Page 48 of Long Pig

Butch

He lifted binoculars hanging against his chest. The trail curved ahead, skirting the rim of a shallow canyon. Willow was two hundred yards away, unaware of how the path narrowed, hemmed in by rock on one side with a steep drop on the other.

He rose to a crouch, his knees cracking softly. The air was cooler now, the desert wind carrying the faint smell of creosote. He kept low, weaving between the thorny brush and shaggy bark. He was careful not to snap a branch or scatter loose gravel. Heel first, then toe, the way he’d taught himself years ago: silent walking. Predators knew it well, and he had perfected his craft.

Ahead, Willow paused, tugged her water bottle from her pack, and drank, her dog taking a break with her. He froze in place and kept his sights locked. She lingered, tilting her head back, exposing her throat. So vulnerable. His fingers twitched against the binoculars. He wanted to be closer, close enough to hear the water shift inside the bottle and smell the salt of her sweat. Willow Morgan was more than an obsession now. He was convinced she was his destiny.

She looked directly at his hiding place for a long moment before she started walking again. He moved parallel, slippingfrom shadow to shadow, using the rocks as cover. He stayed upwind so the dog didn’t scent him. He imagined the sound of his footsteps in her ears if he let them fall heavy, along with her sudden panic. He would shoot the dog.

He thought about the curve of the canyon trail, how it would force her pace to slow. No room to run fast there. No room to turn around quickly. He pictured it in his head. The location would allow him to close the distance and trap her.

His pulse quickened with anticipation. He could almost feel the moment, the way her body would stiffen when she finally realized she wasn’t alone. The pressure of silence would break her first. He’d used the technique before.

He adjusted the strap of his binoculars, checked the knife sheathed at his side and the handgun at the small of his back. What excited him was the chase. The tightening coil of inevitability, like those long-ago pigs in the last chute. But it was strange. Butch had no desire to kill her. He hadn’t thought about how she would taste or that her eyes would turn glassy as death approached. He thought of companionship, something that had never filled him before.

It wasn’t time, but soon. Until then, he would keep his vigil and watch the deputy. His taste was something Butch did think about. What would Willow think if he fed the deputy to her?

He breathed in deeply and imagined coals burning down to a glowing bed. The grill grates shimmering faintly when they grew hot enough. The first drop of fat would sizzle on contact. The thick human steak marbled just right for tenderness and flavor. He would do that for her. He could actually hear the instant it touched the metal and let out a sharp hiss.

The smoke would curl up in lazy ribbons, carrying the perfume of seared human flesh. His stomach clenched. Hunger and longing twisting hard as his imagination soared higher.

The edges would brown first, curling slightly while the juices bubbled and spit as the fat rendered down, dripping onto the coals, adding a kiss of smoke that would work its way back into the meat.

His mouth watered so hard it hurt. He imagined the bite before it came, the rush of hot, juicy flesh, the salt singing against his tongue and hers as they shared his ultimate gift. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t reached this perfection with a human body. He was almost there. The knife would slide through the meat like silk; the center a perfect shade of pink. He’d spear a piece, lift it, and place the delectable bite against Willow’s lips. It would be an explosion to her senses. She would crave the next bite after the first taste. Each mouthful would be her reward.

Butch had to physically shake himself to stop the daydream. He never thought a woman would bring on these urges. His mother had ruined him to women, but now that years had passed and his memories calmed, he could picture Willow by his side.

More than anything, he wanted to stay close to her. He stopped himself from taking the first step. He wasn’t stupid, and he had to plan.

He was good at planning.

Chapter Thirty-One

Deadly Secrets

Willow

“What in tarnation is wrong with you?” Dale demanded after Willow snapped at him for tracking dirt into the house.

They had an endless battle keeping the dust level low, and they both did their part. Never had Willow been moody when it came to something as small as a bit of dirt.

“I’m sorry,” she said, rubbing her temple. “Headache. It won’t leave me alone.”

She did have a headache, but it was still a lie, and she couldn’t look at Dale when she said it. He hmphed, and internally she grimaced. If Wallard told the people in town about her, it would harm Dale and the respect he was given. He would be ostracized because of her past. She could even imagine Lucia and how she would feel knowing that Dale brought a murderer to a wedding party who then hung out with Sofia, her niece throughout the evening. Were there laws about working for the sheriff’s department and inviting ex-cons to your party? Willow even worried about Louisa and Roger. They were nice peoplewho would be placed in a difficult situation once Willow’s past was brought into the open.

Willow knew Wallard wasn’t interested in a date. He wanted so much more. It made her palms sweat when she thought about everything Dale would lose because of her past. Thoughts of her father filled her mind. A psychologist in prison had explained that she might never remember what happened that day because the brain had ways of protecting itself that modern medicine still did not understand.

There had been so many psychologists poking around in her brain back then. Most had contracts with the prison and saw far too many inmates. Three visits with the same person were the maximum before they moved to better pay and less depressing patients.

The thought of killing Deputy Wallard flitted through her head. For the first time, she truly thought she was the monster painted in the press that dogged her through the trial and then her grandmother afterward.

There was something deeply wrong with the deputy, but there was also something wrong with Willow. Why couldn’t he see it? The way he puffed out his chest and admired his own reflection gave her the answer. His arrogance led him, and he didn’t see the evil she kept locked tightly within herself.

She sent the deputy a text that night after Dale went to bed.

Willow: I’ll go to dinner with you.

Wallard: When?