Chapter Thirty-Three
Blood Fate
Butch
Stalking the deputy had become one of Butch’s favorite pastimes.
Using his camouflaged Ford truck, which was a hunter’s dream, he wasn’t noticed.
He waited for the perfect opportunity to kill the man, and this was finally his chance.
This was best for Willow, and he understood now that Willow was his future.
Though Butch knew he could outsmart law enforcement, he remained wary, and that’s why it had taken longer than he wanted to.
Butch had studied Ted Bundy, John Wayne Gacy, Jeffrey Dahmer, whom he’d given special interest to, and Gary Ridgway, who killed forty-nine women and was caught years later due to DNA. Butch had been smart, except for Cindy.
Killing the deputy was taking a gamble, and he’d had to think long and hard on it. Butch wasn’t like the other killers. Those men had one thing in common: They thought they were smarter than those who hunted them. As time passed, they grew stupid in their quest for notoriety.
Butch never wanted infamy, and had planned accordingly since the beginning. His victims until Chris Lanston were never found. Willow was part of what could bring him down, but he didn’t blame her.
The deputy made Butch’s need for secrecy harder. Many things could go wrong, and after he pulled the trigger, he had to collect the body. It would be tricky, but he couldn’t pass up the perfect opportunity.
He settled the .308 on his shoulder. The rifle’s weight was a familiar pressure against his cheek with the stock resting at the base of his jaw.
The bolt’s smooth, cold metal slid back with a dry click, the cartridge seating with a soft metallic thud.
A slight wind blew gently through the dead grass.
His slow breaths were the only other sound in his ears.
Through the sight, the world narrowed to a single frame where the edges blurred.
The deputy stood half in shadow. The sight settled as Butch placed the body in the crosshair of the scope. All that existed was the hair-trigger and the man who would die.
Butch’s heartbeat remained steady, and his breath slow as he counted between each inhale and exhale. His fingers loosened around the forestock. A pragmatic taste he couldn’t describe filled the back of his throat. As his rifle tuned to a single note of death, this became a sacred moment.
The deputy shifted and glanced in Butch’s direction like he knew he was there.
The world became a pinpoint of clarity for a sliver of a second.
His finger kissed the trigger. For a breath, Butch allowed himself to remember those who came before.
He’d killed in so many ways, but this time it felt even more amazing than killing Cindy.
He pressed the trigger gently, and the rifle spoke once.
The deputy fell, half his head missing.