Page 50 of Long Pig

Though Butch knew he could outsmart law enforcement, he remained wary, and that’s why it had taken longer than he wanted to. Butch had studied Ted Bundy, John Wayne Gacy, Jeffrey Dahmer, whom he’d given special interest to, and Gary Ridgway, who killed forty-nine women and was caught years later due to DNA. Butch had been smart, except for Cindy.

Killing the deputy was taking a gamble, and he’d had to think long and hard on it. Butch wasn’t like the other killers. Those men had one thing in common: They thought they were smarter than those who hunted them. As time passed, they grew stupid in their quest for notoriety.

Butch never wanted infamy, and had planned accordingly since the beginning. His victims until Chris Lanston were never found. Willow was part of what could bring him down, but he didn’t blame her.

The deputy made Butch’s need for secrecy harder. Many things could go wrong, and after he pulled the trigger, he had to collect the body. It would be tricky, but he couldn’t pass up the perfect opportunity.

He settled the .308 on his shoulder. The rifle’s weight was a familiar pressure against his cheek with the stock resting at the base of his jaw. The bolt’s smooth, cold metal slid back with a dry click, the cartridge seating with a soft metallic thud. A slight wind blew gently through the dead grass. His slow breaths were the only other sound in his ears.

Through the sight, the world narrowed to a single frame where the edges blurred.

The deputy stood half in shadow. The sight settled as Butch placed the body in the crosshair of the scope. All that existed was the hair-trigger and the man who would die.

Butch’s heartbeat remained steady, and his breath slow as he counted between each inhale and exhale. His fingers loosened around the forestock. A pragmatic taste he couldn’t describe filled the back of his throat. As his rifle tuned to a single note of death, this became a sacred moment.

The deputy shifted and glanced in Butch’s direction like he knew he was there. The world became a pinpoint of clarity for a sliver of a second. His finger kissed the trigger. For a breath, Butch allowed himself to remember those who came before. He’d killed in so many ways, but this time it felt even more amazing than killing Cindy.

He pressed the trigger gently, and the rifle spoke once.

The deputy fell, half his head missing.

Chapter Thirty-Four

The Final Death

Willow

The blacktop stretched before her on Highway 60. Willow had been driving for an hour. She checked the time on her cell every minute. The slowly changing numbers made her heartbeat quicken. Each mile pulled her closer to Deputy Wallard, to the moment she’d been dreading for two days. She could have delayed the meeting, but Dale knew something was horribly wrong, and she didn’t think she could fool him any longer.

Her grip on the wheel tightened. She couldn’t loosen it, and her fingers were white with tension. Fear ran through her veins. It was an icy reminder that Wallard controlled this, just as the prison guards had. Fury burned with a hot, relentless burn deep inside her. Her breath came in short, ragged bursts. Willow hated him. Hated that she was doing exactly what he wanted her to do.

Her eyes flicked to the rearview mirror again and again, scanning the empty stretch behind her, half-expecting Dale’s truck to appear. Only her reflection stared back. She barelyrecognized her pale face and wide-eyed dread. Her expression was that of a cornered animal.

She reached toward the console with a shaking hand, wanting so badly to brush her fingers over the cold steel tucked inside. She wasn’t sure if it was courage to produce the gun, but the thought of him seeing her empty-handed was unbearable. If he pushed her too far, if he tried to tighten his grip one more turn, she wasn’t sure what she would do.

The high desert turned into tall pine trees, and pressed close on either side of the road.

Her pulse drummed in her ears as the turnoff appeared. She eased off the accelerator, and her heart hammered so loud she thought it might rattle the windows. Deputy Wallard waited ahead. The near state of pure panic clouded her vision. The field of pine trees that lined the road made it worse. She started hyperventilating for a moment, and had to consciously slow her breathing.

Her only hope was that the deputy would grow tired of his sick game and leave her in peace after he had what he wanted. She saw the black truck that Wallard had described in a text message, pulled to the side of the road. With another deep inhale and exhale to calm herself, she pulled off the road behind it.

The part of her that spent so long in prison took over. A cold void of nothingness would protect her from reality again. She turned off the engine and sat for a moment. She didn’t see the back of Wallard’s head in the truck, and he didn’t approach her window.

Emptiness swelled in her chest as she opened the door. Her foot landed on soft pine needles. Long brown grass around the pine trees swayed gently in the wind. She walked forward, and still didn’t see the deputy. She circled the front of his truck and peered around the opposite side.

Willow froze.

Lying face down on the ground with a pool of blood surrounding his head was Deputy Wallard. Willow blinked and tried to make sense of what lay before her. After a minute, she took a step closer, then froze again.

She had to call Dale. He would know what to do. The panic bubbling inside her felt different now. She hadn’t killed Wallard, but she was here with the body after she agreed to meet him.

A soft click sent terror racing through her.

She turned and came face to face with the barrel of a rifle and a familiar face.

“Hello Willow,” he said softly. “I find it strange that you’re here. I believe this is what people call fate.”

“You’re Larry,” she said, trying to keep the tremor from her words.