Page 71 of Long Pig
When Coyotes Don’t Cry
Willow
While she lay on the bed throughout the long night, doubt set in. She slept fitfully even though exhaustion haunted her.
Had he believed her? She’d been right about Butch looking up her case. It had been big news back then. She dozed, but as soon as she jerked awake, her thoughts turned to what Butch did to the deputy. He’d worn an expression of pure bliss while he dismembered Wallard.
Her thoughts went to the remains she found. They were one of Butch’s kills. He drove a truck for a living and had opportunity. How many souls did this property hold? She hadn’t seen inside the door she thought was a bathroom, but Butch explained it was a walk-in freezer. Slabs of Deputy Wallard rested inside now, along with others.
He told her that some of the meat would be cut into strips and smoked. His insanity held sick reason. He didn’t rant or rave; he believed in what he did. That made it worse. Madnesswrapped in logic was harder to fight. To survive, she had to pretend his insanity made sense.
She would need to kill him. The thought didn’t scare her. It was his life or hers, and she was ready for the fight.
He watched her closely all the time. She could feel his eyes even now as she lay in the dark. It was impossible to know when he slept, but that was okay. She had mentally cataloged the implements while he committed his atrocity. There were knives and saws. Upstairs held knives, too, and the rifle. It wouldn’t be loaded, but the bullets were somewhere close. She hadn’t seen cameras up there.
Would he leave her alone? The first part of her plan had worked. She no longer wore the chain. Every small give on his end was a test. She was determined to pass each of them.
She thought about Dale and how worried he had to be. If she didn’t survive, he would care for Max and Daisy. Roger and Louisa would look out for him, Lucia, too. Tears welled in her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall.
???
Dale
Max’s freakout had happened three days before. It still unsettled him, and Dale couldn’t stop thinking about it. Had the dog been dreaming about Willow? Max and Daisy both had dreams and enjoyed chasing rabbits. Their legs ran in place, and he and Willow had laughed about it often.
But Max’s reaction was still strange.
There were no new leads. Each hour that passed gnawed at Dale’s gut. He had copies of the reports, and he studied them each evening. There were statements, photos, and timelinesthat went nowhere. The details were starting to blur his reality. Willow was still gone, and he had no idea where to look next.
Somewhere out there, she was scared. Or dead.
He pressed his hands to his face, elbows digging into his knees, and forced himself to breathe. He’d been a cop long enough to know how this story usually ended. Still, he couldn’t stop seeing her laugh, couldn’t stop hearing her voice when she’d teased him about the slight bowleg of his walk or the way he took his coffee. The sound haunted him more than the silence.
Everywhere he looked reminded him of her. The mug she used, the new vegan cookbooks, the small touches she’d added to the house. He stood and walked to her room. His chest was tight with anger. Despair tangled so deep he could barely breathe.
The room stood silent. Max followed and walked inside, sniffing around the bed much like he sniffed the wind after his howling fit. Dale turned and went outside, where the night swallowed him.
The stars hung motionless. The earlier wind had died, leaving an awful stillness behind, with no rustle of grass or hum of insects. Not even the coyotes cried. Just silence that pressed against him until he whispered her name. But the word was carried away by the emptiness, leaving him standing alone beneath a moon that gave nothing back.
He’d failed her. He’d failed Joan.
Dale fell to his knees and covered his eyes as tears tracked down his cheeks. He could count the number of times he’d cried on one hand. So much devastation had encompassed his career, and there was never a time or place for tears. His shoulders shook with grief. He was giving up, and he hated himself for it.
Max’s body pushed against his, and he looked into the deep brown eyes. Sad eyes. He placed his hand on the dog’s back and rose to his feet.
Something pricked his mind, but the silken threads didn’t go anywhere. He needed sleep desperately. He would review every detail again tomorrow and call Russel and Deputy Taylor. Hell, he would drive out to the scene and do another search.
He fell asleep thinking about Cindy’s file.
Willow did not deserve the same ending.
Chapter Forty-Eight
A Recipe For Death
Butch
Willow watched him work but didn’t ask questions. It would soon be apparent that he was enlarging her prison. He’d made her hot chocolate again after she took her morning shower. Over the past two days, she had cooked all the meals.