Page 73 of Long Pig

She clung to that image.

A low hum slipped from her throat, tuneless and cracked. It wasn’t joy. The rhythm of whisking and humming kept time with her heartbeat. She had never shown defiance in prison and had followed the rules almost blindly. The women did horrible things, mostly to each other. Willow had avoided the twisted games as much as possible, but several flashed in her memory. Urine and feces were used, along with bloody pads. No, she wouldn’t do anything to the cake. She would need to eat it to keep his attention on her. But walking meekly to her death was no longer part of the person she was now. Dale had given her so much by sharing his knowledge and trust.

She couldn’t kill Butch unless he was in reach, or she would die chained in the house before anyone found her. She had to shoot him when he was close.

She forced herself to focus on the cake recipe she’d memorized from one of the vegetarian cookbooks Joan leftbehind. Her mind turned inward when she slipped the cake into the oven. Panic waited at the edges of her consciousness and whispered about what would happen when he came back.

She pictured her grandmother hiding the ammo and making the cake. Joan would do exactly what Willow had done. She could almost hear her whisper:

Survive.

???

Dale

The sense that he was missing something wouldn’t leave Dale alone. He’d reviewed every scrap of evidence they’d collected. His mind kept traveling back to Cindy Mills. He meticulously examined each page of her copied file.

She’d most likely hitchhiked and died because of it. Her behavior was dangerous even then. More dangerous now. He’d had a hitchhiking case early in his career as a deputy. The woman was beat badly when she didn’t pay up to the trucker’s expectations. The victim gave a good description of the man, but couldn’t give clues about the truck other than it was white and had a sleeper cab. Tracing the truck records was impossible because the driver left Interstate 40 and traveled through the Navajo reservation. He was never caught.

Never caught.

Dale inhaled deeply.

Truckers picked up hitchhikers. They were considered safe, or at least safer than the average Joe Blow. They had a DNA hit from Cindy’s death so long ago.

Billy Higgens, an old man who Dale interviewed about the remains Willow found, lived on the ranch and had a lot tosay. Dale rushed to the desk in the front room and pulled out his notes.

“Only guy I know in my area is that trucker, Larry. He stays to himself like most of us out here. Tried to talk to him once in town, but he didn’t give me the time of day. He’s been around longer than me, and you could try talking to him.”

Dale went to Larry’s house and knocked on the door, but no one answered. The place was buttoned up tight, and Dale figured he was out on a job. The guy had a nice setup, and he kept it up to date. Most places on the ranch collected everything from old cars to junk washers and toilets. Larry’s property was pristine. Dale went back a few days later, but there was still no answer. He didn’t return.

When he and Willow met the guy while hiking, they both had an unsettled feeling afterward. Dale knew the man had lived on the ranch longer than most but he hadn’t put it together until now.

A trucker.

The bones.

“Fuck,” Dale said aloud.

Chapter Forty-Nine

Delicious Death

Butch

He was in a good mood when he drove back to his property. For the first time in his life, someone waited for him and had promised to bake a cake. His mother didn’t even bake cakes for his birthday; she bought the cheap ones, which were usually too sweet and didn’t taste good.

When Butch walked inside, he immediately noticed the chemical smell. He didn’t see Willow. Cold anger ran through him, and then her head popped up.

“I know it was presumptuous of me, but I finished the cake and needed something to occupy my time. I’m cleaning your cupboards.” She hesitated, maybe sensing his anger. “I put everything back where it belonged,” she rushed. “I only washed the insides with the cleaner you had under the sink.” Another hesitation. “I’m sorry,” she said with a slight tremble in her voice.

Butch relaxed his shoulders and walked around the island and into the kitchen. She had a neat stack of pots and panspulled out, a small water-filled tub on the floor, and a rag in her hand.

He wasn’t sure where his irritation came from, but although she had been through most of the cabinets, the cleaningwaspresumptuous of her.

He prided himself on keeping an immaculate environment.

Butch held the rifle in his left hand. He removed the cartridges and pocketed them. Without saying anything, he stepped around Willow and the pans to rest the rifle in the corner. It was more to calm himself than anything else.