Cross

He managed to roll himself out from under the dead girl and then off the bed, away from the nightstand, also away from his own gun. The Butcher started to laugh. He didn't mean to disrespect the mob boss, or disrespect the dead, but Fontana had done just about everything wrong tonight. He was getting soft, which was why Sullivan had come after him first.

"Hi there, Be

He took out a scalpel that had a special edge for cutting muscle. "Actually, I need you to send a message to Mr. Maggione for me. Could you do that, Be

Chapter 50

MICHAEL SULLIVAN COULDN'T go right home to his family in Maryland, not after what he'd just done to Be

So he wandered around Georgetown for a while, looking for trouble if he could find the right kind. The thing of it was, he liked his ladies tucked in a little. He especially liked lawyers, MBAs, professor-librarian types – loved their glasses, the buttoned-down clothes, the conservative hairstyles. Always so in control of themselves.

He liked helping them lose some of that control, while blowing off a little steam of his own, relieving his stress, breaking all the rules of this dumbass society.

Georgetown was a good pickup place for him. Every other chippie he spotted on the street was a little too tightly wound. Not that there were so many to choose from, not at this time of night. But he didn't need that many choices, just one good one. And maybe he'd already spotted her. He thought so anyway.

She looked like she could be a trial attorney, dressed to impress in that smart tweed outfit of hers. The heels ticktocked a steady rhythm on the sidewalk – this way, that way, this way, that way.

In contrast, Sullivan's Nikes didn't make much noise at all. With a hooded sweatshirt, he was just another Bobo jogger out for a late-night run in the neighborhood. If someone peeked from their window, that's what they'd see.

But no one was looking, least of all Miss Tweedy. Tweedy Bird, he thought with a grin. Mistake. Hers.

She kept her stride city-fast, her leather purse and briefcase tucked like the key to the Da Vinci Code under one arm, and she stayed to the outside edge of the sidewalk – all smart moves for a woman alone on the street late at night. Her one mistake was not looking around enough, not taking in the surroundings. Not spotting the jogger who was walking behind her.

And mistakes could kill you, couldn't they?

Sullivan hung back in the shade as Tweedy passed under a streetlamp. Nice pipes and a great ass, he noted. No ring on the left hand.

The high heels kept their rhythm steady on the sidewalk for another half block; then she slowed in front of a redbrick townhouse. Nice place. Nineteenth-century. From the look of it, though, one of those buildings that had been butchered into condos on the inside.

She pulled a set of keys from her purse before she even got to the front door, and Sullivan began to time his approach. He reached into his own pocket and took out a slip of paper. A dry-cleaning ticket? It didn't really matter what it was.

As she put her key into the door, and before she pushed it open, he called out in a friendly voice. "Excuse me, miss? Excuse me? Did you drop this?"

Chapter 51

NO DUMMY, THAT TWEEDY BIRD – her mama didn't raise any foolish daughters. She knew she was in trouble immediately, but there was nothing much she could do about it in the next few seconds.

He hit the stoop fast, before she could close the glass door between them and let it lock her safely inside.

A faux gaslight on the foyer wall showed off the panic in her very pretty blue eyes.

It also illuminated the blade of the scalpel in his hand, extended out toward her face.

The Butcher wanted her to see the sharp edge so she'd be thinking about it, even more than about him. That's how it worked, and he knew it. Nearly 90 percent of people who were attacked remembered details about the weapon rather than the person wielding it.

An awkward stumble was about all Tweedy managed before he was inside the foyer door with her. Michael Sullivan positioned his back to the street, shielding her from view in case somebody happened to walk by outside. He kept the scalpel visible in one hand and snatched away her keys with the other.

" Not one word," he said, with the blade up near his lips. "And try to remember – I don't administer anesthesia with this. Don't even use topical Betadine. I just cut."

She stood on her tiptoes as she backed up against an ornately carved newel post. "Here." She thrust her small designer purse at him. "Please. It's yours. Go now."

"Not going to happen. I don't want your money. Now, listen to me. Are you listening?"

"Yes."

"You live alone?" he asked. It had the effect he wanted. Her pause gave him his answer.

"No." She tried to cover herself too late.

There were three mailboxes on the wall. Only number two had a single name: L. Brandt.

"Let's go upstairs, Miss Brandt."

"I'm not -"

"Yes, you are. No reason to lie. Now move it, before you lose it."

In less than twenty seconds, they were inside her second-floor condo. The living room, like L. Brandt herself, was neat and organized. Black-and-white photos of kissing scenes were up on the walls. Movie posters – Sleepless in Seattle, An Officer and a Gentleman. The girl was a romantic at heart. But in some ways, so was Sullivan – at least he thought so.

Her body went stiff as a two-by-four as he picked her up. She was a tiny thing; it took all of one arm to get her into the bedroom, then down on her bed, where she lay without moving.

"You're a very beautiful girl," he said. "Just lovely. Like an exquisite doll. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to see the rest of the package."

He used the scalpel to cut the buttons off that pricey tweed suit of hers. L. Brandt came undone right along with her clothes; she went from paralyzed to limp, but at least he didn't have to remind her to keep quiet.

He used his hands on her bra and panties, which were black and lacy. On a weekday, too. She didn't wear pantyhose, and her legs were just great, slender and lightly ta

"Stay with me, L. Brandt."

Something on her dresser caught his eye. Lipstick. "You know what, put some of that on. And a nice perfume. You pick something out." L. Brandt did as she was told. She knew she had no choice.

He held his cock in one hand, the scalpel in the other – a visual she would never, ever forget. Then he forced himself inside her. "I want you to play along," he said. "Fake it if you have to. I'm sure you've done that before." She did her best, arching her pelvis, moaning once or twice, just not looking at him.

"Now, look at me," he commanded. "Look at me. Look at me. Look at me. That's better." Then it was over for him. For both of them.

"A quick chat before I go," he said. "And, believe it or not, I am pla

He found her purse on the floor. Inside was what he was looking for – a driver's license and a black address book. He held the license under the bedside lamp.

"So it's Lisa. Very nice picture for government-issue. Of course, you're even prettier in real life. Now let me show you a few pictures of my own."