Cross

Chapter 107

HE FINALLY ARRIVED IN STOCKBRIDGE, near the Massachusetts-New York border, and used his GPS to find the right house. He was ready to do his worst, to be the Butcher again, to earn his day's wage.

To hell with good deeds and good thoughts, whatever they were supposed to prove. He located the house, which was very "country" and, he thought, very tasteful. It sat on a tranquil pond in the middle of acres of maples and elms and pines. A black Porsche Targa was parked like a modern sculpture in the driveway.

The Butcher had been told that a forty-one-year-old woman named Melinda Steiner was at the house – but that she drove a spiffy red Mercedes convertible. So who did the black Porsche belong to?

Sullivan parked off the main road behind a copse of pines, and he watched the house for about twenty minutes. One of the things he noticed was that the garage door was closed. And maybe there was a fine red Mercedes convertible in the garage.

So – once again – who owned the black Porsche?

Careful to stay under the cover of thick branches, he put a pair of German binoculars to his eyes. Then he slowly sca

No one seemed to be in the kitchen – which was all darkened windows, no one moving about.

Or in the living room, either, which was also dark and looked deserted.

But somebody was in the house, right?

He finally found them in a corner bedroom on the second floor. Probably the master suite.

Melinda, or Mel, Steiner was up there.

And some blond dude. Probably in his early forties, presumably the owner of the Porsche.

Too many mistakes to calculate, he was thinking to himself. A real cluster-fuck of errors.

What he could also calculate was that his seventy-five-thousand-dollar fee for this job had just doubled, because he never did two for the price of one.

The Butcher started to walk toward the country house, gun in one hand, toolbox in the other, and he was feeling pretty good about this job, this day, this life he had for himself.

Chapter 108

THERE WAS VERY LITTLE IN LIFE that could beat the feeling of having confidence in your ability to do a job well. Michael Sullivan was thinking about the truth in that statement as he neared the house.

He was conscious of the amount of land surrounding the white Colonial house, three or four acres of secluded woods and fields. Off in the back he saw a te

But mostly he was focused on his work, on the job to be done, on its two working parts.

Kill someone named Melinda Sterner – and her lover, since he was definitely in the way now.

Don't get killed yourself.

No mistakes.

He slowly opened the wooden front door of the house, which wasn't locked. People did that a lot out in the country, didn't they? Mistake. And he was pretty sure he wasn't going to get much resistance once he got upstairs, either.

Still, you never know, so don't get cocky, don't get sloppy, don't get overly cute, Mikey.

He remembered the fiasco in Venice, Italy, what had happened there. The mess, and how he could have gotten tagged. La Cosa Nostra would be looking all over for him now, and one day they'd find him.

So why not today? Why not right here?

His contact for the job was an old friend, but the mob could have easily gotten to him. And then set the Butcher up.

He just didn't think so.

Not today.

The front door hadn't been locked. They would have locked it, especially if this was a trap and they wanted it to look good.

The couple he'd spotted in the bedroom had looked too natural, too much in the moment, and he didn't believe anybody – except maybe himself – was slick enough to create that kind of setup and honey trap. That couple was upstairs humping their brains and vital fluids out; there was very little doubt about it in his mind.

As he climbed the front stairs, he could hear the pleasing sounds of their screwing drifting down to him. Bedsprings coiling and releasing, the headboard hitting the bedroom wall.

Of course, it could be a recording.

But the Butcher doubted it, and his instincts were usually very, very good. They had certainly kept him alive so far, and they'd made a lot of other people dead.

Chapter 109

AS HE REACHED the second floor, his heart was beating a lot faster, the moans and assorted bed noises had gotten louder, and he started to smile in spite of himself.

Peculiar thought. He was remembering a scene in this movie called Sideways that had completely cracked him up at the time. The shorter character, who was basically a drunk, had to retrieve the other schmuck's wallet, and he needed to sneak into a bedroom where a couple of tubby lowlifes were rutting like pigs in a trough. The scene was pretty great – hilarious, totally unexpected too. Just like this was going to be. For him anyway.

So he turned a corner and peered into the bedroom, and he thought to himself, Surprise, you're both dead.

The man and woman were in pretty good shape. Well toned and athletic, nice tight asses. Kind of sexy together. Smiles on their faces.

They seemed to like each other, which made it good for them. Maybe they were in love. They definitely appeared to like the sex, which was a good, sweaty workout. The blond guy was going deep, and Melinda seemed to like it that way just fine. The whole thing was kind of a turn-on. Melinda had on white kneesocks, which Sullivan got a kick out of. Did she do it for him or for herself? he wondered.

After a minute or so of watching, he cleared his throat. Ahem, ahem. Order in the fuck-room.

The coupling couple jumped apart, which was no easy trick given the corkscrew position they'd been locked in a couple of milliseconds before.

"Wow – you two!" he said, and smiled pleasantly, as if he was here doing a survey on extramarital affairs or something. "Really going at it. I'm impressed."

He kind of liked the two of them actually, especially this Mel. No doubt about it, she was a looker for her age. Nice body and face – sweet face, he was thinking.

He even liked the way she didn't cover up and stared right back at him, like What the hell do you think you're doing here? This is my house, my affair, none of your goddamn business, whoever the hell you are. So get lost!

"You're Melinda Steiner, right?" he asked, pointing the gun at her, but not in a threatening way. What was the point of threats, of scaring them any worse than he had to? He didn't have it in for these two. They weren't the Mafia; they hadn't come gu

"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."