out of the Bauer.
Instead, he whipped out his scalpel and went to work on their faces and throats. If he'd had the time, he would have stitched up the eyes and mouths too – to send a message. Then he took a half dozen photographs of the victims, the would-be assassins, for his prized picture collection.
One day soon, the Butcher would show these photos to the person who had paid to have him killed and failed, and who was now as good as dead.
That man was John Maggione, the don himself.
Chapter 45
IN HIS MICHAEL SULLIVAN PERSONA, he had the habit of thinking things through several times, and not just his hit jobs. The lifelong habit included things about his family, small details like how and where they lived, and who knew about it. Also, images from his father's butcher shop in the Flatlands were always with him: an awning of wide stripes with the orange, white, and green of the Irish flag; the bright whiteness of the shop on the inside; the loud electric meat grinder that seemed to shake the whole building whenever it was turned on.
For this new life of his, far away from Brooklyn, he had chosen affluent, and mostly white-bread, Montgomery County in Maryland.
Specifically he had picked out the town of Potomac.
Around three on the afternoon that he arrived back from Europe, he drove at exactly twenty-five miles an hour through Potomac Village, stopping like any other good citizen at the irritatingly long light at the corner of River and Falls Roads.
More time to think, or obsess, which he usually enjoyed.
So, who had put a hit out on him? Was it Maggione? And what did it mean to him and his family? Was he safe coming home now?
One of the general 'appearances,' or 'disguises,' that he had carefully selected for his family was that of the bourgeois bohemian. The ironies of the lifestyle choice gave him constant amusement: nonfat butter, for example, and NPR always on the radio of his wife's trendy SUV; and bizarre foods – like olive-wheatgrass muffins. It was patently absurd and hilarious to the Butcher: the joys of Yuppie life that just didn't stop.
His three boys went to the private Landor School, where they hobnobbed with the mostly well-mannered, but often quite devious, children of the middle rich. There were lots of rich doctors in Montgomery County, working for NIH, the FDA, and Bethesda Naval Medical Command. So now he headed out toward Hunt County, the ritzy subdivision where he lived, and what a private hoot that was – 'Hunt County, home of the Hunter.'
And finally, there was his home, sweet home, purchased in 2002 for one point five million. Six large bedrooms, four and a half baths, heated pool, sauna, finished basement with media room. Sirius satellite radio was the latest rage with Caitlin and the boys. Sweet Caitlin, love of his straight life, who had a life coach and an intuitive healer these days – all paid for by his dubious labors on the Hunt.
Sullivan had called ahead on his cell, and there they were on the front lawn to meet and greet – waving like the big happy family that they thought they were. They had no idea, no clue that they were part of his disguise, that they were his cover story. That's all it was, right?
He hopped out of the Caddy, grinning like he was in a fast-food commercial, and sang his theme song, the old Shep and the Limelites classic 'Daddy's Home.'
'Daddy's home, your daddy's home to stay.' And Caitlin and the kids chorused, 'He's not a thousand miles a- waaay.'
His life was the best, wasn't it? Except that somebody was trying to kill him now. And of course there was always his past, the way he grew up in Brooklyn, his insane father, the Bone Man, the dreaded back room at the shop. But the Butcher tried not to think about any of that right now.
He was home again; he'd made it – and he took a nice big bow in front of his family, who, of course, cheered for their returning hero.
That's what he was, yeah, a hero.
Part Three
Chapter 46
' ALEX! HEY, YOU! How you been? Long time no see, big guy. You're looking good.'
I waved to a petite, pretty woman named Malina Freeman and kept on running. Malina was a fixture in the neighborhood, kind of like me. She was around the same age as I was and owned the newspaper store where the two of us used to spend our allowances on candy and soda when we were kids. Rumor had it that she liked me. Hey, I liked Malina too, always had.
My flapping feet kept me headed north on Fifth Street like they knew the way, and the neighborhood scrolled by. Toward Seward Square, I hung a right and took the long way around. It didn't make logical sense to go that way, but I didn't do it for logical reasons.
The news about Maria's murderer was the one thing holding me back these days. Now I was avoiding the block where it had happened and, at the same time, working hard to remember Maria as I had known her, not as I had lost her. I was also spending time every day trying to track down her killer – now that I suspected he was still out there somewhere.
I turned right on Seventh, then headed toward the National Mall, pushing a little harder. When I got to my building at Indiana Avenue, I eked out just enough wind to take the four flights up, two steps at a time.
My new office was a converted studio apartment, one large room with a small bath and an alcove kitchen off to the side. Lots of natural light streamed in through a semicircle of windows in the turreted corner.
That's where I'd set up two comfortable chairs and a small couch for therapy sessions.
Just being here got me pretty excited. I'd put out my shingle, and I was ready to see my first patient.
Three stacks of case files were waiting on my desk, two from the Bureau and another sent over from DCPD. Most of the files represented possible consulting jobs. A few crimes to solve? An occasional dead body? I guess that was realistic.
The first file I looked at was a serial case in Georgia, someone the media had dubbed 'the Midnight Caller.' Three black men were dead already, with a successively shorter interval between each homicide. It was a decent case for me, except for the six hundred miles between DC and Atlanta.
I set the file aside.
The next case was closer to home. Two history professors at the University of Maryland, perhaps intimately involved, had been found dead in a classroom. The bodies had been hung from ceiling beams. Local police had a suspect but wanted to work up a profile before they went any further.
I put that file back on my desk with a yellow sticker attached.
Yellow, for maybe.
There was a knock on my door.
'It's open,' I called out, and immediately became suspicious, paranoid, whatever it is that I am most of the time.
What had Nana said when I'd left the house earlier? Try not to get shot at.
