The Butcher by Jennifer Hillier Page A

tell his grandson’s girlfriend, when the time came. Maybe everything. It would certainly make for a bestseller. The Butcher would make her career, just as the Butcher had made his.
    Glancing at the clock on the wall, Edward sighed. Twelve fifteen a.m. It was official. He was restless. What he wouldn’t give for a cigar, but Sweetbay Village had a strict no-smoking policy. If he wanted to smoke, he’d have to go outside.
    He didn’t sleep much. He’d never needed much sleep, even in his prime, and at his age now, he felt like he needed it less than ever. While the body was beginning to shut down—bad hip, arthritic hands, creaky knees—his brain was as sharp as ever, maybe sharper. Christ, had it really been fifteen years since he’d retired? He’d done some consulting forthe department for a year afterward and then a little private sector stuff, but he hadn’t worked in a very long time.
    And goddammit, he was bored.
    The itch was coming back.
    He’d managed to squash it after Rufus Wedge was put down. He’d gotten rid of his souvenirs, burying everything but the cleaver in a safe spot he thought nobody would ever find until he was ready. But the itch hadn’t gone away overnight. In fact, he’d slipped a few times. Okay, more than a few, but then he’d managed to quash it until Marisol.
    But now the itch was beginning to come back. That damn itch, screaming out for relief, consuming him with desire. It was like being horny, only a hundred times more amplified. And he knew that soon, it would be time to scratch it properly. He would need the release, and there would be no other alternative. There never had been.
    Lucy . How he missed her.
    A noise in the hallway brought him out of his chair, and he winced at the dull pain that bloomed in his hip as he stood up. Stepping toward the door, he leaned into the peephole. Old Greg Bonner was shuffling by, using his cane. Though the sound was mostly muffled on the carpeted floors, Edward could still hear him.
    His old plaid robe was hanging on the back of his chair, and Edward slipped it on, tying the belt tight around his waist. Where was old Bonner going this time of night? Every room had its own full bathroom, so the only place Bonner could be headed was to the kitchen for a late-night snack. The Village kept a pantry and a fridge stocked with readily available snacks of all varieties—fruit, yogurt, cookies, crackers, cheese. Residents could help themselves. Bonner was probably hungry.
    He opened the door and peeked down the hallway. Bonner was gone, and Edward stepped out, shutting the door quietly behind him,not bothering to lock it. He made his way down the short hallway to the elevator and pressed the down button.
    A second later he was on the main floor, and sure enough, he could hear Bonner’s cane thumping from somewhere close to the kitchen. Moving soundlessly over the carpet in his socked feet, Edward found Bonner in the kitchen, cane resting against the center island, bald head buried deep inside the massive stainless steel refrigerator.
    Three strides and Edward was behind him. Looking back in surprise, Bonner’s mouth had barely opened to say hello before Edward grabbed the man by the throat. One deep breath, then Edward banged the man’s head into the granite counter. Forcefully. Authoritatively. With a satisfying thud. In a moment like this, there was no room for half-assedness.
    One hit was all it took. Bonner immediately sank to the tiled floor, blood streaming out of the wound in his right temple. Edward stood still, ears cocked for any strange sounds, watching as the life seeped out of Greg Bonner’s face. His eyes were wide open, his mouth a flat O of surprise.
    It didn’t matter who it was—old, young, male, female, healthy, sick—people always looked the same way when they died. Bonner stared up at him with rheumy eyes, and then slowly his gaze became unfocused. And