Page 1 of Long Pig

Prologue

The Long-Nose Pete

Butch

Butch preferred fueling up at truck stops that were off the beaten path, places where the diesel islands weren’t packed with impatient drivers, and where the air smelled of grease and burnt coffee instead of corporate sterility. The kind of places where cashiers didn’t ask questions.

He eased his Long-Nose Pete into the deep, uneven dip leading to the pumps, feathering the clutch to keep from bottoming out. The Pete was his second rig and a sweet ride for more reasons than one. The dip was deeper than it looked, but he handled it like the pro he was. The engine rumbled low, vibrating through the worn leather of his seat, increasing the feeling that the monster inside him would rise. The pulses went from his toes, up his back, and settled at the top of his spine. He called this feeling his quiet friend. He’d felt it many times before, and his friend was rarely wrong.

He pulled the brim of his baseball cap low and stepped onto the asphalt. The inside of the rural truck stop was just as he liked, with dim lighting, a faint scent of old fryer oil, and a setup that hadn’t seen an update in at least two decades. The floor tiles were scuffed from years of boots stomping through. The shelvescarried the essentials: junk food, aspirin, energy shots, and a sad excuse for fresh fruit that no self-respecting trucker would touch.

He ordered a footlong from the sub counter, took his tray to one of the four tables wedged between the cooler and the ATM, and popped the top on his favorite soda. He chewed slowly, savoring the sandwich. It wasn’t great, nowhere near the quality of the meals he could whip up at home, but he’d eaten worse at many places along I-40.

When he was done, he wiped his mouth with a single napkin, took another to clean his fingers, then crumpled the trash into a neat ball. No mess. No crumbs. No evidence. He was careful like that. A habit.

At the counter, he grabbed a pack of chocolate mini donuts, dropped a crumpled bill onto the old Formica, and let the return change clink into his pocket. Loose change always came in handy.

He stepped outside a minute later into cooler air and a twilight chill that seeped into his bones after too many miles behind the wheel. He pulled his flannel-lined jacket tighter and stepped a little off the asphalt, causing his boots to crunch over loose gravel.

“Hey, mister.”

The voice came from the shadows near the edge of the lot. Butch turned, his pulse giving a tiny hitch. Not fear, not nerves, just anticipation of the hunt. His little friend was right on target again.

The kid was small, five-foot-two, rail-thin, and twitchy, his face still wearing the battle scars of teenage acne. His fingers trembled, whether from the cold or something else, Butch wasn’t sure.

“Can you spare some change?” the kid asked, his voice tight with nerves.

Butch let the question linger while he sized the boy up. Sixteen, maybe younger, and younger was always better. A runaway? A junkie? A little of both? His gaze flicked to his rig, then back to the kid.

“I don’t have change,” Butch said, keeping his voice casual. “And I can’t afford to give you the only bill in my wallet, or I won’t be eating the rest of my trip.”

He saw the kid’s expression flicker, hope turning to desperation.

Butch sighed, just enough to sell the part. “You look hungry. My truck’s over there, and I need to top off the tanks. How about I go inside and buy you a sandwich? Your choice of a drink, too.”

The kid hesitated. His eyes darted to the truck, then back to Butch.

Finally, a slow shrug. “Sure. I’d appreciate it.”

Butch smiled just a little. Not too much. Not yet. This anticipatory feeling was rarely wrong.

Butch led the kid inside, giving him space to make his choice. The boy moved slow, scanning the shelves like he was memorizing them, but Butch had seen this act before; the quiet calculation of a runaway weighing his luck.

At the register, Butch pulled out a fifty. The cashier, a wiry man with a nicotine-stained mustache, grumbled as he cracked open the till.

“You got anything smaller?”

Butch shrugged, keeping his expression neutral. “All I got.”

He placed the return bills in his wallet as the coins clattered into his palm, and he dumped them into his other pocket so they didn’t jingle against the others.

The kid sat at a table, sandwich in one hand, soda in the other. Butch stood over him, offering a slow, measured nod.“Sorry I couldn’t do more. I really hope you’ll be okay.” He let his voice dip into something close to concern, shuffled his feet, and then walked out.

This game was all about patience.

Outside, the air had gone colder. The wind rattled through the fuel depot’s overhead lights, buzzing against the hum of another idling rig. Butch pulled his truck into position, set the brake, and got the pump going. He didn’t have to wait long for his good evening to turn even better.

“Hey, mister, where you headed?”