The Killing League - By Dani Amore Page 0,5

its workload and devoured the last batch of swirling blood.

The flow had slowed to steady drips with the occasional gush that sent a stream of thicker, darker blood toward the floor. The blood emerged from a corpse hung from a thick ceiling beam into which a huge metal eye hook had been screwed. The body belonged, or once belonged, to a middle-aged woman. Now, it was in the possession of a craftsman, who stood before his meat-cutting saw, its blade still spinning.

Roy Skittlecorn appeared like the stereotypical image of his profession. He was a butcher, and very much looked the part. He had on an apron, its front smeared with blood. He had thick black hair, slicked back, and his hands were large with bulging knuckles. They, too, were covered with blood.

A cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth.

His thick fingers were wrapped around an elongated piece of flesh, with a jagged circle of bone protruding from the middle.

The AC/DC song “If You Want Blood,” boomed from the stereo that sat on a wide, metal shelf.

Skittlecorn took another drag from the cigarette, set it back in its ashtray, and pushed the severed leg onto the table saw’s blade.

He’d heard of people using hacksaws and sawzalls to chop up bodies. He had a name for them: amateurs. A sawzall, even with a new blade, made a mess of things. His technique was a work of art. He watched as the blade sliced through the leg in a perfect, smooth cut. He set the piece next to the others, all lined up in neat groups. A wave of contentment washed over him. Life is never better when work is going so well, he thought.

He turned his attention back to the leg, and pushed it onto the blade. The sound of the diamond-coated cutting tool drowned out the words to the Butcher’s favorite song.

6.

Mack

Mack was surprised and more than a little disappointed to see him. FBI Assistant Director Paul Whidby stood near the back of the small group who had waited to speak with Mack upon the completion of his lecture.

Whidby looked exactly the same to Mack, even though he hadn’t laid eyes on the man in several years. A career politician, Whidby looked the part. A tall, handsome black man in an expensive suit and tie, perfect teeth, the arrogant posture of a man who thought he owned the room.

Mack hid the surprise at Whidby’s presence, and the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Mack caught the eye of his old partner, Ellen Reznor, who seemed to transmit a what-are-ya-gonna-do expression to him.

The last student thanked him for the speech, leaving Mack, Whidby and Reznor alone.

Whidby approached him. Mack noted that the man made no pretense of offering a handshake.

“Interesting speech,” Whidby said.

“Thanks,” Mack said. That really means a lot to me, he thought, but held back from actually letting the sarcasm fly.

“I see semi-retirement hasn’t stifled your creativity,” Whidby said.

Mack almost smiled at the thinly veiled insult. Whidby had always been the first to attack Mack’s theories as pure speculation. Only when a case was cracked and Mack proved right did Whidby ever get on board. And he did so only then to try to take credit.

“And you haven’t lost your knack for missing the obvious,” Mack said.

Reznor held up her hands and literally stepped between the two men. “Guys, no pissing match here, please,” she said. “Just say hello, and go on your separate ways.”

“Clearly, no one consulted me on letting you give these presentations,” Whidby said. “I would have told them to save their money.”

Mack nodded. “I’m not surprised no one consults you, Paul. Sounds like the value of your input hasn’t increased over the years.”

“But I found out it’s part of your extremely generous retirement package,” Whidby said. “These little seminars or whatever they’re called.”

“All right, good to see you,” Mack said and brushed past Whidby. He was halfway down the auditorium stairs to the exit doors, when Whidby called out.

“Hey Mack, I’m just curious,” he said. “Were you drunk when you came up with all these theories?”

Mack stopped, but Reznor put her hand in the middle of his back.

“Keep going, he’s not worth it,” Reznor said.

Mack felt his face burn.

Now he remembered why he left the Bureau, or more accurately, why he’d let Whidby force him out.

7.

Lady of the Evening

The Fort Walton MotorLodge sat on Florida Highway 30, a half mile from an outlet mall featuring Kenneth Cole, Adidas and Off the 5th.

In Room