Long Pig (A Morgan Family Thriller #2)

Prologue

The Long-Nose Pete

Butch

Butch preferred fueling up at truck stops that were off the beaten path, places where the diesel islands weren’t packed with impatient drivers, and where the air smelled of grease and burnt coffee instead of corporate sterility. The kind of places where cashiers didn’t ask questions.

He eased his Long-Nose Pete into the deep, uneven dip leading to the pumps, feathering the clutch to keep from bottoming out.

The Pete was his second rig and a sweet ride for more reasons than one.

The dip was deeper than it looked, but he handled it like the pro he was.

The engine rumbled low, vibrating through the worn leather of his seat, increasing the feeling that the monster inside him would rise.

The pulses went from his toes, up his back, and settled at the top of his spine.

He called this feeling his quiet friend.

He’d felt it many times before, and his friend was rarely wrong.

He pulled the brim of his baseball cap low and stepped onto the asphalt.

The inside of the rural truck stop was just as he liked, with dim lighting, a faint scent of old fryer oil, and a setup that hadn’t seen an update in at least two decades.

The floor tiles were scuffed from years of boots stomping through.

The shelves carried the essentials: junk food, aspirin, energy shots, and a sad excuse for fresh fruit that no self-respecting trucker would touch.

He ordered a footlong from the sub counter, took his tray to one of the four tables wedged between the cooler and the ATM, and popped the top on his favorite soda.

He chewed slowly, savoring the sandwich.

It wasn’t great, nowhere near the quality of the meals he could whip up at home, but he’d eaten worse at many places along I-40.

When he was done, he wiped his mouth with a single napkin, took another to clean his fingers, then crumpled the trash into a neat ball. No mess. No crumbs. No evidence. He was careful like that. A habit.

At the counter, he grabbed a pack of chocolate mini donuts, dropped a crumpled bill onto the old Formica, and let the return change clink into his pocket. Loose change always came in handy.

He stepped outside a minute later into cooler air and a twilight chill that seeped into his bones after too many miles behind the wheel. He pulled his flannel-lined jacket tighter and stepped a little off the asphalt, causing his boots to crunch over loose gravel.

“Hey, mister.”

The voice came from the shadows near the edge of the lot. Butch turned, his pulse giving a tiny hitch. Not fear, not nerves, just anticipation of the hunt. His little friend was right on target again.

The kid was small, five-foot-two, rail-thin, and twitchy, his face still wearing the battle scars of teenage acne. His fingers trembled, whether from the cold or something else, Butch wasn’t sure.

“Can you spare some change?” the kid asked, his voice tight with nerves.

Butch let the question linger while he sized the boy up. Sixteen, maybe younger, and younger was always better. A runaway? A junkie? A little of both? His gaze flicked to his rig, then back to the kid.

“I don’t have change,” Butch said, keeping his voice casual. “And I can’t afford to give you the only bill in my wallet, or I won’t be eating the rest of my trip.”

He saw the kid’s expression flicker, hope turning to desperation.

Butch sighed, just enough to sell the part. “You look hungry. My truck’s over there, and I need to top off the tanks. How about I go inside and buy you a sandwich? Your choice of a drink, too.”

The kid hesitated. His eyes darted to the truck, then back to Butch.

Finally, a slow shrug. “Sure. I’d appreciate it.”

Butch smiled just a little. Not too much. Not yet. This anticipatory feeling was rarely wrong.

Butch led the kid inside, giving him space to make his choice. The boy moved slow, scanning the shelves like he was memorizing them, but Butch had seen this act before; the quiet calculation of a runaway weighing his luck.

At the register, Butch pulled out a fifty. The cashier, a wiry man with a nicotine-stained mustache, grumbled as he cracked open the till.

“You got anything smaller?”

Butch shrugged, keeping his expression neutral. “All I got.”

He placed the return bills in his wallet as the coins clattered into his palm, and he dumped them into his other pocket so they didn’t jingle against the others.

The kid sat at a table, sandwich in one hand, soda in the other. Butch stood over him, offering a slow, measured nod. “Sorry I couldn’t do more. I really hope you’ll be okay.” He let his voice dip into something close to concern, shuffled his feet, and then walked out.

This game was all about patience.

Outside, the air had gone colder. The wind rattled through the fuel depot’s overhead lights, buzzing against the hum of another idling rig. Butch pulled his truck into position, set the brake, and got the pump going. He didn’t have to wait long for his good evening to turn even better.

“Hey, mister, where you headed?”

The kid’s voice was tentative, but not desperate. He had his sandwich and drink clutched tight, like they were the only things saving him right now.

Butch turned slowly. “Oklahoma City.”

The kid licked his lips. “Could I bum a ride?”

There it was.

Butch wiped his hands on his jeans, extending one. “Name’s Butch. You got a handle?”

The boy hesitated, then placed his hand in Butch’s. His grip was weak.

“Ron,” he said.

Butch almost smiled. Bogus name. Runaways weren’t stupid.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Butch said. “Damn government regs cap my hours, and I’ll hit my limit in a few. Can’t afford a hotel, so I’ll catch some shut eye in the sleeper. You can stretch out on the front seat, do the same. That work for you?”

The kid’s shoulders eased just a little. “Yeah. Thanks, Butch.”

Butch chuckled low in his throat. “I know the name’s a little weird,” he admitted, this time letting his smile show more teeth. “My old man was a butcher. Had a shop when I was your age, so folks started calling me that. Stuck a hell of a lot better than what was handed me at birth.”

“Thanks, Butch,” the kid repeated, softer this time.

“Eat your sandwich while I finish fueling,” Butch said, pulling open the truck door for him. “Got a pack of chocolate donuts I’ll split with you. One rule, though, driver picks the music. Hope you don’t mind country.”

For the first time, the kid cracked a real smile, and his relaxed shoulders said it all: He had finally caught a break, or so he thought.

They traveled for an hour before Butch found a spot to stop. The highway sat lower than the surrounding land, and a ditch further obscured the view. It was the perfect location.

He motioned Ron from the rig, and as soon as the kid’s feet hit the ground, Butch grabbed his shoulder and spun him so he looked at the great expanse and not the highway. Ron sputtered and tried to jerk away.

“What the hell you doing?” he yelled.

“See all that land?” Butch asked casually, close to the kid’s ear.

“What do you mean?”

“Listen to me,” Butch said. “You get one crack at this. You run; I follow. Not because I’m cruel, but because I know how the hunt ends. If you slip free, you live. If I find you, everything changes, and it will be worse than anything you can imagine. Now move. Don’t look back.”

“You’re crazy.” Ron was gasping for air now, terrified, and not thinking clearly.

The kid hadn’t been a runaway long enough to judge the danger involved in his chosen way of life. He’d had one other kid, a girl, roll under the rig and almost get out on the side closest to the highway. She’d been fun.

He gave Ron a hard shove away from the truck, causing him to fall to his knees.

“Please, mister,” he begged, lifting his hand.

“Run,” Butch yelled.

The kid didn’t move, so Butch stepped closer, reached down, and grabbed his wrist. With a sudden twist, he broke his arm. The kid screamed and rolled.

“I said to run,” Butch all but spat. He hated when they wimped out.

The kid scrambled to his feet and took off.

Butch counted to ten slowly before he pulled out the rifle from the rack behind the passenger seat.

Through his systematic experimentation, he had learned that youth glowed with the taste of sunlight.

It was untouched and unbearably pure, like spring fruit right before it ripens.

Ron never made it to Oklahoma City.

Four hours later, Butch had the heat cranked as he pulled into a mom-and-pop truck stop outside Tulsa. A handful of rigs were scattered across the lot, their cab lights glowing in the dark.

Where the entrance met the highway, a young Native woman had her thumb out. She looked cold, wrapped in a threadbare hoodie, and Butch almost broke his own rule.

Almost.

The freezer had limited space. He liked keeping things tidy and manageable. Even though it was in a hidden compartment under the sleeper, he didn’t take risks. Every now and then, authorities checked loads, and while he had the paperwork for the items he hauled, he wasn’t about to invite scrutiny.

Still, she was a plump thing.

Butch tightened his grip on the wheel and forced himself to turn away.

Inside the truck stop, he wandered the aisles, his eyes glazing over the usual fare: day-old hot dogs, trucker pills, the rotating hot case of mystery meat. His hand hovered over a bag of pork rinds, and he smirked.

Humans share 98% of their DNA with pigs, and that thought gave him an internal grin.

Back in the truck, Butch ran his tongue over his teeth. He took care of them; brushed and flossed religiously. He wasn’t like the cedar rats who let their mouths rot, their smiles turning to blackened stumps out in the area he lived.

The Hogg family had been the worst of them: backwoods filth living too damn close to his place, attracting attention he didn’t want or need. If the old woman hadn’t handled the problem, Butch had planned to.

He liked things quiet. He had his secrets.

He gave the side of his rig a satisfied slap, the metal ringing hollow. Ron was tucked away, packed up neat. The boy had been on the skinny side, but not every cut needed to be thick.

Butch popped a pork rind into his mouth and bit down, the crunch loud in the silence.

Damn shame people didn’t appreciate good meat anymore. Most didn’t think about it. Most didn’t know that if you smoked the slab just right, it tasted exactly like bacon.