Page 28 of Long Pig
“Then I can’t let you do it,” Louisa said, chin lifted stubbornly. “It wouldn’t be right.”
After a brief back-and-forth, Willow gave in, more grateful than she wanted to admit. They settled on a fair price, and just like that, she had her first commissioned job.
Harvest season in the greenhouse had arrived. Even as the late-summer heat pressed down, the scent of ripe tomatoesand damp soil filled the air. The buzzing of bees echoed through the open vents while the oscillating fan clicked back and forth. Her hands were perpetually stained with dirt and the faint bite of vinegar from pickling jars. She pickled cucumbers, laid out tomatoes on drying racks, and blanched green beans for freezing.
She and Dale trained the dogs, and together they worked on hand signals.
“If a mother with a child ever stays here, the dogs gotta look friendly, not fierce,” Dale reminded her.
Trips to the park in Show Low helped. The dogs became minor celebrities, surrounded by giggling children once their parents began accepting them. Willow stood nearby, watching as Daisy allowed a toddler to tug gently on her ear and then gave a large, slobbery kiss that made the baby laugh. Seeing the dogs acceptance filled her with something she hadn’t felt in a long time—peace.
Her days slipped into a rhythm that felt almost like happiness. Each completed project, each jar sealed tight, each evening walk with the dogs added to her confidence. The nightmares came less often, fading into distant echoes as refinishing orders came in. Word spread faster than she expected, and soon Dale was making weekly furniture pickup and delivery runs. He also took before-and-after photos and muttered curses about the “damn computer” while he built her a simple website.
When it went live, Willow stared at the screen, mesmerized. The photographs showed not just her work but her growth. Dale taught her how to upload new images and how to write short descriptions.
Sometimes, late at night, she thought about the man the bones once belonged to. Did he have a family waiting for answers? Did someone out there still grieve for him? She wantedto believe he’d been kind, but the world had taught her not to assume such things. He deserved a name, at least. A story.
But as the months passed, even that thought slipped further away. And that, in its own strange way, felt like a betrayal.
Her life was better than she’d ever expected, and yet, beneath the calm, there lingered a whisper of unease. She couldn’t quite shake it. Good things never lasted forever. Somewhere, she feared, her bad luck was just waiting for her to forget it existed so it could pounce again.
Chapter Eighteen
Butch Takes the Wheel
Larry
Though Larry’s movie choices ran more to graphic horror, he didn’t miss Smokey and the Bandit or BJ and the Bear. They gave him a look inside his future. The movies romanticized the business side, and he found them entertaining.
A book at the library taught him CB slang. From “paying the water bill” to “the yardstick,” he easily memorized everything he read. The excitement he felt about his new occupation couldn’t be put into words. He couldn’t wait to get on the road for his first haul.
Larry had a thick, low voice that didn’t match his lean, almost skinny body that never seemed to fill out. His father had been a thick man who swung large animal carcasses around like they weighed little.
“You’ll grow into that body someday,” Clyde told him. “For me, it began when I turned twenty-five.”
Larry was beginning to doubt most everything his father said. He never grew past five eleven, and he hated that he didn’t reach six feet. His pimply face was getting better, but he remained on the thin side. When he looked in the mirror, he saw his cold eyes and the features of someone scary. No oneelse seemed to notice, which was perhaps for the best, though he wouldn’t have minded carrying a few extra pounds.
His name was a problem. He hated Larry. It came to him one night when he couldn’t sleep: his new name was Butch. He would only use it when he needed to impress.Butch the Butcher, they would call him. No, they would never find the bodies, but he knew what his true name was.
The trucking field was ripe for new recruits, and Butch got his first run two weeks after he obtained his license. He had to drop off cargo in Los Angeles. On the CB, it was known as Shakeytown, and he liked that. He studied his map and planned the run with mileage and desolate areas in mind. He had to find a place to live that wasn’t surrounded by people.
Frank, the man with the money for the haul, shook his hand before he took off. “Drive safe, Larry. And stay away from the smokeys,” he said.
“You bet,” Butch replied. He smiled and climbed inside the cab.
Tall but a little on the thin side, Frank would taste like crow. All feathers and very little meat. He thought about the best way to cook him as he drove on the highway.
The first two nights of his trip, he slept in the top-sleeper. There was little room to move, and he needed time to adjust to the enclosed space. On night three, he found a small hotel and settled down on an old mattress, hoping to sleep.
A little before the sun came up, he heard arguing in the next room.
“You son of a bitch. You slept with her, didn’t you?”
The woman’s voice grew louder the angrier she became. Butch could tell by their slurred speech that they were drinking. Alcohol was his father’s downfall, and he hated the stuff. It also wouldn’t make the woman in the next room taste better.
Within a short time, the man’s voice became cajoling. A few minutes later, the headboard knocked against the wall. It would have been better if the man slapped her around a bit before they had sex. At least Butch would get some enjoyment.
His hand hovered at his crotch, but he pulled back. He was stronger than this. His fantasies ran to violence and what he would do to his victims. The crime magazines gave him more enjoyment than masturbating. It crossed his mind to hire a prostitute—not for sex, but to kill her. Sex reminded him of his mother and how she’d called him evil and nasty. Like alcohol, sex was evil, and he needed to stay far away. Unfortunately, killing a prostitute wasn’t worth the risk, but he couldn’t stop picturing it. When he wrapped his hands around her throat, his mother’s face rose to the forefront. He switched the fantasy to killing a man. At the last moment, the pastor’s face came to mind. The warped fantasies took on new details. He could actually taste the bodies, and he licked his lips. Consuming human flesh was quickly becoming his ultimate goal.