Chapter 19 Reed
Reed
We pull into the Slaughterhouse Social, a trendy steakhouse that has the rarest cuts and dissected bovine anatomy as casual décor.
The waitress seats us at our dimly lit booth, handing us two simple menus.
“Wow, what a surprise. They only serve meat here?” Cooper chuckles, browsing the selection of pork and beef.
My eyes skate over the words. Dry-aged. Grass-fed.
Bled-on-site. A faint, familiar warmth blossoms in my chest. It’s almost poetic.
They present butchery as a dining experience, a form of social artistry.
They have no idea how intimate the process truly is.
The finality of it. The art in the anatomy.
“It’s to the point,” I murmur, my sight flicking from the menu to the peak of his Adam’s apple. “No sugarcoating it.”
Cooper snorts, leaning back against the dark leather. “Poor Bessie the Cow. Do you think her organic and pasture-raised background make patrons less guilty about eating the ribeye?”
“Sentimentality makes for poor seasoning.” I drop my menu to the table with a soft thud.
My focus is on him; on the way the low light catches the glimmer of gold in his hair.
He’s trying to be facetious, but I can see the curiosity burning behind those dazzling blue eyes.
He’s always hungry for another glimpse into my world.
“It dulls the palate to the reality of consumption. We take life to sustain life. It’s the oldest contract there is. ”
A waitress saunters over, her smile as polished as the silverware. “Can I start you gentleman with something to drink? Our signature cocktail is the Butcher’s Block—bourbon with a hint of hickory smoke.”
“Water,” I say, my voice leaving no room for suggestion. “And he’ll have the same.”
She blinks, her smile faltering for a fraction of a second before she nods and retreats.
Cooper’s mouth hangs open. “Hey! I was going to get that. It sounded situationally perfect.”
“It sounds like a gimmick,” I counter, folding my arms. The veins on my forearms standout against the crisp black of my shirt. “You need a clear head. We’re not here for theatrics. We’re here for sustenance and to deliver justice.”
His playful pout dissolves, replaced by that delicious, submissive attentiveness that makes my blood churn. “Can’t we have a little fun?”
“Fun?” I let the word hang in the air, my gaze dropping to the pulse fluttering in his neck. “There aren’t enough gags in this building to keep you quiet enough for that.”
His lips part, preparing to protest. I lean in, close enough to smell the clover and sweat clinging on him from the heat.
“That cocktail,” I purr, “is a $14 distraction. For $14, I can buy an entire gallon of chloroform or buy you a brand-new stethoscope that would be perfect for strangling our next victim.”
He lets out an exasperated breath, a blush creeping through his cheeks. I can see the pleasure flaming in his pupils.
“Fine, no cocktail,” he mutters, picking up his menu. “But I’m getting the most expensive steak here. I need to keep up my strength if I’m going to be your apprentice in arterial spray patterns.”
“Splendid,” I say, revealing a delayed, predatory smirk. “Order the Wagyu. The marbling is exquisite. It will remind you what a well-vascularized piece of tissue looks like before slice into it.”
The waitress returns, her smile strained. “Are you guys ready to order?”
Cooper perks up. “I’ll have the A5 Wagyu strip. Rare please, barely grilled.”
She looks over at me, her pen scribbling.
“I will have the filet mignon. Also rare. I have a particular appreciation for the texture of meat that still remembers being alive.”
The waitress’s pen falters on her notepad. “S-sure. And will that be all?”
“For now,” I say, turning my gaze to her. “But do bring us a serrated knife. The one provided is… inadequate for the thrill of slicing.”
“Of course,” the waitress whispers, retreating to the kitchen.
Cooper waits until she’s out of earshot before kicking me under the table. “Inadequate for the thrill? You’re going to get us put on the FBI watchlist.”
“I’m a physician, Cooper. I have a profound respect for the integrity of connective tissue.
That flimsy piece of stainless steel is an insult to the bovine who sacrificed its psoas major for our dinner.
” I lean forward, my voice dropping. “Besides, the real thrill isn’t the slicing, it’s the practice. The imagination of what it could be.”
He shakes his head, a helpless grin playing on his lips. “You’re disgusting. Most people would be satisfied with salt and pepper on their food.”
I drown out his chatter, purveying the dining room. It’s awfully quiet. Maybe two or three other tables in the restaurant during prime dinner hour.
Too quiet.
There’s no way they could keep these doors open and the electricity on with this poor of a cashflow.
I catch the waitress’s attention with a raise of my brows. “Ma’am, is it usually this quiet at this time?”
“No, usually we are clacking busy, but tonight is the Rapture Festival. Nearly the whole town is out there to see some lunatic perform some miracle,” she replies, nonchalant.
“Lunatic?” I repeat, my eyes narrowing.
“Yeah some mega-backwoods pastor. Mormon weirdo, I think. Calls himself The Voice of The New Dawn or something. Says he can heal the sick, speak in furious tongues. The usual end-of-the-world stuff. His cult has a whole compound in the hills.”
The tension eases in my shoulders, this might be easier than I thought. “And where is this festival? In the woods?”
“No, right in downtown. Somehow they bribed the council for a permit. Heard it’s a whole carnival and everything,” she rolls her eyes.
“Won’t catch me there, I had a run with a guy in my twenties, told me he wanted me to be one of his sister wives after we dated for three months. Can you believe that?”
“Unbelievable,” I mutter, less about the polygamy and more about his sheer, brazen stupidity. A public carnival. His arrogance is breathtaking.
Our waitress delivers our steaks without a word as I’m lost in thought.
A carnival. I’m mapping out the tactical implications. Crowds. Noise. Screaming kids. It’s the perfect environment to gut out a fanatic. They’ll think it’s a part of the show as their head honcho receives his deliverance.
Cooper is knifing into his Wagyu, his eyes reading my mind. “A public event, Reed… that’s a lot of witnesses.
“Not if we are wearing a couple of balaclavas under the cover of night…” I let the sentence hang, watching the shock and surprise play out across his face.
He swallows a piece of grilled marble, his eyebrows furrowed. “In a crowd? Someone will see.”
“Someone always thinks they see,” I correct, slicing into my Filet mignon.
“In a crowd that size, pumped full of cotton candy and religious fervor, they’ll see ghosts, angels, and demons.
Two men in black will be the least of their hallucinations.
” I spear in a piece of bloody meat. “Their brains will be too occupied with the show. They’ll think it’s an optical illusion. A prank. A religious experience.”
I lean in, my voice dropping to a whisper. “Think of it, Cooper. The ultimate irony. A man who performs miracles, being delivered from his own mortal flesh in the middle of his own spectacle. It’s perfect.”
He rolls his eyes, shaking his head. “I’m just the apprentice.”
But I can see the calculation in his pupils, my perfect, deranged little protege visualizing how this could play out, we could do a drive-by double-gash or a noose around his neck and strangle him from up top.
“Now eat,” I command softly. “A good hunter never works on an empty stomach. We need to be sharp. We have a miracle to perform.”
***
The town square is packed, a throbbing hub of sweat and laughter. The streetlights stand out in the darkness, a Ferris wheel turning slowly against the horizon. I whiff my nose again to pick up the scent of fried dough and ignorant humanity. The voice of vendors selling tickets rings loud.
We stand at the edge, two shadows plotting their move. I feel in my zone, my vision narrowing to strategic considerations. Escape routes. Sightlines. The predicted chaos of a scrambling crowd.
Cooper shifts beside me, his shoulder brushing mine. “So many kids…”
“Yeah, be careful about them. I consider them innocent until proven otherwise.” I nod toward a group of teenagers tossing a bean bag amongst themselves.
“Besides children are excellent camouflage. Their high-pitched shrieks of joy are acoustically identical to the shrieks of terror. They provide the perfect, temporary auditory cover.”
I start moving, pulling him gently by the elbow into the current of the crowd. “Stay close. Too many religious fanatics here tonight.”
We saunter through the throng, two predators moving against the current until we reach the edge of the stage, front and center.
Then I see him, Father Sol. A middle-aged bald man sporting a smile that is far too wide to be genuine. Such a smug, creepy looking bastard.
He's shorter than I expected, his white robes doing little to a soft, indulgent paunch. His eyes are flat and calculating. Not those of a holy man, but a businessman. He’s chatting to one of his disciples, trying to represent a false aura of warmness.
“Look at him,” I murmur into Cooper’s ear, my voice almost drowned out by the crowd. “The supraorbital foramen is pinched. A classic sign of chronic duress. He’s a man who has been faking that smile for so long, his own nerves are giving him away.”
Cooper lets out a choked laugh. “Nice diagnosis from twenty feet away.”
“It’s a simple observation. Anatomy doesn’t lie." My gaze drops to the man’s hands, which are fluttering dramatically. “Notice the slight tremor in the distal phalanges. Could be early onset Parkinson’s. Or could be a side effect of some drugs. Amphetamines, most likely.”
I feel a cold smile crawl across my lips. It feels far more genuine than his.