Saturday, August 10, 11:00 A.M.
Five more days.
The light changed to green, and Scourge eased his foot on the gas, careful to maintain a speed well below the limit. The last thing he needed was to make another mistake. He pulled his lower lip between his teeth and sucked hard. He shouldn’t have sent those photos to Dr. Clancy, but he hadn’t been able to resist the urge to let her know that the Saint was still on the loose. He hadn’t been able to resist the urge to let her know he was watching her . . . and her friends. Despite the sweltering heat, his teeth chattered loudly as he considered what would happen if the boy told the police about the black-haired man he’d seen at Dr. Clancy’s house. This damn phobia had thrown his whole system off. He’d never have made a mistake like that in the past.
Concentrate on the task at hand.
Only five more days.
He needed his cure sooner than later. Right now, that was the only thing he should be thinking about. Scourge fixed his eyes on the road ahead. This was one of those rare occasions he’d decided to take his truck on a nonduty run. Generally, he preferred to walk, and when that wasn’t possible, he’d bite the bullet—the metaphor made him chuckle, easing the tension in his chest—and rake up cab fare. But with his cure just around the corner . . . literally . . . it was time to gas her up, air the tires, and take her for a spin to make sure she was in good working condition.
The cab of his Special Duty truck was cramped, unlike the large, open-roofed bed in the back, flanked only by wooden slats. The vehicle had previously been owned by a landscaper who used it to haul debris. There was room to breathe in the back, for the living, that is, and more than once, Scourge wished he could ride in that big open bed with the cargo instead of up here in this hot, closed space.
This was one of those times.
He’d rolled down the windows, but that offered little relief. Sweat leaked from his scalp into his eyes, and as soon as he blinked the sting away, more followed. In order to keep as much distance as possible between the roof of the truck and the top of his head, he kept his chin tucked to his chest. Reaching around, he rubbed the cramp out of the back of his neck and scratched the area where his collar rubbed against his skin.
Too much starch perhaps.
No.
No such thing as too much starch in a collar. His cotton shirt clung to his back, and he knew his perspiration had ruined its pristine appearance. Thank goodness Three Little Pigs was around the next turn.
He swerved around the corner. The act of driving didn’t faze him—quite the contrary. The feel of all that power roaring to life when he fired up his truck’s ignition, the ability to control that heavy mass of steel with a spin of the wheel gave him a charge. Too bad a convertible wasn’t in his budget. It was only this damn claustrophobic cab that made his head ache.
But he would manage. Understanding why closed spaces gave him the willies helped him to cope during the times when driving his truck was warranted. At school, he’d dreamt of white plastic walls, over him, under him, around him. He’d dreamt of peering through metal bars, his eyes wet, his throat hoarse from crying, and he’d wake up with his heart racing in his chest and the certainty he was going to die.
For a time, a young novitiate at Saint Catherine’s had taken him under her wing. Cecily snuck him sweets and books and once she even hugged him after a particularly vivid nightmare. On that night, he’d recited his dream to her in detail, then next morning, she’d taken him aside and explained that his dream wasn’t a dream at all.
It was a memory.
According to his case file, his mother used to keep him in a puppy crate whenever she drank, which was every night. She claimed this was for his own safety because she was prone to passing out and couldn’t properly supervise him. The kindhearted novitiate told him that misguided though it might have been, the crating was an act of love, and anyway, God expects us to forgive those who’ve wronged us, and he should pray to God to give him the strength to forgive his mother. But Scourge didn’t really think there was anything to forgive. Putting a child in a crate seemed logical enough to him.
True, it’d left him with a slight touch of claustrophobia, but nothing he couldn’t handle. When absolutely necessary, he could grit his teeth, climb in his truck, and get where he needed to go. And here he was now—at Three Little Pigs.
The real challenge was not the journey here but rather how to cope with the hematogenous sights and smells of the butcher shop.
Hematogenous: involving or arising from blood.
He removed a surgical mask from his glove compartment and placed it over his mouth and nose, then looped it around his ears. Typically, he used the mask on public transportation, while grocery shopping, and the like, to protect himself from the germs of the masses, but today it would serve to filter out the smell of blood. A scent he’d relished in the past. Once, that scent had made his dick hard and his confidence soar. Now, a mere whiff could bring him whimpering to his knees.
Not for long.
Hoping to mediate the red color of the meats, he donned a pair of dark glasses and exited his car. With his shoulder, he pressed open a glass door painted with a mural of Porky Pig, then eased himself into the butcher shop one body part at a time.
He snorted. If he were the owner, he’d make sure the mural depicted the correct swine, but Hugo apparently didn’t see the need for consistency. He seemed perfectly content to allow Porky to welcome customers to Three Little Pigs. Hugo wasn’t the sharpest knife in the butcher’s block, but he was a jolly good fellow, and Scourge trusted him.
With one hand stuck out behind him, he backed up to the counter and cleared his throat to get Hugo’s attention. Just in case backing into the shop wearing a mask hadn’t done the trick. Anyway, he had no intention of turning around so that he could face off with a long counter of meaty steaks and fatty rolls of fleshy sausages, all leaking juicy red blood onto the white butcher paper below.
“That you, Scourge?” Hugo boomed in a louder than normal voice, perhaps assuming Scourge’s mask signaled some sort of hearing impairment.
That would be very Hugo.
Scourge was one of Hugo’s best customers, and in the days before he’d developed his hemophobia, he’d loved lingering in the shop, discussing the butchering process and hearing details from Hugo’s glory days at the slaughterhouse. Hugo still had slaughterhouse connections, and this enabled him to get extraordinary deals and pass on the savings to his customers.
It hadn’t been unusual for Scourge to spend the better part of a Saturday chewing the fat (again, he chuckled under his breath) with Hugo. Once, Hugo had even given Scourge a tour of the meat locker, allowing him to make the acquaintance of the carcasses as they patiently awaited their turn to be carved into the finest fresh meats in Santa Fe. It’d thrilled him, and his mouth watered in anticipation of being able to enjoy such a treat in the future—the very near future.
“It’s me,” Scourge said.
“Do you maybe wanna turn around and tell me why you’re wearing that mask? You sick or something?”
“Not sick exactly, but no, I can’t turn around. Come out from behind the counter, and I’ll explain everything.” Scourge sidled up to a round Formica table with a steel base and sat facing the window, his back to the dangerous meat counter. Even filtered through his mask, the smell of fresh blood made his palms sweat and his knees knock. He blew out a few panting breaths. Hee hee hee—like expectant ladies do in Lamaze class, but it only made him dizzy.
Hugo pulled up a stool facing him. “What’cha need, buddy. You sure you’re not sick?”
“I already said I’m not. I’ve got a job for you. A very important one.”
Hugo eyed him sideways. “This job you got for me. Is it legal?”
“Pays real good.”
“I’m up for most anything if the pay is right. Mrs. Simpson—that saucy gal works down at the lab with you—said you had some kind of a crackdown and lost your job. You sure you can pay me?”
“Breakdown, Hugo, not crackdown, and yes, I promise to make it worth your while.” His hot breath, trapped beneath his mask, blew back against his face as he spoke. “You still got a buddy down at the slaughterhouse?”