The Butcher

by Jennifer Hillier

  “I’ve had a terrible few weeks,” Matt said, and Sam watched in shock as tears began to seep from the corners of his eyes. “A terrible, awful few weeks. I have done things . . .” His hands shook, and he wrapped them around his mug tighter to steady them. “I don’t like who I’ve become. This is not who I want to be.”

  “I thought everything was going well for you.” Sam reached over and squeezed his hand. Despite everything that that happened, it was hard not to comfort him. After three years together, it was still her default setting. “You’ve been so busy.”

  “When we were at Jase’s tonight, and you were talking about your mom, and that lady you met who died, I realized how much I don’t know about you,” Matt said. “And I know it’s my fault. Because I don’t ask. Because I don’t show interest. Because I’m selfish. And I shouldn’t be. If anyone should understand what it’s like to have questions, what it’s like to need answers about your mother, it should be me.”

  “Matt—”

  “Just please let me finish.” He took another deep breath. “I have not been a good boyfriend to you. I know that. But I can change, Sam. And I want to. And if you let me, I will spend the rest of my life being a good husband to you, in all the ways I wasn’t as your boyfriend.”

  Sam was speechless. That had definitely not been what she’d expected him to say.

  Reaching into his pocket, Matt pulled out a small, dark blue jewelry box. A ring box. Sam stared at it, then stared at Matt. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.

  “Open it,” he said.

  She did, and her breath caught in her throat. It was a diamond ring. A beautiful diamond ring in a vintage setting, with a center stone that had to be close to two carats. She recognized it immediately.

  “It was my grandmother’s,” Matt said. “You don’t have to wear it if you don’t want to, we can get you something else, but you always said you liked it. No matter what, I want you to have it. She would have wanted you to have it.”

  “I . . . you’re giving me Lola’s ring?” Sam’s mind couldn’t seem to keep up.

  “Yes. I want to marry you.”

  Sam’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, Matt . . .”

  In a flash he was out of his chair and kneeling in front of her. “I love you, Sam. I really do. I know I have a horrible way of showing it, but I can’t lose you. I need you in my life. You make me want to be better. And I can be better. I promise.”

  “Matt . . .” Sam’s eyes welled up with hot tears. Leaving the ring inside the box, she pushed it away. It was all so confusing. How many times had she dreamed of this moment, of Matt down on his knees, asking her to spend forever with him? “Matt, I can’t. It’s too late. This isn’t right, and you know that. All you’re doing right now is throwing out a Hail Mary. We both know this isn’t working.”

  “I don’t want this to end.”

  She touched his face, her heart breaking. “But it already has.”

  He shook his head, too overcome with his own emotions to speak. Both of them were full out crying now. Standing up, she pulled him to his feet, and they held each other. She felt his lips at the top of her head, and she lifted her face up to his, her eyes closed. His lips touched her forehead, her eyelids, her nose, and then her mouth.

  The heat was still there. Oh yes. It didn’t change anything between them, but it was still there, and Sam felt it surge through her body. Passion had never been their issue.

  But she knew then, even as his lips covered hers and she responded, that she wasn’t in love with him anymore. Not the way she used to be. Not the way she should be.

  He kissed her deeply, his tongue searching hers, holding her tighter than she could ever remember being held. It felt good. She kissed him back, their tongues intertwining, her hands slipping under his shirt, lifting it up so she could caress the small of his back. He kept one hand on the back of her neck while his other hand slid down to her buttocks, rubbing, squeezing.

  Unzipping his pants, she pulled his jeans down past his knees, then pulled his boxer briefs down as well. Placing both arms underneath her armpits, he lifted her up, hoisting her with ease onto the kitchen table, pushing aside their empty tea mugs. He pulled off her jeans, never breaking eye contact with her, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so wanted.

  Her panties were on the floor a second later, and he entered her in one smooth motion. Neither of them spoke. The only sound that could be heard in the kitchen was their mutual moaning. What they had was over, but somehow this moment, this one last time, felt right.

  As he thrust deep into her, she looked up into his eyes. “I’m sorry, Matt.”

  His face was full of pleasure and pain. “Shhh. Don’t say that. It doesn’t have to be over. We can start again. We can try harder.”

  “You don’t love me.”

  “Yes, I do. I know that now. I was stupid . . .” He closed his eyes, groaned, panted, and then continued thrusting. “I love you. I’ve always loved you. I always will love you.”

  “But I don’t love you,” she said softly. “Not the way I should.”

  “I can change.”

  “I don’t want you to.”

  “I can change,” he said, his breath coming faster. Beads of sweat appeared at his hairline. “I want to change. I don’t want to be this person. I’m a bad person, Sam. I don’t want this anymore. I want you, I want a life with you . . .”

  “No, you don’t,” she said, and suddenly, this didn’t feel right anymore. In fact, this was starting to feel very, very wrong. “Matt, stop.”

  “I can be your everything.” His eyes were closed, and he showed no signs of slowing down. Sam wasn’t even sure if he’d heard her. “Just give it a little time. You’ll feel it again, I know you will. Just don’t leave me, okay? Please don’t leave me.”

  “Matt, stop. I mean it.” Sam pushed against him, trying to wriggle away, but her ass was sticking to the wood table and it was difficult to move at all. “I don’t want to do this anymore. I changed my mind. Stop.”

  “I love you.” His eyes were still squeezed shut.

  She pushed on his chest some more. Still, he continued. Beginning to feel panic, Sam started punching him in the chest.

  His eyes flew open and he grabbed both her hands, squeezing her wrists, still continuing to plow into her. Now it was beginning to hurt. She was drying up, and he wasn’t stopping, and it was painful. He was hurting her.

  “Stop. Matt, stop. Please!”

  He let go of her hands and grabbed her by the throat, squeezing so hard, she couldn’t breathe. He was cutting off her air supply, and in sheer panic Sam pummeled at him, using her fingernails, raking them over his chest, but still, he didn’t stop.

  Her vision began to darken, and then it was over.

  32

  The news reports really didn’t have much to say, but the headlines screaming BUTCHER 2.0! were enough to work Seattleites into a frenzy. The story hadn’t yet made its way to CNN or any of the other national media outlets, but Edward knew it was just a matter of time. He’d already had several reporters call that morning asking for his opinion, and so far all he’d said was, “I’m confident Seattle PD will do their job, like they always do.”

  He was watching the latest update on KIRO-7 while sitting in the recreation room playing a boring game of checkers with Johnny Langston. Langston was a skinny, potbellied, seventy-three-year-old widower who had just moved into the Village the previous week. Plagued with health problems, he’d already spent twenty minutes telling Edward about all the medications he was taking.

  Edward had managed to tune out the running commentary, focusing instead on the anchorman on the TV screen, who seemed very concerned about the “new” serial killer at large. “In an announcement made last night by Police Chief Constance Lombard,” KIRO-7’s Jeff Walsh was saying in his deep baritone, “we’ve learned that the Seattle Police Department is searching for a new serial killer terrorizing the city of Seattle, referred
to as the Butcher two-point-oh.”

  Edward thought terrorizing was a fantastic word. Very dramatic, and so effective.

  “Your move, Ed,” Langston said from across the table, pulling his attention away from the TV.

  “It’s Edward, Johnny.” How many times had he corrected the idiot today? He’d lost count. Tearing his eyes away from the news, Edward focused on the checkerboard in front of him. What a stupid game. Checkers was a game for children and retards, but Langston didn’t know how to play chess. “Or you can call me the Chief like everybody else does.”

  “And what are you Chief of?” Langston said with a snort. “You don’t look like an Injun.”

  Edward sighed, using one finger to slide his red checker into the appropriate spot. “I told you. I was a police officer for over forty years. Retired as chief of police.”

  “Chief of police of what?”

  How was it possible that anyone could live this long being this stupid?

  “Of the Seattle Police Department,” Edward said, forcing himself to stay polite. Idiot.

  “Oh, okay. Like what the lady does on the TV right now? She’s pretty good-looking. Bet she’s got nice tits under that suit,” Langston said. “You know her?”

  “Yes, I know Connie. She was a rookie when I was Chief. Good woman.”

  “I’ve only been in Seattle for the past twelve years, so I don’t know nothin’ about what happened before I moved here, you know what I’m saying?” Johnny stared at the board, contemplating his next move. “I woulda rather retired to Florida, that’s where it’s at, the weather’s good and housing is cheap, but my kids and grandkids all live here now and I don’t wanna have to travel to see them every year at Christmas . . .”

  He was still talking but Edward had stopped listening, once again focused on the TV mounted on the wall.

  “Police Chief Lombard has confirmed that they are reopening the old Butcher cases from the seventies and eighties, as these new murders closely resemble those allegedly committed by Rufus Wedge,” the anchorman intoned. “Former Police Chief Edward Shank, who headed up the task force that shot and killed Butcher suspect Rufus Wedge in 1985, declined to comment.”

  Edward tried to stifle a chuckle, but he obviously didn’t try hard enough.

  Langston looked up. “You find this stuff amusing, Ed? You got like, a thing for death and murder and all? Yeah, I s’pose I can see that, being in the line of work you were in.”

  Edward turned back to his checkers opponent, wishing he had a mute button for the man who couldn’t seem to shut up to save his life. “It’s Edward. And it’s not amusing, Johnny. It’s fascinating. There’s a very distinct difference. There’s a serial killer at large in Seattle, you know. It’s big news.”

  Kyla Murray, the Sweetbay Village activities director, passed their table with a smile. Her blue golf shirt and dowdy khaki slacks did nothing to conceal her double-D curves, and immediately Edward was picturing her in a lace bra and panties. Red. With a garter belt. Johnny Langston was feasting on her, too, but his approach was less subtle as his eyes scanned her body from head to toe.

  “What I wouldn’t give for a piece of that ass,” Langston said under his breath.

  Edward chuckled. Glancing down at the checkerboard, he moved one of his red pieces, jumping it over two of Langston’s black pieces. “Your move. And be careful, my friend. Kyla’s a nice girl. Don’t be disrespectful.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re on this whole ‘women are equals’ thing, Ed.” Johnny moved a black piece across the board. “Women are not our equals. I’m not saying we’re better, okay? But they’re not our equals.”

  Secretly, Edward agreed, but no way would he ever admit that to a retard like Johnny Langston, who wasn’t his equal, either. “Friend, you won’t like it here if you don’t make an effort to get along with the staff,” he said. “Don’t make it hard on yourself by being a dick.”

  “Friend, for what I’m paying, I can be a dick if I want to be.”

  Edward sighed. “Your move already. Quit stalling.”

  “I can see why you were the chief of police,” Johnny said, moving his checkers piece. “You’re a bossy guy, you know what I’m saying?”

  Edward turned his gaze back to the TV, where they had just cut to an interview with Detective Robert Sanchez. Edward had seen the interview twice already, but he still found it amusing to watch the lead detective’s awkward responses to the reporter’s questions. Had it really been that long ago when Bobby had been just a rookie in uniform, the first officer on the scene when Sarah’s body was discovered?

  Edward’s mouth twitched up into the smallest of smiles. Sarah. He would never forget the lovely Sarah Marquez, nor would he ever want to.

  JUNE 1987

  He watched her scrub down tables, and thought she couldn’t be more than seventeen. Her long dark hair was pulled back in a low ponytail that trailed down the back of her brown and beige polyester uniform. The plastic name tag pinned above her small breast read SARAH. Despite the ugly fast-food dress code, she was still pretty, and he’d noticed her as soon as he’d walked in the door.

  He’d been in this McDonald’s twice over the past week, and had learned a lot about Sarah just by watching. It didn’t take a genius to see that she was a hard worker, well liked by her coworkers, and pleasant to the customers. She’d checked twice on the homeless man wearing the ratty clothes sitting quietly in the corner, and had even snuck him some french fries. She knew all the words to the ABBA song currently playing softly throughout the restaurant. Her daughter’s name was Samantha.

  Edward sat in the corner opposite the homeless man, on his second order of french fries himself, content in knowing he was invisible to the kids who hung out here. Which was fine by him. It was important that nobody remember him at all.

  It had been two years since his last kill, and the urges, for the most part, had passed. He no longer allowed himself to look at the mementos he’d kept—videos, hands, locks of hair, panties—because all they did was stir his desires up again. He’d buried everything in the backyard one weekend when Marisol was away on a church retreat because he couldn’t bear to throw anything away just yet.

  The memories were all he had left, and while they were wonderful, nothing compared to the real thing.

  The last person he’d killed had been Rufus Wedge, but there hadn’t been much satisfaction in it because the kill had been too quick. There had been no fear and no begging, just the fast death of a man nobody gave a shit about, anyway. Wedge had been the perfect Butcher; Edward had handpicked the guy out of a dozen possibilities. He was a lifelong career criminal with a history of sexual assault and a tendency to never stay in one place longer than a few months, and it had been easy for Edward to choose victims in whatever city Wedge was currently living in.

  It had been a long time since his last real kill, and Edward missed it. And, fortunately or fortunately, this pretty young girl with the dark hair was stirring up all those old cravings he thought he’d buried two years ago along with the crate.

  Sarah was back behind the counter now, manning the french fry station. Edward enjoyed looking at her. Her face was smooth and unlined, the skin supple and unmarred by the pimples that other girls her age were often plagued with.

  Good skin was always a bonus. Good skin was more fun to burn.

  Edward left the restaurant and sat in his car, parked a few feet away from the bus stop. Her shift ended at 10 p.m. and he assumed that she would be catching the bus home. The last time he’d waited for her she’d been with a friend, and there had been no opportunity to talk to her. He hoped this time she’d be alone.

  She exited the restaurant at exactly 10:08 p.m., giggling as she called goodbye to someone over her shoulder. Walking quickly, she kept her head down as she crossed the parking lot toward the curb where the bus stop was, and that’s when Edward made his move. She looked up as he got out of his car.

  Her eyes were instantly wary, and Edward pulled out his b
adge, holding it up so she could get a clear look.

  “I’m wondering if you could help me,” he said. “My car won’t start. I need someone to rev the engine while I look under the hood. Will only take a second.”

  She stepped back slightly. “You’re a cop?”

  “Detective, actually.” He clipped the badge to his outside pocket. “You’ve probably seen me eat here before, I usually stop in when I work nights. Any chance you can give me a hand?”

  “My bus will be here any minute,” she said, her gaze flickering back and forth between his face and his badge. “Maybe one of the boys inside can help you?”

  “I already asked around, but nobody has a break, and the manager won’t let anyone leave unless they do.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Ugh, that’s Alvin. He’s such a hard-ass. He’s only two years older than me and he thinks he rules the universe.”

  “If you miss your bus I can drop you wherever you want to go. I just don’t want to have to call roadside assistance. They’ll probably get it started in two seconds and then charge me fifty bucks just for coming out. Heck, I’d rather give that money to you.”

  The mention of money piqued her interest. “Fifty bucks? I could sure use that money. All you want me to do is rev the engine?”

  “That’s it.”

  “What if you can’t get it started?”

  He laughed. “You can still keep the money, I promise. I’ll just be waiting for the bus with you.”

  She shifted her weight, thinking for a moment, and then her eyes focused on his badge once again. Finally she said, “Okay, let’s do it. Do you, uh . . . can I have the money up front?”

  He pulled out his wallet and fished out two twenties and a ten. “Hop into the front seat. I already popped the hood and the keys are in the ignition. Don’t run me over, please.”

  She giggled and got into the car, placing her purse on her lap. Edward lifted the hood.

  “All right, start the engine, and then give me the gas,” he called, poking his head around to look at her. She nodded and the engine roared to life. “Keep stepping on it until I say stop.”