The Butcher (8 page)

She pondered this casually for a moment until she spotted a woman coming toward her with an expectant look on her face. Light auburn curls framed a round face spattered lightly with freckles, and a shapeless black wool coat hid a fuller figure. Pretty, mid-forties . . . it had to be KillerRed.

“I think that's her,” Sam said in a low voice, taking a quick sip of her latte. “In fact, it has to be. Stay here, okay?”

“You don't want me to come with you?”

“Just stay here and keep an eye on me. I'll go talk to her.”

Jason looked dubious, but he didn't argue. “Don't stand too close to her. She could have a bottle of acid in her coat and she might throw it in your face.”

“Oh my God, enough. Seriously, who would do that?”

“I told you, crazy people. Just be careful and keep your distance. I'll be right here. Shout if there's any trouble. Actually, no. Run first, and I'll follow.”

“Shut up. You're not helping to quell my nerves.”

Handing Jason her latte, Sam started walking toward the woman, who was about twenty feet away. She smiled, and the woman smiled back, but as they got closer, the older woman's face paled, and she staggered.

Sam made it to her just in time to catch her before she fell over.

“I'm sorry,” the auburn-haired woman said when she regained her balance. Her hand flew to her throat, and she began to rub the pendant that was hanging on the end of the chain around her neck. The pendant was a little gold bear, but not cutesy like Winnie the Pooh. It was modeled after a real bear, and it seemed a curious choice for jewelry. Her green eyes were huge and they never left Sam's face. “I just . . . oh my God, I wasn't expecting this.”

“You must be KillerRed.” Sam kept a hand on the woman's arm until she was sure she wouldn't fall over again.

“Yes, I am. I mean, I'm Bonnie. Bonnie Tidwell.” The older woman continued to stare at Sam in shock. “Pardon my language, but holy shit. I thought I was seeing a ghost. You look just like Sarah.”

Sam nodded. There was no point in pretending. “I'm Samantha. Sarah's daughter.”

Tears filled Bonnie's eyes and she blinked them back. “Of course you are.” Reaching forward, she grabbed Sam in a tight hug. “Of course you are. Holy shit. This is incredible.” She pulled back. “Do you know there hasn't been a single day when I haven't thought about you? Wondered how you were?”

Sam nodded, feeling a little emotional herself. “That's sweet of you to say. You knew my mom well, I take it?”

Bonnie reached for her necklace again, rubbing the little gold bear. “We were best friends. I loved her very much. I helped take care of you,
you know.” The older woman smiled sadly. “You were a really good baby. God, I'm so glad to know you're okay.”

“I'm okay,” Sam said with a smile. “I promise. I don't remember you, though. I wish I did.”

Bonnie nodded. “You were so little when she died. I wanted to keep you, but you were sent into foster care.” She touched Sam's face briefly. “I understand now why you finally agreed to meet me. You must have been blown away when I sent you the picture of me and Sarah.”

“That's putting it mildly.” Sam looked around. Jason was watching them closely, and she gave him a little wave to let him know everything was all right.

“Your husband?” Bonnie asked.

“Just a really good friend.”

“Wow, what a looker.”

“Oh, he knows,” Sam said with a laugh. “Did you want to sit down somewhere? Find a coffee shop, or a place to eat?”

“Of course. I'm sure you have lots of questions.” They started walking toward Jason, who met them halfway, and Sam made a quick introduction as the two shook hands. Smiling at the two of them, Bonnie continued, “We lived together for about a year. You, me, and your mom. I used to babysit you whenever I wasn't working. You used to call me Baba, because you couldn't pronounce Bonnie.”

A tingle went through Sam then and she looked at Jason, who cocked his head and grinned. Yes, that was right. While she didn't remember Bonnie, the nickname “Baba” was strangely familiar, and suddenly everything the woman was saying rang true.

There was so much Sam wanted to ask, but she didn't know where to start.
To hell with it,
she thought. “Bonnie, where are you staying?”

“The Sixth Avenue Inn.”

“Why don't you come back to my place? I can make some dinner, and we can talk. Would you be okay with that?”

Jason cleared his throat. Sam ignored him.

Bonnie nodded, and another sad smile appeared on her face. “Sure, I would love that. I . . . there's a lot to tell you. I'm sure you have so many questions.”

“I want to hear everything.” Sam took a breath. “About my mom, the Butcher, all of it.”

“And I'm prepared to tell you everything,” Bonnie said. “I mean, you're writing a book about him, so I would have, anyway. But now that I know who you are . . . my God, if anyone deserves the truth, it's you, Samantha.”

The only way Matt could handle it was to not think about it. Which wasn't working that well. Because even when he was able to put it out of his mind, his body reminded him. Acid was eating his stomach, knots had turned his shoulders into pretzels, and he was delirious from lack of sleep. He had no appetite, and the leftover pizza sitting on his plate tasted like cardboard.

So, he drank. It was his fourth Corona. By the time he went to bed tonight that number would be doubled . . . but who was counting.

Matt might not be an expert on serial killers the way Sam was, but it was common knowledge for anyone who'd lived in the Northwest during the eighties that the Butcher's MO was to chop off left hands. And in Matt's garage, inside an old crate, were jars full of left hands. There was no denying who his grandfather really was. Edward Shank, the former chief of police of Seattle, was the fucking Beacon Hill Butcher. It might have been impossible to believe had Matt not seen it with his own damn eyes.

He took another long swallow of his beer, trying to force out of his mind the mental images of that poor young girl being tortured.

His grandfather had always been the hero, a legend, the ultimate good guy whose job was to catch the bad guys. Matt could still remember that day in seventh grade when the Chief had come to talk to the kids at his school for career day. It was a few years after he'd brought down Rufus Wedge, and everybody knew who the Chief was. His fellow classmates had been delighted. The teachers were in awe.

It had all been a lie. Not only was Edward Shank not a good guy, he was the villain. And not only was he the villain, he was a monster. A monster who had terrorized the entire Northwest for years because he tortured, raped, and murdered young girls.

Matt closed his eyes.
Jessica, age fourteen.
She'd been someone's daughter, someone's granddaughter, someone's friend. She'd been innocent. And now she was long dead, brutalized in the most horrific ways possible, at the hands (no pun intended) of his grandfather. The scene was tattooed in his mind; the shrieks and cries were a soundtrack that looped endlessly no matter how many times he tried to mentally turn the volume down.

He finished his Corona and reached for another.

Had his
lola
known? On the one hand, Marisol Perez Shank had been married to the Chief for almost fifty years—how could she
not
have known? But on the other hand, the Chief had lied to everyone. Why wouldn't he have lied to his wife, too?

Matt's first instinct had been to confront his grandfather. Maybe, just maybe, there was some kind of strange explanation for it all that Matt hadn't thought of. Maybe none of it was real. Maybe he'd hallucinated the whole thing. Maybe the tape was a fake, one of those fetish videos for people with really depraved sexual tastes. Maybe the Chief
had tried his hand at acting, and the tape was just a re-creation of a crime he'd worked—

Shut up, stupid.
Of course it was real. The screams had been relentless until they'd finally faded to whimpers. There had been blood. There had been begging. There had been a sick satisfaction in his grandfather's eerily distant eyes. You couldn't fake these things. Nobody could.

And what would he say to the Chief, anyway? More important, what was it he
needed
the Chief to say to him? Would it make a difference if the old man explained it to him somehow, explained that he was a psychopath and had murdered God knew how many innocent young girls because he couldn't help himself? And that he was now sorry for what he'd done? Was that what Matt needed to hear? Would an
apology
make him feel better?

Fuck, no. Nothing would make this better, except for Matt to hit the rewind button on his life so that he never looked inside the goddamned crate in the first place.

Matt had also considered going to the authorities. After all, he was a responsible citizen, and it was clearly the right thing to do. He could just drive over to the nearest police precinct and dump the crate on some lucky detective's desk. Let them wade through the contents, watch the tapes, test the hands for DNA, and find out the identities of the dead victims. Families would be notified and an arrest would be made. The Chief would be outed as the Butcher, and the trial would make national headlines. Reporters from all over the country would flock to cover the story of the hero who was really a monster. Books would be written, movies would be made. Edward Shank would die in prison, and everything Matt had worked so hard for would be gone.

Because yes, this was about him, too. In this case, the “all publicity is good publicity” adage would not apply. Nobody would want to eat
at a restaurant owned by the grandson of man who tortured, raped, and murdered little girls. Adobo would go bankrupt. The food trucks would disappear. No more Fresh Network show.

Matt would be ruined.

He finished his beer and stood up. The room spun, but not too badly, which at this point was unacceptable. He reached for the cabinet and pulled out a bottle of Jameson Irish Whiskey. He couldn't remember who bought it for him, but it was disgusting stuff, not his usual thing. Didn't matter. He needed to shut his brain off and sleep, and a few shots of whiskey would be about the only thing that would make that happen.

The floor in the hallway leading to the kitchen creaked, and Matt whirled around.

“Got another shot glass?” Edward Shank said.

Matt stiffened as his grandfather approached. He hadn't heard the front door open, but clearly it had, and in the Chief's left hand dangled his key to the house. Matt had never asked him for it. Why would he?

The two men were identical heights, both six four, and it was easy to meet the old man's cool gaze.

“Sure, Chief,” Matt said. “Have a seat.”

“Don't mind if I do.”

*   *   *

If the Chief was aware of the tension, he wasn't letting on.

“It's late,” Matt said. He poured his grandfather a full shot of Jameson, then poured himself one, too. “I wasn't expecting you.”

They raised shot glasses and tilted their heads back. The whiskey was like fire on Matt's throat, and he welcomed the burn. He poured them both another.

“Couldn't sleep. Decided to go for a drive. Saw your lights on, thought I'd say hello. I haven't seen you in a while.”

“I've been meaning to come by sometime. See how you're doing.”

“Sure you were.” Edward grinned. “You're busy. I understand. You've got a business to run, a house to renovate. I saw that you ripped up the backyard. Find any buried treasure?” Edward's eyes fixed on Matt's face, steady and unwavering.

Matt met the old man's gaze with an equally steady one of his own. Never mind that his hand was shaking under the table. “No buried treasure. I wish.”

“Dead bodies, then?”

“Something like that.”

Edward appraised him, then tapped the side of his glass. Matt obliged, pouring another shot for each of them. “What's on your mind, kid? You're awfully quiet.”

“Nothing. Just tired. And I wasn't expecting you.”

“I believe that last part, but the rest of it . . . you've never been much of a liar, Matthew.”

Unlike you,
Matt thought, but he kept his mouth shut.

“Want to talk about it?” The Chief's voice remained cool, his eyes missing nothing, but he seemed to genuinely want to hear whatever Matt had to say. “I can listen. Sometimes I even give decent advice. I got nothing but time.”

“Nope, I'm good.”

Edward knocked back the shot, then pushed the glass away. “Okay, then. How's the restaurant? I've been meaning to come by sometime.”

“Sure you were,” Matt said. “You're busy. I understand. You've got lots of bingo games and gin rummy to play over at the old folks' home.”

The Chief snorted and pulled out a cigar from his breast pocket. “Mind if I smoke?”

“Have I ever?”

“Just checking.” His grandfather shrugged. “It's your house now.”

Edward bit off the tip of his cigar and then lit it. Matt recognized the lighter. His grandmother had given it to her husband when he retired, and it was sterling silver with fourteen-karat gold trim. On one side, it was engraved with the initials
EMS
. Which stood for Edward Matthew Shank. And on the other side, it said “The Chief.” The smell of the cherry-flavored cigar smoke filled the kitchen.

“How's the restaurant?”

“Extremely busy.”

“And the food trucks? My buddy Howard from the old farts' home said he stopped by your truck at the Fremont Market when he was there with his grandkids. They loved the
lumpia,
said they were better than Chinese spring rolls.”

“That's because they are.”

“You should be very proud. You've worked very hard. Your
lola
is beaming up in heaven.”