didn’t derail you.” They had often joked about their disparate experiences in culinary education.
Nicole pulled into the parking lot at the foothills of the Santa Monica mountains. The hiking trails were a favorite destination of Nicole’s in her free time. With Sal by her side, and the comforting feel of a knife strapped to her calf, she had roamed the trails to physically exhaust herself and to drive anxiety from her body. She often felt she could see the stress and tension lift from her body and evaporate into the trees and dry air of the mountains.
“Long or short?” Tristan asked Nicole as they got out of the Acura and Sal did a long stretch. His tail wagged in anticipation of the hike.
They had a variety of trails they liked to walk, but usually chose between the long trail, which was just over seven miles, and the short trail, which was about half that. It all depended on how much time they had.
“Long,” Nicole said. “Does that sound good?”
“I’ve got nothing going on until drinks with Kimberley at five,” Tristan said. Kimberley was Tristan’s partner. They had been together for nearly five years. Kimberley was a vice cop with LAPD and gotten counseling from Tristan after a bloody shootout had left three people dead. Long after the counseling sessions were over, something more had developed between the two.
Nicole shut and locked the Acura, hooked Sal up to his thick leash and checked the sky.
When they had started out this morning, the sky had been bright and clear, but now, a thick strand of dark gray seemed to be heading toward the mountain, and a tickle of cold air brushed Nicole’s face.
Sudden storms weren’t exactly commonplace for this area, but she was prepared with a poncho in her backpack.
The three headed for the mouth of the trail, and Nicole felt a chill as the air temperature seemed to drop with every step.
20.
The Butcher
Business had never been better. In the last few years, people had grown more and more concerned about chemicals, additives and preservatives in their meat. Organic food had never been hotter. Thanks to clever positioning, Skittlecorn Meats was seeing nearly double-digit growth every six months.
Ray Skittlecorn got a kick out of the whole thing. He hadn’t so much chosen his profession as it had chosen him. That moment in sixth grade, the first dissection in Zoology class he’d nearly shot a wad into his Fruit of the Looms. Maybe it had a little bit to do with his dissection partner, Lori Tolke, whose sixth grade breasts were large, perfect orbs pressed against the soft cloth of her Kmart t-shirt. But even then Roy Skittlecorn knew it had even more to do with slicing up something that had just been alive. Killing and then dismantling the frog was one of the most pivotal moments in his life.
And now, as he unlocked the back door to Skittlecorn Meats, he was amused by the compliments he received regarding his prophetic vision for the future of the food industry.
Truth was, he had no vision. He liked to kill things and cut them up, plain and simple. Being a butcher had always been the perfect answer.
He stepped inside his shop and disabled the alarm. He turned on the lights, activated the master power switch for his equipment. The cutting room was his sanctuary, second only to the small, home workshop he kept behind a locked door in his basement.
He felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. Something suddenly didn’t feel right. His eyes slowly canvassed the prep room and he saw nothing unusual. But still, he felt something strange inside him, a vague sense of unease.
He pushed his way through the double doors into the front of the shop where he served his customers.
He had been right, he thought, as he stopped.
Someone had been here.
Roy Skittlecorn looked at the pig head placed on top of the glass display case. It faced him directly, positioned that way for maximum effect, he knew instinctively. It was the kind of thing he himself would have
Nicole pulled into the parking lot at the foothills of the Santa Monica mountains. The hiking trails were a favorite destination of Nicole’s in her free time. With Sal by her side, and the comforting feel of a knife strapped to her calf, she had roamed the trails to physically exhaust herself and to drive anxiety from her body. She often felt she could see the stress and tension lift from her body and evaporate into the trees and dry air of the mountains.
“Long or short?” Tristan asked Nicole as they got out of the Acura and Sal did a long stretch. His tail wagged in anticipation of the hike.
They had a variety of trails they liked to walk, but usually chose between the long trail, which was just over seven miles, and the short trail, which was about half that. It all depended on how much time they had.
“Long,” Nicole said. “Does that sound good?”
“I’ve got nothing going on until drinks with Kimberley at five,” Tristan said. Kimberley was Tristan’s partner. They had been together for nearly five years. Kimberley was a vice cop with LAPD and gotten counseling from Tristan after a bloody shootout had left three people dead. Long after the counseling sessions were over, something more had developed between the two.
Nicole shut and locked the Acura, hooked Sal up to his thick leash and checked the sky.
When they had started out this morning, the sky had been bright and clear, but now, a thick strand of dark gray seemed to be heading toward the mountain, and a tickle of cold air brushed Nicole’s face.
Sudden storms weren’t exactly commonplace for this area, but she was prepared with a poncho in her backpack.
The three headed for the mouth of the trail, and Nicole felt a chill as the air temperature seemed to drop with every step.
20.
The Butcher
Business had never been better. In the last few years, people had grown more and more concerned about chemicals, additives and preservatives in their meat. Organic food had never been hotter. Thanks to clever positioning, Skittlecorn Meats was seeing nearly double-digit growth every six months.
Ray Skittlecorn got a kick out of the whole thing. He hadn’t so much chosen his profession as it had chosen him. That moment in sixth grade, the first dissection in Zoology class he’d nearly shot a wad into his Fruit of the Looms. Maybe it had a little bit to do with his dissection partner, Lori Tolke, whose sixth grade breasts were large, perfect orbs pressed against the soft cloth of her Kmart t-shirt. But even then Roy Skittlecorn knew it had even more to do with slicing up something that had just been alive. Killing and then dismantling the frog was one of the most pivotal moments in his life.
And now, as he unlocked the back door to Skittlecorn Meats, he was amused by the compliments he received regarding his prophetic vision for the future of the food industry.
Truth was, he had no vision. He liked to kill things and cut them up, plain and simple. Being a butcher had always been the perfect answer.
He stepped inside his shop and disabled the alarm. He turned on the lights, activated the master power switch for his equipment. The cutting room was his sanctuary, second only to the small, home workshop he kept behind a locked door in his basement.
He felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. Something suddenly didn’t feel right. His eyes slowly canvassed the prep room and he saw nothing unusual. But still, he felt something strange inside him, a vague sense of unease.
He pushed his way through the double doors into the front of the shop where he served his customers.
He had been right, he thought, as he stopped.
Someone had been here.
Roy Skittlecorn looked at the pig head placed on top of the glass display case. It faced him directly, positioned that way for maximum effect, he knew instinctively. It was the kind of thing he himself would have
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