Devour, p.12
Devour, page 12
He gave a small nod.
“And after all that time, don’t you think—first of all, it’s weird that after all that time, he’s calling you. Tells me something’s wrong. Like end of the road wrong?”
He touched the tip of his nose.
“Okay, see? Plus, maybe it’s time to let bygones…” she trailed off, not sure if finishing was the smartest choice.
His expression confirmed as much.
She held up her hands in surrender. “Whatever.”
“Babe, I’m not trying to bury my head in the sand.”
She leaned closer. “Aren’t you?”
“Hey, not for nothing, but it’s easy for you to say that, it wasn’t your mother who…”
He didn’t finish, and instead checked his watch and stretched.
“I get it. I’m tired too. I just think it might be a good idea for you to, I don’t know, get to know him better…before—”
“That’s exactly what I did. Or am doing. Evidently, the prison doctor gives him between several weeks and maybe up to six months or so.”
Kathryn absently stared at her empty glass.
He noticed and said, “I’m thinking the same thing.”
Looking up, she asked, “What?”
Tossing his chin toward the house. “Get to know Natalie. While there’s still time.”
“Oh.” Her shoulders relaxed. “Exactly.”
He motioned for her to follow him. “Let’s head in.” Wrapping the blanket around her shoulders, he said, “Sound good?”
“Yeah, I’m beat.”
Inside, standing at the kitchen island, he said, “There’s one more thing.”
“Yeah?”
“There’s also an odd part to the story. Seems the warden will set Sebastian free IF I cook for him.”
Her face contorted like she had smelled something putrid.
“I mean, cook an elaborate meal.”
The odd expression remained.
“I know it's weird, right?”
“Uh, yeah,” she snorted. “So wait, you cook for the warden and a prisoner of thirty years goes free?”
“See?”
Another wave of frowns met with a shaking head. “I don’t get it,” she said, holding up a finger. “First, it’s wacky.” She raised another finger. “Second, does he have the power to do so?” And another finger. “And third, the warden gets a nice meal; Sebastian gets what’s left of his freedom?”
With an uncomfortable expression, he whispered, “Right?”
“And you…get what?”
“That’s just it. Not really sure. It doesn’t make a lot of sense to me. Unless Dalton thinks my gift is being able to hang out with my old man whom I haven’t seen since I was like twelve years old. Excuse my French, but that’s just fucked up.”
The first smile slid across Kathryn’s face. “It is. But tell me…”
His eyebrows dart up.
“Are you?”
“Yeah,” he grinned. “Probably so.”
While he checked the doors, she tidied the sink. Then, together they walked down the hall and into their bedroom.
“When’s he want this soiree to happen?”
Turning off the main lights, he said, “Soon. Because of Sebastian’s condition, I think he’s thinking next week.”
“What, and Natalie and I miss this odd event? No way. I think you should—if you’re going to agree to it, you should wait until we get back. I mean, think about it—”
His expression said But.
“What Michael? We’ll be back in two months—tops. He’ll be fine.”
With bedtime preparations complete, they were in bed and turning off the lights when Michael quietly said, “What was it you were going to tell me?”
“What?”
“Back when we were by the fire. You said you wanted—”
“Oh, it’s not a big deal. Certainly not as interesting as your proposition. I think I was just going to share some ideas about the film. But really, it’s nothing that can’t wait until morning,” she said, kissing him then rolling on her side. “Okay?”
“Sure.”
After several minutes, Michael’s mind would not let it go; he wanted to know what she really wanted to talk about, so he whispered, “Babe?”
Nothing but heavy breathing.
“You asleep yet?”
When she did not respond, he rolled over and was asleep within seconds. She remained motionless, staring out the window and wondering if she should have shared her secret.
In the middle of the night, Michael was caught in a hellish nightmare. He was in prison, but his cell was three stories underground. It was dark and cold; he was gagged and bound. There was only one dim light bulb twenty feet above his head. All he could hear was screaming in the distance. It sounded like his mother.
Suddenly, a gunshot rang out, and he sprang up in bed.
Catching his breath, he quietly slid out of bed and went down the hall to the kitchen. Getting a drink of water, he had a thought. Taking a business card from his wallet, he dialed a number and left a message.
24
Dull Edge
The week had barely begun and Dalton had already accomplished a stout amount. As usual, he wanted more—always one more conquest. Pondering his evening snack after a long day, Dalton gathered his brandy and shoes before sliding into his favorite chair.
He was hungry and restless—not a good combination, especially late at night.
He suddenly hopped up, walked to the fridge, and perused the contents. Boring, he thought.
He then checked the freezer and found nothing worthy of his hunger.
Pouring another brandy, he walked into the cool night air. Something stirred in him because he wanted something different—something capable of satisfying his hunger. Swallowing the last of his brandy, he stared at the stars above.
Suddenly an idea sprouted: perhaps his dullness needed an edge.
Inside the garage, he grabbed a few extra toys from his “storage room” and loaded them in the back of his truck. Within twenty minutes, he was pulling off the Redwood Highway Frontage Road and into the parking lot of Piatti, a local restaurant that served all the beautiful Mill Valley people.
Dalton had been there on several occasions spaced over a few years. He always used his alias Dr. James Nash, Oral Surgeon ruse to bait and catch the monied divorcees who were out either looking to become the next Mrs. So-and-So or wanting to get their fuck on. He always hoped for the latter because the former held no interest for him.
En route, he booked a room at the Acqua Hotel Mill Valley just in case it got that far. It was a classy little boutique hotel with handsome appointments and discreet management. Before going into the restaurant, he hung a tie loosely around his neck, trying to achieve a “long day at the office” look.
Ninety minutes and three dirty martinis later, he and Rosalyn Humphrey had driven the short distance from Piatti to the Acqua. He always liked the third floor suite because it faced the back parking lot and included the added bonus of a good deal of highway noise from the 101.
After a nightcap that included a concoction rendering Rosalyn’s motor skills vastly impaired, he took her back to the house where he enjoyed what he called “compartmentalizing” his passions with various parts of her. Having done his homework over cocktails, he learned Rosalyn was an avid bicyclist and marathon runner for the past decade—that meant top grade muscle, low fat, and healthy treats to boot.
25
Deep Freeze
Enjoying homemade foie gras and jam on a freshly baked croissant the following morning at home, Dalton pressed the plunger on his stainless French press and eagerly devoured the rich flavors he so craved. He loved this part of the day: quiet and unspoiled. No yelling maniacs in sound-echoing cells. No distasteful odors emanating from the tight confines of officers’ cubicles. Nothing but a sunny morning accented with the sound of birds in the backyard and fresh aromas from his kitchen. Having finished the newspaper, he checked messages on his office phone. He dialed in, entered his passcode, and proceeded to listen. It helped to get some of the mundane things handled so that Baxter could take care of the boring details when he arrived while Dalton made his rounds.
The first message was from the State inquiring about a litany of forms he needed to process before month’s end. The second was his boss concerning Sebastian’s release and how they needed to discuss details as soon as possible. The last message was a familiar voice.
“Hello Freddie, this is Michael Rogan. I’m calling about your proposition. I’ve discussed the dinner with my wife, and she’s going to be out of the country for two months, so I won’t be able to make this happen until she returns. I’m sure you understand, but I wanted to let you know so we can plan accordingly. If you need to discuss, feel free to call. Thanks.”
Dalton suddenly lost his appetite.
Slamming his fists on the table, he yelled, “What the fuck!” Throbbing anger welled in his chest. “What does he think he’s doing?” he seethed. “I have it all planned and I want it exactly the way I want it.”
He picked up his dishes and took them to the sink. He was furious because he knew there were so many details to consider for his dinner to be perfect—so much precision with just the right finishes accompanied by just the right wines.
He stormed from the house, crossed through pristine gardens, and into a tidy garage. Taking a key from a secret slot underneath the lip of a workbench, he unlocked a utility room door. The room looked like a small grocery store where one wall of shelves held rows of canned and dry goods—all of which were playing the part of “Doomsday Rations.” Anyone who would ever discover the room would easily assume a prepper lived here.
Reaching underneath the bottom shelf, Dalton found a hidden deadbolt. Sliding it aside, the wall popped open an inch, allowing him to release a spring latch making it possible to swing inward. As soon as he stepped inside, lights came on overhead. Closing the faux door behind him, Dalton was inside a windowless chamber that appeared to be one part operating room and one part canning operation. Lining one wall were three deep freezers marked, Steaks, Exotics, Stocks. He unlocked and opened each one—as much to enjoy his handiwork as to run a mental checklist for his upcoming, but now delayed, dinner party.
Examining the top level of steaks in the first freezer, Dalton reviewed the first column of his identification system that listed the animal, place, season, and year each particular creature was caught:
Deer/Wyoming/W18. Bison/Montana/W19. Alligator/FLA/F18.
The next column was a bit more circumspect.
PB/MKSS/Sm20. DF/Radisson/W19. PF/Equinox/Sp20.
That’s Phil Bishop from McCormick & Kuleto’s Seafood & Steaks (Summer ’20), Davis Flannery from a nearby Radisson Hotel (Winter ‘19), and Peter Franklin, Equinox Gym (Spring ‘20).
There were three stacks of about ten steaks deep and going back to late 2018. Dalton preferred to keep things as “fresh” as possible; however, there were several worth holding—in some cases to be aged for steaks and others dried for jerky.
Among the steaks were thigh and hamstring combinations as well as upper and lower backs. However, if his victims were bodybuilders—as was often the case—he preferred chest and shoulder combos.
Closing freezer one, he unlocked a smaller second freezer: Exotics.
This prized collection provided him liver—mainly used for foie gras, but sometimes with onions. He had kidneys for pies and soups. Brains for egg dishes. Tongues for sandwiches. And what he called the “Privates” for more decadent dishes. They were labeled only as parts and with no names; however, there was an “M” or “F” designating male or female for obvious reasons.
The final freezer was divided into two halves. On the left were parts for stocks and stews, and on the right, the fully prepared soups—frozen and ready for eating.
Then, there were the tools.
On the wall above a fold-down table was a wide assortment of saws and knives—each one hung with an outline around it and a name below it. Dalton particularly liked Chef’s knives, and his favorites came from Japan or Germany. The Reciprocating Saw—aka Sawzall—could be found on any Home Depot store shelf. It always did the trick, especially when breaking down a large body.
The last piece of equipment was perhaps the most significant tool: The Tub. It combined the benefits of a deep soaking tank with an agitation mechanism to expedite deterioration. Once filled with acid, the motor would slowly agitate the remains until completely dissolved into a murky liquid. It would then flow down a double-insulated hose via a deep hole in the floor, finally emptying into an underground vat much like a septic tank. Between the liquefaction process and the double filtration of bleach and charcoal, nothing was left by the time it hit the groundwater some fifty feet below the garage, thus making residual clues non-existent.
The table in the middle of the room looked like those used in morgues and was used in a similar fashion.
On the last wall, hung a variety of animal heads: several deer, a bison, an elk, and an alligator, plus several exotic fish—all of which had been a taxidermist’s wet dream. While they were captured and devoured by Dalton over the years, the heads remained one part decoration, one part reminder. As for the heads of his victims, he rarely kept them. If any of his escapades involved anger issues, he would desecrate the male heads in disturbing ways. Female heads, or parts therein, were saved for one of two reasons: reminders of their last expressions or messages sent to loved ones.
Dalton closed and locked each freezer, made sure all tools were absolutely spotless and in their place, and cleaned the preparation table well enough for surgery—or dinner.
He locked up in reverse order, making sure everything was exactly as he wished. Once back in the garage, Dalton flipped on his surveillance cameras and silent alarms. All signals would be sent directly to his cell phone, alerting him of intruders.
Back in his house, Dalton felt better. Sure, he was pissed because Michael had pushed him off, but he was not going to let that bring his plans down. After all, he had all the time in the world. How long those around him had was an entirely different story.
So we have to postpone until wifey returns—or do I? he thought.
That gave him an idea for a Plan B.
Before going any further, he took out his phone to contact Baxter. Checking the time, it was a minute before seven. Dalton texted: Are you around?
Within seconds, he had a message. Morning, Warden. Yes, I’m just leaving the gym. Got here at 6. What can I do for you?
Dalton smiled, knowing his pet’s loyalty.
He typed: I need a favor. Will explain details when we meet at 0830. I’m calling you in exactly three minutes from line 4495. Pick up, no questions, and just follow orders.
Dalton knew better than to leave an incriminating text. And he always used a burner phone for particularly delicate conversations.
Making use of the remaining time before their call, he tidied the kitchen and sipped the last of the coffee. As the line connected, they exchanged morning pleasantries before Dalton got down to business. He gave Baxter explicit orders to be carried out in an exact fashion inside the next 25 minutes. That way, the damage would be done before he arrived, giving Dalton the chance to play the hero shortly thereafter.
Baxter agreed without hesitation—one of the characteristics Dalton most admired—and with that plan in place, Dalton retired to his master bath where he would pleasure himself with a hot steam before releasing the monster for the day.
26
Trophy Worthy
By the time Dalton arrived at work, word had spread that Sebastian had been severely beaten by the man called Crush. Fortunately, the inmate had not smashed his skull—his signature move—but had broken the old man’s already bad elbow, cracked two ribs, and busted his lip. He managed to rough him up badly enough that Sebastian was placed in the infirmary with explicit orders not to be moved for no less than a week. Crush, on the other hand, suffered only one slam to the back of the head by a lead-filled wooden billy club. It knocked him out cold, giving him a concussion for the night and a migraine for days.
As Dalton entered the Administration office, he greeted Baxter with a pleasant “business as usual” tone and retired in his office with a request not to be disturbed. He poured a double espresso, dipped a maple-glazed scone in it, and flipped through his Rolodex for Rogan’s number. Checking the time, he saw it was not nine yet. He sat staring out at the skyline of the city, wondering whether he would call and leave a message—as Michael did to him—or wait and speak directly.
He went with the latter, and Michael answered on the third ring. “Hello, this is Michael.”
“Good Morning, Michael. Your pal, Freddie Dalton. I trust this isn’t too early.”
Dalton despised using the nickname his former comrades had given him, but earning Michael’s loyalty, or whatever it took to get his wishes met, was worth the momentary insult.
“Morning, Freddie. No, it’s fine. Did you get my call last night?”
He took a sip. “Yes, and thank you for letting me know your plans. It certainly puts things into perspective.”
Beat. “Really? How’s that?”
“Well, as much as I had looked forward to having that dinner party this coming week, I completely understand you needing to—as you so aptly stated—put family first.”
“Oh, good. I was hoping you’d understand.”
“Oh, I do. And I understand your reneging on your word. But that’s—”
“Wait a minute! When I agreed to cook for you, you agreed to release him. But you haven’t yet, have you?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, perhaps if you had held up your end of the bargain…” Michael bluffed. It was easier to use the good-cop bad-cop routine to delay the dinner, and besides, he had all he could handle at the moment.
