"Change of plans," Sullivan said. "What can I tell you? It happens."
The husband, Jerry, put his hands up in the air without being asked. He was also coming wide awake – in kind of a big hurry.
"What are you talking about? What is this, Mel? Why is this man in our house? Who the hell is he?"
A classic line and a dynamite delivery.
Now it was Melinda's turn to say her piece, and she decided to shout her answer.
"He's the one who was supposed to kill me, Jerry! You paid to have me murdered, you miserable piece of shit! You are total worthless garbage, and you're a coward too. So I paid him more to have you hit. That's what this is, honey. I guess you could call him a switch-hitter," she said, and laughed at her own joke.
Nobody else did – not Jerry and not Sullivan. It was kind of funny actually, but not laugh-out-loud funny. Or maybe her delivery was wrong, a touch too harsh, a little too much of the truth in it.
The husband jumped back into the TV room and tried to pull shut the door, but it wasn't even a contest.
The Butcher was quick and had a foot, a work boot, wedged in the doorway. Then he put his shoulder to it and followed Jerry right inside.
Jerry, the original contractor, was a tall, potbellied CEO-or CFO-type dude who was balding up top. The den smelled of his body odor and a cigar smoldering in an ashtray by the couch. A two-ball putter and a couple of Titleist spheroids lay on the rug. A man's man, this guy who had paid to have his wife killed and now was practicing his putting to show he didn't have the yips.
"I'll pay you more than she can!" Jerry squealed. "Whatever that bitch paid, I'll double it! I swear to God! The money's there. It's yours."
Wow – this is getting better and better, thought Sullivan. It brought new meaning to a game like Jeopardy! – or Let's Make a Deal.
"You total piece of crap!" Melinda snarled at her husband from the doorway. Then she ran in and smacked him in the chops. Sullivan still thought that she was a cool lady in a lot of ways, though not in some others.
He looked at the husband again. Then he looked at Melinda. Interesting couple, to be sure.
"I agree with Melinda," said the Butcher. "But Jerry does have a point, Mel. Maybe we should have a little auction here. You think? Let's talk this out like adults. No more hitting or name-calling."
Chapter 112
TWO HOURS LATER, the auction was complete, and Michael Sullivan was driving on the Massachusetts Turnpike in his Lexus. The car could move reasonably well, and the ride was smooth as a baby's ass, or maybe he was just feeling good.
There were a few loose details to work out, but the job was done. Let's Make a Deal had netted him three hundred and fifty thousand, all of it wired into an account at the Union Bank of Switzerland. Truth be told, he hadn't felt this financially secure in a while, though he'd probably burned his Boston contact for the job. Maybe he'd have to move the family again too. Or maybe it was time for him to break free and set off on his own, something he'd been thinking about a lot.
It was probably worth it – three hundred fifty grand for a day's work. Jerry Steiner had been the winning bidder, but then he tapped the dumb, obnoxious bastard anyway. Melinda was a different story. He liked her, didn't want to hurt her. But what choice did he have? Leave her around to talk? So he made it painless – one to the back of Mel's head. Then a couple of pictures to memorialize her pretty face for his collection.
Anyway, he was singing a Stones ballad that he'd always liked, "Wild Horses," when he came around the bend in the road. There was his house on the hill, right where he'd left it.
And – what the hell was this?
Mistake?
But whose mistake?
He shut off his headlights around the next little crook in the road. Then he eased into a cul-de-sac, where he had a better view of his house and the grounds.
Man, he couldn't catch a break lately. Couldn't outrun his past no matter how far away he went.
He'd spotted them right away, in a dark-blue car, maybe a Dodge, with the grille pointed toward the house like a gun. Two men inside that he could see. Waiting for him, no doubt about that.
Mistake.
Theirs!
But who the hell were these two guys he had to kill now?
Chapter 113
WELL, IT DIDN'T MUCH MATTER. They were two dead men – dead over nothing, dead because they were miserable screwups at their jobs. Dead men watching his house, come to kill him and his family.
Sullivan had a three-year-old Winchester in the trunk of the car, which he kept cleaned, oiled, and ready to go. He popped the trunk, took out the long gun. Then he loaded it up with hollow-points.
He didn't quite have the skills to be an army sniper, but he was plenty good enough for this kind of bushwhacking.
He set up in the woods between a couple of tall, fluffy evergreens that provided a canopy of extra cover. Then he took a quick look through the nightscope. It had a bull's-eye rather than a sight post, which was the way he liked it. Actually, it was Jimmy Hats who had taught him to be a long-distance marksman. Jimmy had been trained at Fort Bragg in North Carolina, before his dishonorable discharge.
He let the bull's-eye rest right on the driver's head, and he lightly touched the trigger with his finger. This was going to be easy, not a problem for him.
Then he shifted his aim to the head of the guy in the passenger seat. Whoever these two were, they were definitely DOA.
As soon as it was over, he'd have to gather up the family and boogie on out of here. No contact again with their past. That was the mistake, wasn't it? Somebody from ancient history they had kept in contact with? Maybe Caitlin's family in New Jersey. Somebody had probably tracked a phone call. He'd bet anything that's what had happened.
Mistake, mistake, mistake.
And Caitlin would keep making them, wouldn't she? Which meant Caitlin had to go. He didn't want to think too much about it, but Caitlin was a goner too. Unless he just took off by himself.
Lots of decisions to make. Not much time to make them.
He set the bull's-eye back on the driver's head. He was ready for two shots, and both men in the car were dead. They just didn't know it yet.
He slowly let out a breath until his body was calm and still and ready to do this.
He had a sense of his own heartbeat – slow, steady, confident; slow, steady, confident.
Then he pulled the trigger – and heard a sharp, satisfying crack in the night air.
An instant later, he pulled the rifle's trigger a second time.
Then a third and a fourth time.
That should do it.
The killing was done, and he had to get the hell out of here, pronto. With or without Caitlin and the boys.
But first he needed to know who he'd just killed and maybe take some pictures of the deceased.
Chapter 114
SAMPSON AND I WATCHED the Butcher approach the car. He was being stealthy all right, but maybe he wasn't as good as he thought he was. He moved in quickly, bent low in a shooting crouch, ready for resistance if it came.
He was about to find out that he'd shot up a pile of propped-up clothes and throw pillows from the local Wal-Mart. Sampson and I were crouched in the woods less than thirty yards behind the car he'd just ambushed. So who was better at this game? The Butcher or us?
"Your call, Alex, how it goes from here," Sampson whispered out of the side of his mouth.
"Don't kill him, John," I said, and touched Sampson's arm. "Unless we have to. Just take him down."