He called himself
Rott
and he was the most prolific serial killer in American history. His dark exploits had dominated the news media after his capture and conviction in 2008: the rape, the murder, the senseless mutilation and wanton cannibalism. He had four hundred and fifty confirmed victims and another hundred and forty under investigation.
Rott's
grinning face – with his teeth filed to jagged points and those light-
pupiled
eyes that resembled tiny eyeballs within eyeballs – had graced the covers of
Newsweek
and
Time
, as well as nearly every tabloid and legitimate newspaper around the globe. From what had been uncovered at his trial – which had stretched a good four months from start to finish –
Rott
had performed his abominations and satisfied his dark desire for pain, torment, and human flesh for nearly twelve years before finally getting caught. His grisly specialty had been to dismember his victims while they were still alive, raping and feasting upon their bodies as they slowly bled to death.
If anyone knew
Rott's
true name or identity it had been forgotten long ago. In a
USA Today
poll,
Rott's
leering face was voted number four as the most visually-identifiable person in world history, just behind George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, and Jesus Christ.
As far as Sam knew,
Rott
had been confined to Death Row at Alabama's notorious Holman Penitentiary near Atmore, a few miles from the Florida state line. Apparently the Burn had done a number on the correction facility's elaborate security system and
Rott
had escaped, bringing an army of murdering brutes with him.
What Sam wondered was why he had gone north, instead of heading south for the Sunshine State? Exactly what had sent the New Satan, as he was called, heading their way?
Rott
left the car and strutted around the front. He was bare-chested, to show off his trademark tattoo, and he wore jeans and black cowboy boots with pointed toes. On a silver-studded belt he wore his weapon of preference; a thick-bladed meat cleaver in a hand-made holster.
"Yeah, this is it,"
Rott
said. As he spread his brawny arms and stretched, the face of the black dog on his chest expanded, its slavering maul seeming to grow broader and more vicious. "This is the place."
The passenger door of the Mustang opened and a lean black man wearing round eyeglasses and an orange prison jumpsuit climbed out. Sam recognized him, too, although his fame was of a different notoriety than
Rott's
. The young man was named Clarence "Pickpocket" Jefferson. In another life he had been a government worker for the state of Alabama, a computer programmer, among other things. When he had been fired from his position for some undisclosed indiscretion, Jefferson had retaliated by hacking into the computer systems of every bank in the state and siphoning off over 45 million dollars from several thousand accounts before the FBI apprehended him. Among his victims was the governor of Alabama, who lost every penny he had to Jefferson's money-sucking scheme. None of the lost funds had ever been located.
Sam wondered what a white-collar conman was doing hooked up with a blue-collar killer like
Rott
. But, on second thought, the pairing seemed completely natural. A man like
Rott
needed someone with a superior brain to perform difficult tasks for him, like accessing gasoline past the restraints of electronic pumps, as well as dozens of other things that the New Satan couldn't possibly figure out on his own.
Sitting there watching that band of dangerous men, Sam knew it wouldn't be long before things in Watkins Glen went completely to hell, making the cold-blooded murder of John the Accountant seem like a slap on the wrist. He had no idea it would happen so quickly and with such fury.
A big, bearded fellow with spider webs tattooed on his elbows climbed off his Harley and looked around in distaste. "Okay… so where the hell's this feast you promised,
Rott
? It's been three days since we've had a bite to eat and I'm starving!"
"You're standing in front of it, Calhoun,"
Rott
told him.
The burly con looked around and scowled. "A
pet shop
? Are you
shitting
me? You think gerbils and parakeets are gonna satisfy a man like me?"
Rott
ignored him and turned toward Jefferson. "Pickpocket, take some men to the hardware store over yonder and bring out some propane grills. We're gonna have us a hellacious barbeque."
Calhoun was furious. "Hey, slick! Don't turn your back on me, you flesh-eating freak!"
Rott
simply stood there, totally relaxed and at ease. His head cocked back an inch or so and he smiled that savage smile that the world knew so well. Sam watched breathlessly as
Rott's
hand moved swiftly to the holster on his belt, unsnapped the retaining strap, and drew the cleaver.
With a motion that was graceful – almost
beautiful
– in its execution,
Rott
whirled, bringing the heavy blade around in a wide, sweeping arch. The edge of the cleaver traveled to Calhoun's throat and beyond, tunneling past skin, muscle, and bone, decapitating the man.
Well
almost
. A stubborn mat of tendons in the back of Calhoun's neck refused to yield and the big man's head flopped over his back and hung there, resting between his shoulder blades. Calhoun staggered around in a drunken circle, the arteries of his neck spouting a fountain of crimson and his windpipe whistling loudly as his lungs pumped out his last few breaths. The others backed up, giving the dead biker a wide berth. Finally, the strength drained out of him and he dropped to his knees. Calhoun remained like that for a long moment, then fell, chest-down, onto the asphalt of the street. His head remained in its unnatural position, its glassy eyes glaring skyward, still holding the anger and threat they had possessed thirty seconds before his untimely demise.
Lord have mercy!
thought Sam. He felt the burn of bile rise into his throat, but instantly swallowed it. It wouldn't do him a speck of good to throw up his shoe soles and draw the gang's attention in his direction. So far, they hadn't noticed him or had ignored him completely… and that was the way he preferred it.
"Okay, if any of you guys want some Calhoun steak, have at him," said
Rott
. "He's too damned nasty for me to sink my teeth into."
None of his posse took him up on the offer, looking uncomfortable and pale in the face.
"Clarence, fetch those grills,"
Rott
told him. "We'll go in and get the entrees."
"Gotcha!" The lean black man snapped his fingers and three big fellows followed. One was a head taller than the others, with broad shoulders a yard wide, flowing blond hair, and the face of an Adonis. Sam recognized him, too. He was a pro wrestler for the WWE named the Alabama
Hitman
; a big bruiser of a villain in the arena, full of piss and vinegar, and known for crushing his opponents without mercy. Several weeks ago he had turned a particularly popular wrestler into a paraplegic with a
suplex
that had broken the man's neck so loudly that the crack could be heard beyond the cheering crowd,
outside
the stadium.
As
Rott
and several of his men barged into Millie's Pet Shop, Sam watched as Pickpocket and his trio marched down the sidewalk toward the True-Value. George
Pendergast
stood up from where he had been sitting in a folding lawn chair. "Now, y'all stand back!" he warned, leveling his shotgun. "You ain't getting nothing of mine… you hear me?"
Just let 'em have it, George,
Sam thought.
Give them the grills and anything else they want. These
fellas
aren't to be trifled with.
The look on
Pendergast's
face as they advanced told Sam that he suddenly considered the same thing. But it was too late. The
Hitman
barreled forward and, grabbing hold of the barrel of the twelve-gauge, yanked it out of the storeowner's hands. George attempted to retreat, but he had his back to the front window. The wrestler beat the man to death with the butt of his own weapon, hammering away at his head until the walnut stock splintered in two and George
Pendergast's
blood and brains splattered across the sidewalk and into the street.
Sam closed his eyes, feeling unsteady.
God, please stop this. Let them have their damned lunch and be on their way.
But he knew that it wouldn't be that simple. The expression in
Rott's
face had told him that he intended to stick around for a while.
The old man opened his eyes when he heard Millie scream. He looked across the street to see
Rott
and the others leaving the pet shop, carrying several kittens and puppies by their collars. Millie was dancing around them in hysteria, her eyes wild and tearful. "No, please! You mustn't. You can't do such a horrible thing!"
Rott
ignored her. He brought a good-sized German Sheppard pup to the hood of the Mustang, drew his cleaver, and began to hack it up. The dog's head dropped to the street first, rolling beneath the souped-up Ford, then its tail and legs followed.
Rott
chuckled as blood pulsated out of the ugly wounds, bathing his hands and arms in warm, wet gore.
Millie screamed long and loud, over and over again. She couldn't have been more horrified if they had slaughtered her own flesh-and-blood child before her eyes. Taking leave of her good sense, the woman leapt at the murderer and tore at his triceps with her fingernails
"Aw, shut the hell up, lady!" growled
Rott
, shoving her away forcefully.
Millie stumbled and lost her footing. She fell backward and the rear of her skull collided with the top of one of Maple Avenue's four fire plugs. The release bolt punched through the bone with a sickening
crunch.
As the spike of the plug burrowed into her brain, Millie bucked and flailed. Once she got her feet underneath her, as if trying to stand up. But the bolt held fast and she failed to pull herself loose.
It was at that moment that Sam Wheeler could no longer sit there. "Millie!" he yelled, standing up, the Winchester fisted in his liver-spotted hands.
Immediately,
Rott
lifted his eyes and stared at the old man in a way that seemed to freeze the course of time. "Un-uh, Pops. You take your popgun and sit your wrinkled ass back down in that chair. There ain't nothing you can do for her now, anyway."
Sam stood stone still and didn't move. His hands clutched the old .44-40 so tightly that they hurt. But he knew
Rott
was right. He turned his eyes back to Millie. She was still and limp, still hanging awkwardly off the fire plug. There was no mistaking that she was dead.
Rott's
eyes continued to stare him down. "I said… sit… your…ass…down."
Sam did as he was told. He dropped heavily back into the rocker, his heart pounding wildly in his shallow chest.
I'm going to have a heart attack, right here and now!
he thought to himself. But he knew there was little chance of that. He simply wasn't that lucky.
"You behave yourself and maybe I'll cook you up a hamster or something,"
Rott
told him and laughed.
Sam sat there helplessly and watched them skin and gut almost every animal in Millie's Pet Shop. They even skewered goldfish on sticks and roasted them over the heat of the grills. The odor of roasting meat filled the air, causing Sam to feel lightheaded and nauseated.
The men had their feast, washing it down with beer they had stolen somewhere during their travels. Then, as night drew on, they split up, taking up residence in the pet shop and hardware store. Before
Rott
went in, he turned and gave Sam a toothy grin and a wink. "Good night, Pops."
Sam sat there, feeling cold and exposed, despite the warmth and humidity of the July night. He sat there for an hour or two longer, until no light shown from within the neighboring buildings and only the sound of men's snoring could be heard. Then he got up, went into the fix-it shop, and retrieved the Radio Flyer. Wearily, he pulled it across the street, toward the fire plug. Halfway there, he noticed one of the men – a skinny, little skin-headed guy with black swastikas etched up and down his arms – standing near the side of the pet shop, taking a
piss
. Sam's sudden appearance startled him so that he pulled a 22-caliber pistol from his waistband and leveled it at him. "What the shit do you want, gramps?"
"I just want to bury my friends," he told him, pulling the big red wagon up next to Millie's lifeless body.
The man thought about for a moment. He looked nervously toward the pet shop, where he knew
Rott
slept. "Well, okay… but hurry it up, will you? If
Rott
finds out I let you go, he'll kill me and have my liver for breakfast."
"With
fava
beans and a nice
chianti
, I reckon."
The little man scowled. "What?"
"Never mind," said Sam. "I'll be quick about it. I promise."
Quietly, he went to work. First he dislodged Millie from the fire plug, which wasn't an easy task. He strained and pried at her silvery head until it finally popped loose with a moist, sucking sound. Sam rolled her body into the bed of the red wagon, then steered it down the sidewalk to where George
Pendergast
lay, his arms stiff, the fingers gnarled in rigor mortis. It took some doing, but he finally heaved him into the wagon, too. He wasn't sure that he would be able to haul them off, their combined weight was so heavy. But they were both small in frame and two of them put together equaled one John the Accountant. With a grunt and a tug, Sam got the wagon rolling and continued to pull to keep the momentum going.