed as she was reaching for her purse, and she saw she had a text message from Jason.

  What are you up to?

  Sighing, she switched her phone to silent. She still hadn’t fully processed what had happened between the two of them the night before, and she couldn’t let herself think about it right now. Not until she made some decisions about Matt. She and Jason hadn’t even kissed, but somehow everything was . . . different.

  She hadn’t called Edward to let him know she was stopping in, but he always seemed pleased to see her. Hopefully today would be no different. Entering the elegant, warm reception area of the Village, she nodded to the male nurse she’d chatted with the last two times she’d visited.

  “Well well, look who just walked in and made my day. Hello, sunshine. Here to see me?” Miguel said with a grin.

  “Careful,” Sam said, returning the smile. “If the Chief hears you, he won’t be pleased.”

  “I know, he’s protective of you. Can’t say I blame him. It’s nice to see you again.”

  “Likewise.” Sam signed in with the receptionist. “Say, what’s going on over here? I saw something online about three deaths in the past couple of weeks? Is that normal?”