The Butcher's Son Read online

  Ian rewrapped the gun in its greasy rag and returned it to the drawer before slipping the locket and watch into his pocket. He would study the watch later; see if he could get it working again.

  Closing the safe, he spun the dial and stood. Instead of answers, the safe had, if anything, contained more questions. As a young boy, Ian had day dreamed about what his grandfather must keep in there, his childish imagination drifting from a magical, wish-granting lamp to giant bags of his favorite, mouth puckering, salted black licorice.

  An image filled his mind of his grandfather bent over the safe, staring back at him angrily as though he had walked in on something he wasn’t meant to see.

  “Git out of here, boy.”

  “I’m just playing, Grandpa.”

  “You’re too old for games. Go sweep the floors.”

  “That’s no fun. I’m being an astronaut and this is Mars. What you doing?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Can I help?”

  “No. Go upstairs.”

  “Is it a secret?”

  “Yes. Safes hold secrets. That’s what they’re made for.”

  “Why are you moving it?”

  “Git out. Now!”

  Ian replayed the image of his grandfather, the strained face, the blue vein bulging in his forehead, but there was something else. He froze the image in his mind, peering beyond his grandfather, seeing the safe tilted at an odd angle, one of the meat hooks connected to a loop on top.

  Ian stood and studied the roof of the safe. The thick, metal loop was there, indented and near invisible, but that made sense. After all, how else could you move such a heavy object? However, the safe was also bolted securely to the concrete floor. Once you had it anchored in place, moving it would be an ordeal, and definitely not something one would do on their own.

  Curious, Ian grabbed the nearest hook and slid it over to the safe. The hook slipped into the loop without effort, its chain gliding along a set of steel tracks with ease.

  “This is stupid,” he told himself, but that curious child within, the one who believed in time travel, aliens and alternate dimensions, egged him on.

  Laughing at himself, Ian followed the hook’s chain with his eyes, seeing it pass through several pulleys to an anchor on the wall. He removed the chain from the anchor and tugged, feeling his weight travel through the links and given extra leverage by the clever system of pulleys. The chain tightened on the safe’s loop and offered a moment of resistance before…

  Instead of being lifted, the angle of the chain tipped the safe onto one edge, its anchors still attached to a thick square of concrete flooring, lifting it free. The flecked vinyl coating had made the seam invisible to the naked eye.

  Then, as Ian slowly released the chain, link by link, the safe was gently lowered onto its side.

  Underneath, a secret trapdoor was revealed.

  “Okay, Grandpa,” Ian said under his breath as he released his grip on the chain, “you’ve got my attention.”

  18

  Ian peered into the troubling depths of the dark hole. An iron ladder was anchored to the wall a short distance beneath the four-inch thick concrete lip. To one side of the ladder was the plastic plate of a lone switch.

  Who hides a bunker beneath an iron safe? he asked himself. The answer was obvious: somebody with something to hide.

  Filled with curiosity tinged with no small amount of trepidation, Ian dropped his legs over the edge, slipped his feet onto the first rung, and began his descent.

  The hole was darkness absolute, swallowing the dim light from the room above within inches of its opening. The air inside was stale and cool, but didn’t hold the fusty odor of mold or damp, which told Ian it had been constructed with ventilation and air flow in mind. When he was level with the switch, Ian flipped it on and was relieved to see the palpitation of bug-yellow light illuminating the darkness beneath.

  The ladder descended for twelve feet before Ian reached hard ground. Releasing the ladder, he slowly turned around, not knowing what to expect but openly dreading the worst.

  The room was a perfect cube, twelve feet by twelve feet by twelve feet, and constructed entirely of poured concrete. Tucked against the far wall was a sturdy metal cot with a thin mattress, sweat-stained pillow, and gray woolen blankets. Beside the bed was a small bookshelf stuffed with a collection of dog-eared paperbacks, a few magazines, and a reading lamp.

  In the opposite corner was a stainless steel toilet and sink. The only other furniture was a tiny, dorm-sized fridge, an antique roll-top writing desk and a padded stool that took up a third corner.

  Surprisingly, the wall closest to the ladder housed a second exit: a solid steel door with a dull finish that matched the plain gray concrete. The door had no handle, only a keyed deadbolt, and its hinges were anchored on the unseen side. Ian tested the door and wasn’t surprised to find it wouldn’t budge. He studied the lock, thinking of the brass key he had left in the safe upstairs. It looked like a possible match.

  Crossing to the desk, Ian attempted to lift the roll-top, but it was also locked.

  “What the hell were you hiding down here?” Ian asked aloud, but the plain walls swallowed his words, refusing to allow them an echo.

  The room had all the makings of a prison cell, forcing Ian to wonder about the stories Mr. Palewandram mentioned of his grandfather’s after-hours guests: young women who entered the store and were never seen again.

  Looking at the ominous steel door, an icy dread seeped deep into his core.

  As a child protection officer, Ian knew that monsters were real. He had borne witness to the horrors and depravity of man, and while it had toughened his skin and laid scales of iron across his heart, his soul was left unprotected. That vulnerability, that weakness, was the only way he could do his job, the only way he could respond when the angriest of children needed a word of praise or the most frightened needed a hug.

  But if he was the spawn of such a monster?

  Ian couldn’t bear to think of what that would mean; how deep that wound would cut.

  He began opening the few drawers that made up the desk’s frame, searching for a key to unwrap its wooden shell. The drawers were littered with useless items from paperclips to rubber bands, but no keys.

  Frustrated, he slammed one of the drawers closed just as the sudden arrival of voices drifted down from above. Heavy boots were accompanied by the banter of men; laughter and jovial profanity; the boom and clatter of moving machinery; the thump of hip-hop and chipper tones of a morning DJ.

  Ian pulled out his phone and looked at the time. The sun had risen without his knowledge, and true to their word, the cleaning crew was back at work.

  Ian sprinted to the ladder, climbed out of the hole, and returned the heavy safe to its proper upright position.

  With the safe back in place, the entrance to the basement was invisible once more.

  *

  In need of a shower and change of clothes, Ian booked a taxi to retrieve his van and drove to the burbs. Arriving home, he found the driveway blocked by a large metal crate, and his front door open wide.

  After parking in the street, Ian climbed out of his van just as two burly men exited through the door with his lone mattress between them. The sweat stains discoloring its quilted surface were both embarrassing and a testament of too many restless nights.

  “You’re not going to get much for that,” said Ian as he walked up the driveway. “You’d have been better off with the Krugerrands under the floorboards.”

  Both men studied him with puzzlement, so Ian added, “You’re stealing my bed.”

  “You Mr. Quinn?” Muscles No. 1 asked. Bald and broad-shouldered, he was a younger version of Mr. Clean from the TV commercials, except he was dressed in black rather than white. Maybe he was Mr. Dirty.

  “Yeah, you want me to autograph it? Won’t add much to the value.”

  Both men stared at him as if he had grown an extra head, and that head was trying to be a
comedian.

  Muscles dug out a folded piece of paper from his back pocket and held it out. “We were told to pack everything into this crate, then drop it where you need it. The crate is secure and waterproof so no need to rush unpacking. Call us when it’s empty and we pick up.”

  Ian plucked the paper out of the mover’s hand and gave it a quick read. Not one to waste time, it was signed by Helena’s father.

  With a sigh, Ian asked, “Have you packed my clothes yet?”

  “Next on the list.”

  “Can you give me twenty minutes?”

  “We’ll finish the kitchen.”

  “Thanks.”

  Entering his home for the last time, Ian felt a swirl of panicked ghosts descend upon him. Phantom hands grabbed at his face, clutched his arms and clung to the tips of his fingers with tiny, cat-like claws. Overpowering memories of laughter and tears, joy and sorrow, pure debilitating agony…each specter weighed on him, some more heavily than others.

  Gathering the restless spirits to his bosom, afraid to let any of them go, he subconsciously whispered, “You’re coming with me.”

  *

  After his shower, Ian gave the movers the address of the butcher’s shop and climbed back in his van. He lifted his phone to take a final photo of the house, but stopped before pressing the button. The house was just a house, not any different than any other property on the street. It was a place where a family lived, was happy for a while, and then was not. Elsewhere in this city, this state, this country, hundreds of people were doing the same — leaving. Leaving out of guilt, out of pain, out of fucking misery.

  He was no different except that every loss was as unique to each individual as his or her own fingerprint. His was a beautiful baby girl named Emily and she was a gaping wound in his heart that could never be made whole again.

  Ian’s phone rang as he lowered it from his face, his sight too blurry to focus. He wiped at his eyes as he answered.

  “Ian Quinn.”

  “Rossella Ragano,” chirped the caller mockingly.

  Ian smiled. “Good morning, Ms. Ragano. You were spirited away last night.”

  “Hardly.” Rossella laughed. “You were snoring so loud you didn’t hear me stomping around trying to find my underwear.”

  “You don’t like my new place?”

  “Maybe once it’s less spidery.”

  “Spidery? Is that a word?”

  “Of course it is, I’m a lawyer. Where are you?”

  Ian told her.

  “Yuck. You don’t strike me as the suburban sort.”

  “Maybe that’s why the neighbors are cheering my exit. I hear they’re planning a ticker-tape parade and celebratory barbecue.”

  “Mmmm, I love barbecue.”

  “We’re not invited.”

  “Darn, it would be fun to eat with our hands, chug Crantinis or whatever suburbanites drink these days, and go skinny-dipping in the family pool.”

  Ian laughed. “That would be fun.”

  “Speaking of food. Are you free for breakfast?”

  “Always.”

  “My grandfather is most lucid in the mornings. I’ll tell the house to expect us.”

  Rossella gave him an address before disconnecting.

  Ian took one last look around the sleepy neighborhood as if seeing it for the first time. Rossella was right, he didn’t belong here, and yet this is where he found true happiness. At least for a while.

  Ian punched in the number for the cleaners and asked Clark if he could focus his crew on the apartment upstairs prior to tackling the rear workshop.

  “I’d like it to be less spidery before moving in,” said Ian.

  Clark laughed before answering, “That’s our specialty.”

  19

  The address that Rossella sent him to wasn’t a house at all; it was a white marble mansion with an uncommon red slate roof. It was also situated on a landscaped acre behind a fence that made presidential security seem quaint.

  Ian stopped at an iron gate — disturbing in its design that captured a cackle of demons playing hide-and-seek in a lush forest of deadly, barbed spikes — and pressed an intercom embedded in one of the stone posts.

  “Mr. Quinn?” asked the post.

  “You can see me?” asked Ian, looking around for the camera.

  “You are expected,” said the post. “You will find ample parking available at the top of the driveway. Ms. Ragano is here.”

  The gates swung open on well-oiled hinges, metallic gargoyles grinning and scowling as the morning light played across demonic countenances.

  The lazy S-shaped driveway was made of burgundy shale that crunched under the van’s tires, which made Ian wonder if it was somebody’s job to rake the shale back into place after each vehicular disturbance. At the top of the driveway, he spotted a ruby BMW 6 Series Cabriolet parked near a life-sized stone lion. The license plate on the convertible read: SP01LD.

  Parking his van beside it, Ian hoped the lion wouldn’t object. It already looked perturbed.

  A confident young man in his late twenties greeted Ian at the front door. He was dressed in a razor-sharp, steel grey suit, but in deference to his age had added a bright splash of color to the ensemble with a blue silk tie. The tie was ornamented with a golden tack-pin in the shape of a crescent moon.

  The man held out his hand in greeting. It was so soft and smooth, Ian wondered if he nightly dipped it in coconut oil and encased it within a white cotton glove.

  “Mr. Quinn, so pleased to meet you. My name is Archibald Pierce, Mr. Ragano’s personal assistant.”

  “And how is Mr. Ragano this morning?” Ian asked.

  “In wonderful spirits, I am pleased to say. He is very much looking forward to meeting you.” He stepped back to allow passage. “Please, come in. Coffee is being served in the dining room.”

  Ian crossed the threshold into a wide lobby dominated by a butterfly-shaped staircase that could have easily been stolen from the set of Gone With The Wind. Everything was oversized — from the furniture to the looming chandeliers and even the art on the walls — as though designed to make every guest feel just a little bit smaller than they actually were.

  “This way,” encouraged Archibald as he headed down a wide hallway to a set of impenetrable French doors.

  Despite the home’s old-world charm, Ian spotted an abundance of discreet state-of-the-art electronic surveillance devices hidden in various nooks and crannies. When the lights were out, he imagined this lobby was an impenetrable web of laser tripwires and night-vision cameras. It was understandable. Being a mob lawyer, Mr. Ragano had every right to be paranoid.

  Following behind young Archibald, Ian’s head swiveled from side to side as he took in the grandeur of the place. Interestingly, all of the large oil paintings hung on the walls were nudes. Some were abstract, others heavy-breasted realism, making it clear Rossella’s grandfather had a fondness for the female form — especially curvaceous black women.

  When Ian entered the dining room, Rossella stood and walked over to greet him. Wrapping her arm in his, she kissed him softly on the cheek and escorted him to the far end of the table where she introduced her grandfather.

  Roberto Ragano was as impeccably dressed as his assistant, except his fitting had taken place at a time when he carried more meat on his bones. Beneath an impressively wild pair of snow-white eyebrows, his flesh was soft and sallow, the wrinkles so deep that his face was a lesson in geology. But there was still a sharpness to his deep brown eyes, a glint of the giant he once was.

  Ian offered his hand and the man squeezed it with unexpected vigor.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Ragano.”

  The man studied Ian in return before he spoke, his investigative gaze taking in every inch of him from his overgrown haircut to his wrinkled clothes and slightly mismatched socks.

  “How piss poor are you?” he asked gruffly.

  “Grandpa!” Rossella chided, but Ian laughed at the candor.

&n
bsp; “Compared to you? I was frightened to wipe my shoes in case the friction wore out the soles.”

  Mr. Ragano chuckled. “That’s a good one.” His eyes softened as he gazed down at Ian’s choice of footwear. “I can see why you’d be worried.”

  “Grandpa, enough!”

  “Bah.” Mr. Ragano waved his granddaughter’s protests away. “Pull up a chair, young man, let’s eat. I’m sure you could use it.”

  Ian took a seat beside Rossella as two black maids who could have been mother and daughter brought out breakfast.

  As he ate, Ian said, “Rossella tells me you knew my grandfather, Augustus Quinn.”

  “I did. A real stubborn son of a bitch that one.”

  “Gran—”

  “Don’t shush me, Rossella. It ain’t cursing if it’s the truth. August was stubborn as a two-headed mule. Quick to cock his fists, too. Man didn’t know how to back down from a fight.”

  “Who was he fighting with?” Ian asked.

  “Ice Pick, of course. Walter and August were like two peas in a one-pea pod. From the first time they met, they were at each other’s throats. I tried to broker peace, but there was no point. It was all going to end badly.”

  Mr. Ragano stopped mid-chew and stared across the table at Ian as though seeing him for the first time. “Are you August’s boy?”

  “Grandson,” Ian said.

  “Huh. Where’s your father?”

  “He died.”

  “Ah. Your grandpa’s dead, too. I remember that.”

  “Yes.”

  “Walter is a friend…well, an associate, but I always liked August. Stubborn as a mule though.”

  “Can you tell me what their feud was about?”

  “What’s any feud between men about? Women.”

  “What women?” Ian asked.

  “Walter has a daughter. Pretty young thing. All hair, teeth and legs like a prancing colt. She disappeared and Walter blamed August. He threatened August’s granddaughter in retaliation, but then she disappeared, too.” He shook his head. “What a mess.”