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  Too many mistakes to calculate, he was thinking to himself. A real cluster-fuck of errors.

  What he could also calculate was that his seventy-five-thousand-dollar fee for this job had just doubled, because he never did two for the price of one.

  The Butcher started to walk toward the country house, gun in one hand, toolbox in the other, and he was feeling pretty good about this job, this day, this life he had for himself.

  Chapter 108

  THERE WAS VERY LITTLE IN LIFE that could beat the feeling of having confidence in your ability to do a job well. Michael Sullivan was thinking about the truth in that statement as he neared the house.

  He was conscious of the amount of land surrounding the white Colonial house, three or four acres of secluded woods and fields. Off in the back he saw a tennis court that looked like green clay. Maybe it was Har-Tru, which the tennis buffs back in Maryland seemed to favor.

  But mostly he was focused on his work, on the job to be done, on its two working parts.

  Kill someone named Melinda Steiner—and her lover, since he was definitely in the way now.

  Don’t get killed yourself.

  No mistakes.

  He slowly opened the wooden front door of the house, which wasn’t locked. People did that a lot out in the country, didn’t they? Mistake. And he was pretty sure he wasn’t going to get much resistance once he got upstairs, either.

  Still, you never know, so don’t get cocky, don’t get sloppy, don’t get overly cute, Mikey.

  He remembered the fiasco in Venice, Italy, what had happened there. The mess, and how he could have gotten tagged. La Cosa Nostra would be looking all over for him now, and one day they’d find him.

  So why not today? Why not right here?

  His contact for the job was an old friend, but the mob could have easily gotten to him. And then set the Butcher up.

  He just didn’t think so.

  Not today.

  The front door hadn’t been locked. They would have locked it, especially if this was a trap and they wanted it to look good.

  The couple he’d spotted in the bedroom had looked too natural, too much in the moment, and he didn’t believe anybody—except maybe himself—was slick enough to create that kind of setup and honey trap. That couple was upstairs humping their brains and vital fluids out; there was very little doubt about it in his mind.

  As he climbed the front stairs, he could hear the pleasing sounds of their screwing drifting down to him. Bedsprings coiling and releasing, the headboard hitting the bedroom wall.

  Of course, it could be a recording.

  But the Butcher doubted it, and his instincts were usually very, very good. They had certainly kept him alive so far, and they’d made a lot of other people dead.

  Chapter 109

  AS HE REACHED THE SECOND FLOOR, his heart was beating a lot faster, the moans and assorted bed noises had gotten louder, and he started to smile in spite of himself.

  Peculiar thought. He was remembering a scene in this movie called Sideways that had completely cracked him up at the time. The shorter character, who was basically a drunk, had to retrieve the other schmuck’s wallet, and he needed to sneak into a bedroom where a couple of tubby lowlifes were rutting like pigs in a trough. The scene was pretty great—hilarious, totally unexpected too. Just like this was going to be. For him anyway.

  So he turned a corner and peered into the bedroom, and he thought to himself, Surprise, you’re both dead.

  The man and woman were in pretty good shape. Well toned and athletic, nice tight asses. Kind of sexy together. Smiles on their faces.

  They seemed to like each other, which made it good for them. Maybe they were in love. They definitely appeared to like the sex, which was a good, sweaty workout. The blond guy was going deep, and Melinda seemed to like it that way just fine. The whole thing was kind of a turn-on. Melinda had on white kneesocks, which Sullivan got a kick out of. Did she do it for him or for herself? he wondered.

  After a minute or so of watching, he cleared his throat. Ahem, ahem. Order in the fuck-room.

  The coupling couple jumped apart, which was no easy trick given the corkscrew position they’d been locked in a couple of milliseconds before.

  “Wow—you two!” he said, and smiled pleasantly, as if he was here doing a survey on extramarital affairs or something. “Really going at it. I’m impressed.”

  He kind of liked the two of them actually, especially this Mel. No doubt about it, she was a looker for her age. Nice body and face—sweet face, he was thinking.

  He even liked the way she didn’t cover up and stared right back at him, like What the hell do you think you’re doing here? This is my house, my affair, none of your goddamn business, whoever the hell you are. So get lost!

  “You’re Melinda Steiner, right?” he asked, pointing the gun at her, but not in a threatening way. What was the point of threats, of scaring them any worse than he had to? He didn’t have it in for these two. They weren’t the Mafia; they hadn’t come gunning for him or his family.

  “Yes. I’m Melinda Steiner. Who are you? What do you want here?”

  She was definitely kind of feisty but not being totally obnoxious about it. Hell, this was her house, and she had a right to know what he was doing here.

  He took a few quick strides into the room and—

  Pop!

  Pop!

  He shot the blond male in the throat and forehead, and he dropped off the bed onto the Indian-style area rug on the floor. So much for keeping in good shape so that you live longer.

  Melinda put both hands to her mouth and gasped out loud. “Oh my God.” But she didn’t scream, which meant this was mostly about the sex. They were screwing, but the two of them weren’t in love, not even close. Watching her face now, he didn’t even think she liked Blondie all that much.

  “Good girl, Melinda. You’re thinking on your feet. He didn’t feel a thing. No pain, I promise.”

  “He was my architect,” she said, then quickly added, “I don’t know why I told you that.”

  “You’re just nervous. Who wouldn’t be? You’ve probably already figured out that I’m here to kill you, not your former lover.”

  He was standing about three feet from the woman, and his gun was pointed in the general direction of her heart. She seemed in pretty good control of herself though—very impressive to him. Sullivan’s kind of girl. Maybe she should be the head of the mob. Maybe he would put her name up for the job.

  He definitely liked her, and he had the sudden thought that he didn’t much like her husband. He sat down on the bed with the gun still on her—well, on her left tit actually.

  “Mel, here’s the thing. Your husband sent me here to kill you. He paid seventy-five thousand dollars,” he said. “I’m improvising here, but do you have access to your own money? Maybe we could work out some kind of a deal. Is that an option?”

  “Yes,” she said. “It is.” That was all.

  A deal was struck a couple of minutes later, and his fee quadrupled. Lot of crazy people out there in the world—no wonder Desperate Housewives was so popular, he couldn’t help thinking.

  Chapter 110

  SAMPSON AND I HADN’T BEEN to Massachusetts in a few years, not since we’d chased a madman killer named “Mr. Smith” in a case code-named Cat and Mouse. Mr. Smith had probably been the most cunning of all the psychopaths we had tracked to that point. He almost murdered me. So not a lot of happy memories for us as we rode in Sampson’s car from DC toward the Berkshires.

  On the way, we stopped off for an out-of-this-world dinner and some congenial bullshit at my cousin Jimmy Parker’s restaurant, the Red Hat, in Irvington, New York. Mmm, mmm good. Otherwise, this trip was all business. We went alone, with no backup. I still wasn’t sure what I planned to do if I found the Butcher. If we found him; if he hadn’t already fled.

  We listened to some old Lauryn Hill and Erykah Badu tapes on the road and didn’t discuss Michael Sullivan much, not until we cross
ed over into Massachusetts on I-91.

  “So what are we doing here, John?” I finally broke the ice on the subject.

  “Chasing the bad guy, same as always,” he said. “Nothing’s changed, has it? Guy’s a killer, a rapist. You’re the Dragon Slayer. I’m along for the ride.”

  “Just me and you, huh? No call to the local police? No FBI in on this? You know, we just crossed a state line.”

  Sampson nodded. “I figure this time it’s personal. Am I wrong about that? Plus, he deserves to die, if it comes to that, which it just might. Probably will.”

  “It’s personal all right. It’s never been more personal. This has been bubbling over for a long time. It needs to end. But—”

  “No buts, Alex. We need to put an end to him.”

  We rode along in silence for another few miles. But I had to talk this out a little more with Sampson. We had to set some kind of rules of engagement.

  “I’m not going to just take him out—if he’s up here. I’m not a vigilante, John.”

  “I know that,” said Sampson. “I know who you are, Alex. If anybody does. Let’s see how it plays. Maybe he’s not even here.”

  We arrived in the town of Florida, Massachusetts, at around two that afternoon; then we went looking for the house where we hoped to find Michael Sullivan once and for all. I could feel the tension really building inside me now. It took us another half hour to locate the place, which was built on the side of a mountain overlooking a river. We watched the house, and nobody seemed to be there. Had someone tipped off Sullivan again?

  If it had happened, who would have done it? The FBI? Was he in Witness Protection after all? Was the FBI watching his back? Were they the ones who told him we might be coming for him?

  We drove into the town center and had lunch at a Denny’s. Sampson and I didn’t talk much over our eggs and potatoes, which was unusual for us.

  “You all right?” he finally asked, once the coffee had arrived.

  “If we get him, I’ll be better. This has to end, though. You’re right about that.”

  “Then let’s go do it.”

  We went back to the house, and at a little past five a station wagon turned into the drive and parked right in front of the porch. Was this him? Finally, the Butcher? Three boys piled out of the back; then a pretty, dark-haired woman got out of the driver’s side. It was obvious that she and the boys got along well. They roughhoused on the front lawn; then they trooped inside the house.

  I had a picture of Caitlin Sullivan with me, but I didn’t need to look at it. “That’s definitely her,” I told Sampson. “We’re in the right place this time. That’s Caitlin and the Butcher’s boys.”

  “He’ll spot us if we stay here,” Sampson said. “This isn’t Cops, and he’s no dumb crackhead waiting to be caught.”

  “Yeah, I’m counting on it,” I said.

  Chapter 111

  MICHAEL SULLIVAN WASN’T ANYWHERE near the house in Western Massachusetts. At seven thirty that night, he entered a ten-bedroom home in Wellesley, a wealthy suburb outside Boston.

  He was a few steps behind Melinda Steiner, who had long legs and a sweet little tush to watch. Melinda knew it, too. She also understood how to be subtle and, at the same time, nicely provocative with her wiggle-walk.

  A light was on in one of the rooms off the wide front hallway—which had three chandeliers in a courtly procession, courtesy of Melinda or her decorator, no doubt.

  “Sweetie, I’m home!” Melinda called out as she dropped her travel bag loudly on the highly polished floor.

  Not a hint of anything wrong in her voice. No alarm or warning, no edge, nothing but wifely bonhomie.

  She’s pretty damn good, Sullivan couldn’t help thinking to himself. Glad I’m not married to her.

  No greeting came back from the room where the TV was on. Not a peep.

  “Honey?” she called again. “You in there? Honey? I’m home from the country. Jerry?”

  This ought to surprise the bastard for sure. Honey, I’m home! Honey, I’m still alive!

  A fatigued-looking man in a wrinkled pinstriped dress shirt, boxer shorts, and electric-blue flip-flops finally appeared in the doorway.

  Now—he’s a pretty good actor, too. Like nothing in the whole wide world could be wrong.

  Until right about now, when he sees the Butcher walking stride for stride behind his beloved wife, whom he’s just tried to murder at their country house.

  “Hey, you. Who is this, Mel? What’s going on?” Jerry asked as he saw Sullivan standing there in the hallway.

  The Butcher already had his gun out, and it was pointed at the guy in his underwear, aimed at his balls, but then Sullivan moved it up to the heart, if the conniving bastard had one. Murder your wife? What kind of cold, cold shit was that?

  “Change of plans,” Sullivan said. “What can I tell you? It happens.”

  The husband, Jerry, put his hands up in the air without being asked. He was also coming wide awake—in kind of a big hurry.

  “What are you talking about? What is this, Mel? Why is this man in our house? Who the hell is he?”

  A classic line and a dynamite delivery.

  Now it was Melinda’s turn to say her piece, and she decided to shout her answer.

  “He’s the one who was supposed to kill me, Jerry! You paid to have me murdered, you miserable piece of shit! You are total worthless garbage, and you’re a coward too. So I paid him more to have you hit. That’s what this is, honey. I guess you could call him a switch-hitter,” she said, and laughed at her own joke.

  Nobody else did—not Jerry and not Sullivan. It was kind of funny actually, but not laugh-out-loud funny. Or maybe her delivery was wrong, a touch too harsh, a little too much of the truth in it.

  The husband jumped back into the TV room and tried to pull shut the door, but it wasn’t even a contest.

  The Butcher was quick and had a foot, a work boot, wedged in the doorway. Then he put his shoulder to it and followed Jerry right inside.

  Jerry, the original contractor, was a tall, potbellied CEO- or CFO-type dude who was balding up top. The den smelled of his body odor and a cigar smoldering in an ashtray by the couch. A two-ball putter and a couple of Titleist spheroids lay on the rug. A man’s man, this guy who had paid to have his wife killed and now was practicing his putting to show he didn’t have the yips.

  “I’ll pay you more than she can!” Jerry squealed. “Whatever that bitch paid, I’ll double it! I swear to God! The money’s there. It’s yours.”

  Wow—this is getting better and better, thought Sullivan. It brought new meaning to a game like Jeopardy!—or Let’s Make a Deal.

  “You total piece of crap!” Melinda snarled at her husband from the doorway. Then she ran in and smacked him in the chops. Sullivan still thought that she was a cool lady in a lot of ways, though not in some others.

  He looked at the husband again. Then he looked at Melinda. Interesting couple, to be sure.

  “I agree with Melinda,” said the Butcher. “But Jerry does have a point, Mel. Maybe we should have a little auction here. You think? Let’s talk this out like adults. No more hitting or name-calling.”

  Chapter 112

  TWO HOURS LATER, the auction was complete, and Michael Sullivan was driving on the Massachusetts Turnpike in his Lexus. The car could move reasonably well, and the ride was smooth as a baby’s ass, or maybe he was just feeling good.

  There were a few loose details to work out, but the job was done. Let’s Make a Deal had netted him three hundred and fifty thousand, all of it wired into an account at the Union Bank of Switzerland. Truth be told, he hadn’t felt this financially secure in a while, though he’d probably burned his Boston contact for the job. Maybe he’d have to move the family again too. Or maybe it was time for him to break free and set off on his own, something he’d been thinking about a lot.

  It was probably worth it—three hundred fifty grand for a day’s work. Jerry Steiner had been the winning bidder, but the
n he tapped the dumb, obnoxious bastard anyway. Melinda was a different story. He liked her, didn’t want to hurt her. But what choice did he have? Leave her around to talk? So he made it painless—one to the back of Mel’s head. Then a couple of pictures to memorialize her pretty face for his collection.

  Anyway, he was singing a Stones ballad that he’d always liked, “Wild Horses,” when he came around the bend in the road. There was his house on the hill, right where he’d left it.

  And—what the hell was this?

  Mistake?

  But whose mistake?

  He shut off his headlights around the next little crook in the road. Then he eased into a cul-de-sac, where he had a better view of his house and the grounds.

  Man, he couldn’t catch a break lately. Couldn’t outrun his past no matter how far away he went.

  He’d spotted them right away, in a dark-blue car, maybe a Dodge, with the grille pointed toward the house like a gun. Two men inside that he could see. Waiting for him, no doubt about that.

  Mistake.

  Theirs!

  But who the hell were these two guys he had to kill now?

  Chapter 113

  WELL, IT DIDN’T MUCH MATTER. They were two dead men—dead over nothing, dead because they were miserable screwups at their jobs. Dead men watching his house, come to kill him and his family.

  Sullivan had a three-year-old Winchester in the trunk of the car, which he kept cleaned, oiled, and ready to go. He popped the trunk, took out the long gun. Then he loaded it up with hollow-points.

  He didn’t quite have the skills to be an army sniper, but he was plenty good enough for this kind of bushwhacking.

  He set up in the woods between a couple of tall, fluffy evergreens that provided a canopy of extra cover. Then he took a quick look through the nightscope. It had a bull’s-eye rather than a sight post, which was the way he liked it. Actually, it was Jimmy Hats who had taught him to be a long-distance marksman. Jimmy had been trained at Fort Bragg in North Carolina, before his dishonorable discharge.