"Yes. I'm Melinda Steiner. Who are you? What do you want here?"
She was definitely kind of feisty but not being totally obnoxious about it. Hell, this was her house, and she had a right to know what he was doing here.
He took a few quick strides into the room and -
Pop!
Pop!
He shot the blond male in the throat and forehead, and he dropped off the bed onto the Indian-style area rug on the floor. So much for keeping in good shape so that you live longer.
Melinda put both hands to her mouth and gasped out loud. "Oh my God." But she didn't scream, which meant this was mostly about the sex. They were screwing, but the two of them weren't in love, not even close. Watching her face now, he didn't even think she liked Blondie all that much.
"Good girl, Melinda. You're thinking on your feet. He didn't feel a thing. No pain, I promise."
"He was my architect," she said, then quickly added, "I don't know why I told you that."
"You're just nervous. Who wouldn't be? You've probably already figured out that I'm here to kill you, not your former lover."
He was standing about three feet from the woman, and his gun was pointed in the general direction of her heart. She seemed in pretty good control of herself though – very impressive to him. Sullivan's kind of girl. Maybe she should be the head of the mob. Maybe he would put her name up for the job.
He definitely liked her, and he had the sudden thought that he didn't much like her husband. He sat down on the bed with the gun still on her – well, on her left tit actually.
"Mel, here's the thing. Your husband sent me here to kill you. He paid seventy-five thousand dollars," he said. "I'm improvising here, but do you have access to your own money? Maybe we could work out some kind of a deal. Is that an option?"
"Yes," she said. "It is." That was all.
A deal was struck a couple of minutes later, and his fee quadrupled. Lot of crazy people out there in the world – no wonder Desperate Housewives was so popular, he couldn't help thinking.
Chapter 110
SAMPSON AND I HADN'T BEEN to Massachusetts in a few years, not since we'd chased a madman killer named "Mr. Smith" in a case code-named Cat and Mouse. Mr. Smith had probably been the most cunning of all the psychopaths we had tracked to that point. He almost murdered me. So not a lot of happy memories for us as we rode in Sampson's car from DC toward the Berkshires.
On the way, we stopped off for an out-of-this-world dinner and some congenial bullshit at my cousin Jimmy Parker's restaurant, the Red Hat, in Irvington, New York. Mmm, mmm good. Otherwise, this trip was all business. We went alone, with no backup. I still wasn't sure what I planned to do if I found the Butcher. If we found him; if he hadn't already fled.
We listened to some old Lauryn Hill and Erykah Badu tapes on the road and didn't discuss Michael Sullivan much, not until we reached the end of the Connecticut Turnpike and crossed over into Massachusetts.
"So what are we doing here, John?" I finally broke the ice on the subject.
"Chasing the bad guy, same as always," he said. "Nothing's changed, has it? Guy's a killer, a rapist. You're the Dragon Slayer. I'm along for the ride."
"Just me and you, huh? No call to the local police? No FBI in on this? You know, we just crossed a state line."
Sampson nodded. "I figure this time it's personal. Am I wrong about that? Plus, he deserves to die, if it comes to that, which it just might. Probably will."
"It's personal all right. It's never been more personal. This has been bubbling over for a long time. It needs to end. But -"
"No b uts, Alex. We need to put an end to him."
We rode along in silence for another few miles. But I had to talk this out a little more with Sampson. We had to set some kind of rules of engagement.
"I'm not going to just take him out – if he's up here. I'm not a vigilante, John."
"I know that," said Sampson. "I know who you are, Alex. If anybody does. Let's see how it plays. Maybe he's not even here."
We arrived in the town of Florida, Massachusetts, at around two that afternoon; then we went looking for the house where we hoped to find Michael Sullivan once and for all. I could feel the tension really building inside me now. It took us another half hour to locate the place, which was built on the side of a mountain overlooking a river. We watched the house, and nobody seemed to be there. Had someone tipped off Sullivan again?
If it had happened, who would have done it? The FBI? Was he in Witness Protection after all? Was the FBI watching his back? Were they the ones who told him we might be coming for him?
We drove into the town center and had lunch at a Denny's. Sampson and I didn't talk much over our eggs and potatoes, which was unusual for us.
"You all right?" he finally asked, once the coffee had arrived.
"If we get him, I'll be better. This has to end, though. You're right about that."
"Then let's go do it."
We went back to the house, and at a little past five a station wagon turned into the drive and parked right in front of the porch. Was this him? Finally, the Butcher? Three boys piled out of the back; then a pretty, dark-haired woman got out of the driver's side. It was obvious that she and the boys got along well. They roughhoused on the front lawn; then they trooped inside the house.
I had a picture of Caitlin Sullivan with me, but I didn't need to look at it. "That's definitely her," I told Sampson. "We're in the right place this time. That's Caitlin and the Butcher's boys."
"He'll spot us if we stay here," Sampson said. "This isn't Cops, and he's no dumb crackhead waiting to be caught."
"Yeah, I'm counting on it," I said.
Chapter 111
MICHAEL SULLIVAN WASN'T ANYWHERE near the house in Western Massachusetts. At seven thirty that night, he entered a ten-bedroom home in Wellesley a wealthy suburb outside Boston.
He was a few steps behind Melinda Steiner, who had long legs and a sweet little tush to watch. Melinda knew it, too. She also understood how to be subtle and, at the same time, nicely provocative with her wiggle-walk.
A light was on in one of the rooms off the wide front hallway – which had three chandeliers in a courtly procession, courtesy of Melinda or her decorator, no doubt.
"Sweetie, I'm home!" Melinda called out as she dropped her travel bag loudly on the highly polished floor.
Not a hint of anything wrong in her voice. No alarm or warning, no edge, nothing but wifely bonhomie.
She's pretty damn good, Sullivan couldn't help thinking to himself. Glad I'm not married to her.
No greeting came back from the room where the TV was on. Not a peep.
"Honey?" she called again. "You in there? Honey? I'm home from the country. Jerry?"
This ought to surprise the bastard for sure. Honey, I'm home! Honey, I'm still alive!
A fatigued-looking man in a wrinkled pinstriped dress shirt, boxer shorts, and electric-blue flip-flops finally appeared in the doorway.
Now – he's a pretty good actor, too. Like nothing in the whole wide world could be wrong.
Until right about now, when he sees the Butcher walking stride for stride behind his beloved wife, whom he's just tried to murder at their country house.
"Hey, you. Who is this, Mel? What's going on?" Jerry asked as he saw Sullivan standing there in the hallway.
The Butcher already had his gun out, and it was pointed at the guy in his underwear, aimed at his balls, but then Sullivan moved it up to the heart, if the conniving bastard had one. Murder your wife? What kind of cold, cold shit was that?