The Butcher's Son Read online

  Switching on his headlights, Ian was startled again, this time by a rap of knuckles on his passenger window. He recognized the unshaven and deep-lined face peering in. Tommy the Tink was a connoisseur of the finest soup kitchens in all of Portland, and had memorized the schedule of every agency working both sides of the river.

  Ian leaned over and unlocked the door.

  “How are you tonight, Tommy?” Ian asked.

  Tommy opened the door, allowing the stench of alcohol, stale urine and unwashed sweat to waft into the cabin. “Can’t complain, although I do enjoy a good grumble.”

  “Don’t we all? What can I do for you?”

  “Nothing at all. I’m set for an enjoyable evening. Got a Sandford out of the library, snuck an extra slice of pie from the mission that I’m saving for later, a wee dram of the cheap stuff to ward off the demons, and my sleeping bag is only a touch on the damp side.”

  “You’re still in a tent?”

  “Prefer it that way,” said Tommy. “Shelters are a nightmare. Men farting and screaming in their sleep, addicts shooting up and shitting on the toilets, it’s not for me. I grew out of bunk beds at the orphanage.”

  “What about housing?”

  “I’m on a list somewhere, but won’t hold my breath. The thing is, there was a man lurking around your van earlier. I told him to piss off and he did, but there was something off about him.”

  “Off?” Ian pressed.

  “He wasn’t one of us.” Tommy spread his arms to encompass the area as though decreeing his kingdom. “And he wasn’t a thief.”

  “How do you know?”

  “’Cause nobody in their right mind would want to steal this piece of junk. My tent’s more valuable, and it’s got a hole in it.”

  Ian laughed. “True enough.”

  “Just wanted you to know while I had it in mind. Likely won’t remember in the morning.”

  “I appreciate the heads up. Anything I can get you for your trouble?”

  Tommy’s lips unfurled to flash twin rows of terra-cotta teeth. “I’ve been thinking of cheese. A hunk of something robust would hit the spot.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Tommy grinned wider. “I may just dream of cheese tonight. That would be a good dream.”

  After Tommy drifted away toward his makeshift camp, Ian pulled the door closed and headed home.

  *

  In a dark doorway on the opposite side of the street, a tall man dressed in black watched the van’s taillights recede in the distance.

  With one hand clutching an umbrella, he reached down with his free hand and scratched the heads of his two Dobermans. Both dogs panted in appreciation, lifted their chins and raised their inky eyes to him.

  The man was their master, their god, their everything. He only had to say the word and they would obey.

  7

  Ian opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling, his slumber disturbed by a creak on the stairs as weight shifted from the top riser to the upper landing. He had stopped using the second floor after Helena moved out. All it held now were memories, all of them good, all of them painful.

  Sliding off the mattress that lay on the floor of what used to be Helena’s study, Ian silently rose to his feet and absently smoothed his boxers like a butler straightening his tie before rushing to his master’s side. A frustrated thump echoed from above, the sound not unlike someone punching or kicking a wall.

  With a jittery surge of adrenalin flooding his veins, Ian glanced around for a weapon. The near-empty room didn’t bear much fruit as the only things he could see of any use were the leather belt in his pants and a pair of well-worn shoes.

  He wondered if he should call the police, but what would he say that didn’t come across as suburban paranoia? “Operator, I heard a creak and a loud thump.”

  Picking up one of the shoes by its toe, Ian slapped its wooden heel into the palm of his hand. It stung — a bit. Upon entering the kitchen, he abandoned the shoe for the small pot he had cooked his beans in. At least its handle gave him a better grip.

  Moving from the kitchen to the hallway, Ian crept to the bottom of the stairs and looked up. Everything was quiet. Knowing he wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep without investigating, Ian climbed the stairs. At the top of the landing, he glanced to his left where the door to Emily’s room was closed.

  Behind the door, the walls were painted yellow, her favorite color, but the room itself was disturbingly empty. The decision to remove all of Emily’s things had sliced a wound in his marriage that never healed.

  To his right and down a short hallway, the door to the master bedroom was slightly ajar. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been in that room, and he could think of no reason why the door wouldn’t be closed.

  Gripping the saucepan a little tighter, Ian crept toward the door. The light switch was just inside the room, on the wall to his left. If he reached in and flicked it on, whoever or whatever was inside would be caught by surprise.

  The other option would be to call out and let the intruder know there was nothing in the house worth stealing, but if he was still in the empty room, then he would already know that. Everything of value had already walked out the front door, never to return.

  Ian eased up to the bedroom door, reached his hand through the gap, and felt for the light switch. When his fingers found the switch, he inhaled deeply to steady his nerves and flicked it on.

  Nothing happened.

  Either the bulb was burned out or the breaker had been flipped.

  With a roar, Ian shouldered open the door, metal saucepan brandished above his head. He had only taken two steps when he was stopped by the sight of a man standing in the far corner, his eerie face lit from below by a flashlight — like kids did at Halloween to scare their friends.

  The man wore a dark suit and everything about him was wrong. Moonlight glistening through the window revealed a small puddle of rainwater encircling his black sneakers, and in his free hand was a large and very nasty hammer.

  Shit!

  Ian had no time to react before something thick and hard slammed into his chest, cracking his ribs and taking away every ounce of breath stored in his lungs.

  The saucepan fell from his grasp as he bounced off the wall and dropped to his knees, his eyes bulging as he struggled to breathe.

  The man in the corner hadn’t moved. Instead, he tilted his head slightly and opened his mouth to reveal a picket fence of crooked teeth lit up by the flashlight.

  “I knew you was a loser,” snarled the man. “But this’s even more pathetic than I gave you credit for.”

  The unseen second man swung the bat again, clipping the side of Ian’s skull and sending him spiraling into the edge of unconsciousness.

  His body had barely hit the floor before the coward in the corner rushed forward to rain a series of hard kicks into his body and head. Ian’s body bucked under the vicious blows, and the last image he saw before blacking out was his attacker’s menacing, dirt-brown eyes.

  He knew those eyes.

  *

  When he awoke, Ian was in agony. Alone in the empty room, his useless saucepan out of reach, Ian groaned as he rolled onto his back. His scalp made a ripping sound as a small pool of dried blood crumbled away between his skin and the hardwood floor.

  Gasping from the pain, he cradled his injured left hand to his chest. Somebody had stepped on it on his way out of the room as a departing Fuck You to his unconscious body. The knuckles on two of the fingers had swollen to the size of plums. His undamaged hand explored the tender wound on his head. It throbbed worse than any hangover, but the pain of it told him he was still alive, which, if he was being honest, was a surprise.

  He ran his right hand over his body in search of puncture wounds, but the only other injury was to his ribs. At least two of them were cracked and the bruising was already discoloring his skin.

  It took a while to get to his feet, his head spinning as he clutched at a wall to steady himself
. He inhaled oxygen into his lungs, careful not to expand them too much as his ribs protested anything more than a shallow breath.

  When he felt stable enough, he exited the room and headed to the washroom.

  The message was on the mirror. Made by a finger dipped in blood, presumably his own, it read: Stay Away!

  Turning on the taps to wash the blood off his face, Ian was surprised the two words were not only spelled correctly, but that the message was so succinct. He would have expected a few choice profanities or a slur against his manhood, but the author didn’t even add the near obligatory: Or Else!

  Who knew the Bowery brothers were such eloquent communicators?

  8

  When Ian entered the offices of Children First, Jeannie gasped and rushed around the reception desk.

  “What happened? Oh my God! Who did this to you?”

  Ian winced as she hugged him.

  “The Bowery brothers didn’t appreciate my outburst at Noah’s funeral.”

  “You should report them to the police.”

  Ian shook off the suggestion. “They’ll have alibis from their fellow mourners who’ll swear they never left the wake.”

  “That’s awful. What are you going to do?”

  “Heal?”

  Jeannie smirked. “Oh, you’re a tough guy now?”

  Ian smirked back. “Getting tougher every day.” He glanced over to the corner office. “Is she in?”

  “No, she has a breakfast meeting with some political mucky-mucks about our funding bill. Other mucky-mucks keep trying to sneak in personal extras, which could sink the whole thing.”

  “There are no bigger crooks than elected crooks.”

  “I think your face would disagree.”

  Ian grinned, but the muscle movement made him wince.

  Jeannie glanced up at the wall clock. “The Anderson family is coming in at nine, and then you’re scheduled to pick up Molly at ten for a visit with her uncle.”

  “No problem, but can you clear my afternoon? I’ve got a few personal things to attend to.”

  “Like visiting a doctor?”

  “I’ll try to fit it in.”

  “You better.”

  *

  In his office, Ian eased himself into his chair, exhaling in short, rapid breaths as he did so. Everything hurt and his attempt at bandaging himself had been pathetic. The stomped fingers on his left hand were now twice as thick as the others, and a dark purple hue was turning deeper and uglier under his nails.

  He opened the Anderson file and read Judge Rothstein’s notes on the case. It was standard divorce stuff — sweet soulmate love sours into vindictive bile — except for the woman’s desire to transition into a man, and her husband’s repulsion over that decision. The judge had ordered shared custody, but wanted the initial visits supervised because of the emotional and psychological nature of the rather nasty breakup.

  In a short addendum, the judge had written a personal note that said he was more concerned with the husband’s mindset than the wife’s physical transformation. He wrote, “Mr. Anderson’s refusal to deal with the emotional trauma that he is experiencing due to his partner’s transformation is resulting in increased anger and frustration that I fear could pose a risk to the child. This child is, for all intents and purposes, losing both parents. One to a physical change, the other to an emotional one.”

  Ian lifted the phone and punched in Jeannie’s extension. Their desks weren’t that far apart, but his aching ribs didn’t allow him the lung capacity to yell.

  “Hello, Ian. I have ibuprofen or acetaminophen with added codeine left over from my dental surgery last month.”

  “Yes, please. Both. You’re a doll.”

  “True.”

  “About the Andersons? Where’s the kid staying now?”

  “Cody is living with his aunt, the mother’s sister. Judge Rothstein wanted to make sure neither parent posed a risk before the joint custody comes into effect.”

  “Am I seeing all three this morning?”

  “That’s my understanding.”

  “Send Cody in first. I’d like to hear his thoughts before the parents chime in.”

  “Will do. You want the painkillers now?”

  “God yes. Bring the bottle.”

  *

  Jeannie didn’t bring the bottle, but she did deliver two codeine-laced painkillers and a brown, candy-coated ibuprofen.

  “I use the ibuprofen for cramps,” she told him. “It helps.”

  “Thanks for sharing.” Ian downed the three pills followed by a water chaser.

  After retrieving the empty glass, Jeannie told Ian to wait while she went to her desk. She returned with her makeup bag.

  “You’re not seriously going to try and pretty me up are you?”

  “Shhh. The way you look, you’ll frighten the poor boy as soon as he sees you. It’s only concealer.”

  Deciding he didn’t have the energy to fight her, Ian leaned back and allowed Jeannie to dab his throbbing forehead with a liquid-based concealer. When she was done, she patted it with a flesh-colored powder.

  “How do I look?” asked Ian.

  Jeannie wrinkled her nose. “Still not handsome, but better.”

  “I’ll take better.”

  Jeannie playfully stuck out her tongue at him before returning to her desk. A few minutes later, the Andersons arrived.

  *

  Ian pulled up in front of Molly Flannigan’s foster home. As usual, the twelve-year-old was waiting on the sidewalk for him. Although she wore her customary long-sleeved black T-shirt underneath a bibbed pair of denim overalls, she had recently talked her foster mom into updating her look.

  Gone was the unruly dirty blonde mop of a child who hid her face beneath a ragged fringe. Now, her hair was buzzed on the sides and spiked on top like a hedgehog under attack. She had bleached it all a startling snowy white except for the spikes. Those she dyed a Joker green.

  She had also added a metallic green beauty spot piercing in the crease of her upper lip to accompany the small silver ring piercing in her nose.

  Although he normally disapproved of body modifications in anyone under the age of sixteen, Ian liked the look as it spoke volumes about Molly’s increased confidence. Instead of hiding who she was, and allowing childhood trauma and abuse to rule her life, Molly was standing up to it with fists cocked and teeth bared. She was telling the world: I am strong and I won’t be a victim anymore.

  When Ian stopped the van, Molly pulled open the passenger door and climbed in.

  “Yo, Mr. Q.”

  “Yo, Molls.”

  Fastening her seatbelt, knowing Ian wouldn’t leave until she did so, she said, “I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Mr. Q, but your taste in cars sucks balls. This is, like, even more embarrassing than your last ride. I mean, it’s OK for me ’cause people can tell I’m cool, but you?” She shook her head. “You ain’t gettin’ nowhere with the ladies showing up in this.”

  Ian laughed as he put the van in gear. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “You should. You ain’t getting any younger, and—” she stopped talking as she focused in on his face. “Seriously? What the fuck you do to your face?”

  Ian winced. Profanity always sounded so much worse coming from the mouth of a child.

  “I lost my cool at a kid’s funeral yesterday. The father and his brother didn’t appreciate it.” Ian had quickly learned that telling the truth was the only way to maintain trust with his young clients. They had lived with lies their whole lives and were experts at spotting them.

  “You smack them back?”

  Ian shook his head.

  “You’re too soft for your own good, Mr. Q. You gotta toughen up.”

  *

  Molly’s uncle was the leader of a motorcycle crew called the Eastside Wreckers, but he was also the only relative who seemed to give a damn about her. His criminal lifestyle meant he wasn’t a suitable candidate for guardianship, but his request for regular visitation
had been approved after Molly’s mother fell in with another bad boy and ended up back in prison for solicitation and possession with intent to distribute.

  Molly’s father was nothing but ash, his memory scattered to the wind after a rival gang took him out.

  Ian’s crappy van looked right at home in the down-and-going neighborhood as he pulled up to a rundown bungalow with two gleaming Harley Davidson Fat Boys parked on the weed-infested lawn. Directly across the street, four additional Harleys had taken up residence, but their riders were nowhere to be seen.

  On the front porch of the bungalow, a broad-bellied man in a T-shirt and leather vest rose to his feet and casually swung a Remington shotgun onto his shoulder.

  Ian kept his empty hands visible by his side and nodded at the man in greeting as he and Molly walked up the sidewalk to the porch steps. The greeter sneered at him from beneath a dark beard, but his expression immediately softened when his gaze moved to Molly.

  “Hey, Gordo,” the man shouted into the house. “Molls is here.”

  The front door opened and Molly’s uncle filled the frame. He was a fierce-looking man with dark ginger hair and a vivid scar that ran across half his face. The scar was ragged and jarring, made by a broken bottle rather than a knife.

  Molly grinned when she saw him and ran ahead of Ian to be swept up in the man’s heavily tattooed arms. Gordo squeezed the girl for a long time before aiming his gaze at Ian.

  “How does this work?” he asked. “You need to be with us the whole time?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “Like you could do anything if I chose to say different.”

  “Except stop the visits.”

  The man touched his cheek where a smaller scar crossed his larger one. That scar had come from the butt of a shotgun the last time the two men crossed paths.

  Gordo grinned, showing surprisingly white teeth. “You better come inside.”

  The interior of the bungalow had been spruced up from the last time Ian visited. It no longer held the cloying stench of marijuana, spilled beer, sweat, gunpowder and engine oil. Gordo noticed Ian’s surprised reaction.

  “This meet your inspection?” he asked.

  “It does. Where’s the rest of your club?”