Page 46 of Long Pig

Processing the bodies also changed as his kill count rose. His experimentation led him to new heights. He began dismembering and stripping the body of usable parts. He dried the bones to cut down on the weight. He hadn’t done that in the beginning, but he was a younger man then. He journaled each person’s weight, before and after each process. On average, once the bone dried, a man weighed twenty pounds and a woman sixteen.

Butch worked hard on staying fit, but he had a small pooch in his gut that wouldn’t go away. Protein was a man’s best friend, but he wondered if the human flesh he consumed placed the extra fat in his belly. He began bringing live victims to his home in order to vary their diet and discover the differences it made to his health.

There was now enough data to publish, even though Butch knew that would never happen. The world wasn’t ready for what he’d discovered.

He woke early the following morning. He grabbed extra water due to the weather report. It would be hot, even though the overall temperature would change soon. There were several small trails he followed, but never one more than another. He didn’t want a clear track to his destination. His thoughts wandered to Willow, and he stumbled over an unseen root from a shaggy bark tree that he shouldn’t have missed. It angered him because he couldn’t shake her off.

His journey continued, though he paid closer attention to his surroundings. A broken leg this far from home could mean a death sentence. The thought made him smile. For a very long time, he thought himself invincible. The gray in his hair, the lines on his face, and body aches changed that. Maybe that’s why he kept thinking about Willow. Could a man like him settle down?

A grumble sounded in his chest. She had crept into his thoughts again. He looked at his surroundings and realized he was almost at his destination. He walked up the final rise and stepped into a large expanse of emptiness. Well, not all of it. There were a few scattered shrubs here and there. If someone stumbled upon his monument for the dead, they would only see an ugly grove of dirt and rocks.

For him, even the air was different here. It was as if the land held its breath in reverence for what was buried beneath the surface.

Butch smiled at the invisible mounds stretched before him, neat in their unevenness and only visible in his mind. This was his collection. His lifetime of butchery for those who went unnoticed and unwanted. It was a memorial of death, and he relished each and every memory it brought.

He knew the locations and names of each grave. Some of his victims didn’t have identification, so he gave them names himself. They were documented in his records with details related to each killing, like age and gender.

Butch walked to the first grave, where he removed his pack. With his hand out, he knelt and picked up a handful of sandy earth and allowed it to run through his fingers. Leslie had begged for her life with more passion than most. Her frantic squeals and the final twitch were nothing compared to the pure silence that followed. Not even the wind blew that night.

Other truckers, possibly highway patrol, were a hundred yards away, driving down the highway with no idea of what was happening so close.

“Perfect,” he whispered, almost tenderly as he looked at the ground.

Dizzying superiority swelled in his chest. People spent their lives building houses, carving names into plaques, and chasing fleeting accomplishments. But he was the only one who could claim a secret kingdom of death. He arranged them here, beneath the soil, like the prized trophies they were.

He crouched lower, drawing in the scent of dry earth, imagining the bones beneath, stacked silently in their final rest. Power hummed in his veins. The world didn’t understand, but here, in this sacred place, Butch was more than a man. He was the author of last chapters and the warden of quiet graves as God looked over it all.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Threats and Promises

Willow

Willow hiked a lot over the following weeks. Most of the time, Dale stayed near the road and whittled on a piece of wood to pass the time. Whoever had been watching hadn’t returned to the road where they found the tracks.

“Do you still have that feeling of being watched?” Dale asked one night.

They were occupying the couch and chair in the living room after dinner, enjoying a glass of red wine. Willow was finally beginning to enjoy the taste.

“No,” she replied. “Not since you found the tracks. I take that back,” she said after a contemplative moment. “Two days ago, I felt something when I was hiking at the southwest end of the property with Max. He didn’t alert to anything, so I put it off as my imagination.”

Dale didn’t roll his eyes, but his expression conveyed he wasn’t happy. “I’ve told you not to be embarrassed over your instincts. They’ll save you nine times out of ten if you payattention to them.” He changed the subject. “I need to run to Flagstaff tomorrow; would you like to go with me? We could even stop at the mall.”

Dale hated the mall, but Willow loved the smaller stores and the gay atmosphere, whereas she usually avoided crowds.

She sighed heavily. “I need to finish the piece for the woman in town. I’m getting close, but it needs another day of sanding before I put on the first coat of varnish.”

“You’ve been working on that monstrosity for over a week,” Dale said. “Are you charging enough?”

She shrugged. “Probably not, but I’m learning new techniques, and it’s been worth it. This might be my best piece yet.”

“You say that about every project,” Dale laughed.

“I improve each time, and I’ll most likely keep saying it.” She stuck out her tongue.

“Do that again, and you’ll catch flies,” he teased.

“How about we make a special trip to Flagstaff when I’m done with this project. I’ll take you out to lunch if the mall is still on the table.”