Cross - James Patterson [85]
We went back to the house, and at a little past five a station wagon turned into the drive and parked right in front of the porch. Was this him? Finally, the Butcher? Three boys piled out of the back; then a pretty, dark-haired woman got out of the driver’s side. It was obvious that she and the boys got along well. They roughhoused on the front lawn; then they trooped inside the house.
I had a picture of Caitlin Sullivan with me, but I didn’t need to look at it. “That’s definitely her,” I told Sampson. “We’re in the right place this time. That’s Caitlin and the Butcher’s boys.”
“He’ll spot us if we stay here,” Sampson said. “This isn’t Cops, and he’s no dumb crackhead waiting to be caught.”
“Yeah, I’m counting on it,” I said.
Chapter 111
MICHAEL SULLIVAN WASN’T ANYWHERE near the house in Western Massachusetts. At seven thirty that night, he entered a ten-bedroom home in Wellesley, a wealthy suburb outside Boston.
He was a few steps behind Melinda Steiner, who had long legs and a sweet little tush to watch. Melinda knew it, too. She also understood how to be subtle and, at the same time, nicely provocative with her wiggle-walk.
A light was on in one of the rooms off the wide front hallway—which had three chandeliers in a courtly procession, courtesy of Melinda or her decorator, no doubt.
“Sweetie, I’m home!” Melinda called out as she dropped her travel bag loudly on the highly polished floor.
Not a hint of anything wrong in her voice. No alarm or warning, no edge, nothing but wifely bonhomie.
She’s pretty damn good, Sullivan couldn’t help thinking to himself. Glad I’m not married to her.
No greeting came back from the room where the TV was on. Not a peep.
“Honey?” she called again. “You in there? Honey? I’m home from the country. Jerry?”
This ought to surprise the bastard for sure. Honey, I’m home! Honey, I’m still alive!
A fatigued-looking man in a wrinkled pinstriped dress shirt, boxer shorts, and electric-blue flip-flops finally appeared in the doorway.
Now—he’s a pretty good actor, too. Like nothing in the whole wide world could be wrong.
Until right about now, when he sees the Butcher walking stride for stride behind his beloved wife, whom he’s just tried to murder at their country house.
“Hey, you. Who is this, Mel? What’s going on?” Jerry asked as he saw Sullivan standing there in the hallway.
The Butcher already had his gun out, and it was pointed at the guy in his underwear, aimed at his balls, but then Sullivan moved it up to the heart, if the conniving bastard had one. Murder your wife? What kind of cold, cold shit was that?
“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