Cross

and it was pointed at the guy in his underwear, aimed at his balls, but then Sullivan moved it up to the heart, if the conniving bastard had one. Murder your wife? What kind of cold, cold shit was that?
    “Change of plans,” Sullivan said. “What can I tell you? It happens.”
    The husband, Jerry, put his hands up in the air without being asked. He was also coming wide awake—in kind of a big hurry.
    “What are you talking about? What is this, Mel? Why is this man in our house? Who the hell is he?”
    A classic line and a dynamite delivery.
    Now it was Melinda’s turn to say her piece, and she decided to shout her answer.
    “He’s the one who was supposed to kill me, Jerry! You paid to have me murdered, you miserable piece of shit! You are total worthless garbage, and you’re a coward too. So I paid him
more
to have
you
hit. That’s what this is, honey. I guess you could call him a switch-hitter,” she said, and laughed at her own joke.
    Nobody else did—not Jerry and not Sullivan. It was kind of funny actually, but not laugh-out-loud funny. Or maybe her delivery was wrong, a touch too harsh, a little too much of the truth in it.
    The husband jumped back into the TV room and tried to pull shut the door, but it wasn’t even a contest.
    The Butcher was quick and had a foot, a work boot, wedged in the doorway. Then he put his shoulder to it and followed Jerry right inside.
    Jerry, the original contractor, was a tall, potbellied CEO- or CFO-type dude who was balding up top. The den smelled of his body odor and a cigar smoldering in an ashtray by the couch. A two-ball putter and a couple of Titleist spheroids lay on the rug. A man’s man, this guy who had paid to have his wife killed and now was practicing his putting to show he didn’t have the yips.
    “I’ll pay you more than she can!” Jerry squealed. “Whatever that bitch paid, I’ll double it! I swear to God! The money’s there. It’s yours.”
    Wow—this is getting better and better,
thought Sullivan. It brought new meaning to a game like
Jeopardy!
—or
Let’s Make a Deal.
    “You total piece of crap!” Melinda snarled at her husband from the doorway. Then she ran in and smacked him in the chops. Sullivan still thought that she was a cool lady in a lot of ways, though not in some others.
    He looked at the husband again. Then he looked at Melinda. Interesting couple, to be sure.
    “I agree with Melinda,” said the Butcher. “But Jerry does have a point, Mel. Maybe we should have a little auction here. You think? Let’s talk this out like adults. No more hitting or name-calling.”

Chapter 112
    TWO HOURS LATER, the auction was complete, and Michael Sullivan was driving on the Massachusetts Turnpike in his Lexus. The car could move reasonably well, and the ride was smooth as a baby’s ass, or maybe he was just feeling good.
    There were a few loose details to work out, but the job was done.
Let’s Make a Deal
had netted him three hundred and fifty thousand, all of it wired into an account at the Union Bank of Switzerland. Truth be told, he hadn’t felt this financially secure in a while, though he’d probably burned his Boston contact for the job. Maybe he’d have to move the family again too. Or maybe it was time for him to break free and set off on his own, something he’d been thinking about a lot.
    It was probably worth it—three hundred fifty grand for a day’s work. Jerry Steiner had been the winning bidder, but then he tapped the dumb, obnoxious bastard anyway. Melinda was a different story. He liked her, didn’t want to hurt her. But what choice did he have? Leave her around to talk? So he made it painless—one to the back of Mel’s head. Then a couple of pictures to memorialize her pretty face for his collection.
    Anyway, he was singing a Stones ballad that he’d always liked, “Wild Horses,” when he came around the bend in the road. There was his house on the hill, right where he’d left it.
    And—what the hell was this?
    Mistake?
    But whose mistake?
    He shut off his headlights around the next little crook in the road. Then he eased into a cul-de-sac, where he had a better view of his house and the grounds.
    Man, he couldn’t catch a break lately. Couldn’t outrun his past no matter how far away he went.
    He’d spotted them right away, in a dark-blue car, maybe a Dodge, with the grille pointed toward the house like a gun. Two men inside that he could see. Waiting for him, no doubt about