Devour, p.30
Devour, page 30
Michael was still grinning. “Yeah, fancy fish. Imported from your fancy connections in Japan,” he mocked. “And probably some overpriced venison from who knows where.”
Now, it was Dalton who was smirking.
“Close, but not the whole story. Or should I say, not the entire body of work,” he laughed so loudly it startled Michael.
The other guests, however, remained trancelike—except for Slack who had artfully morphed from zoned-out zombie to fully-engaged freak.
Michael relished seeing Dalton’s eyes shift from his glass to Slack’s glass and then to his face.
“Yeah, I don’t drink much either,” Slack growled.
Before Dalton could allow his power to be threatened, he hit back, looking at Slack’s plate. “How’d you enjoy Davis Flannery?” He spat, nodding at the last bites on his plate. With air-quotes, he added, “The ribeye?”
Confused, Slack looked at the meat, then to Michael.
“And the chicken fingers?” Dalton smirked. “Not so much. More like Peter Franklin, or as I like to call them, Franklin Fingers,” he laughed, using more air-quotes. “Oh, and the sushi everyone enjoyed earlier? A good bit of Rosie Lawrence. Now, she was a big girl,” he chuckled, “Lots of dishes of her to go around.”
Slack frowned at his boss—his mind racing to make sense of it all.
“And the more tender filet? The one you and I especially enjoyed?” Dalton verbally spat at Michael’s face, relishing every second of his wicked charade. “That would be the formerly beautiful and ever-so-talented…Kathryn Rogan,” he snarled.
Michael looked at his empty plate and the room began to spin.
Instantly, his mind crafted scenes of puzzle pieces coming together like a film playing an explosion. But in reverse. And at high speed.
Michael’s mind flashed to the restaurant: Dalton arriving with a knife exactly like his own.
Scott murdered with the same knife—in Michael’s kitchen.
Dalton and his planning rare entrees for a one-of-a-kind event—piles of meat with unusual marbling.
Then an absurd quantity of fresh sushi.
Kathryn’s unreturned calls.
Suddenly, the high-pitched shrill began ringing in his ears. The volume and pain was excruciating. He grabbed both ears, trying to make it stop. But it would not.
Next came the crushing pain as though his skull was about to explode.
“I thought…” he began. “You were a maniac before, Dalton,” he started to hyperventilate, “But now, ” he stood. “I will kill you,” his heart pounded harder, “With my bare hands,” he screamed as the shrill rang louder.
Dalton was ecstatic at the trauma he was causing Michael. He pointed to the plate of delicacies in the middle of the table. “Those Chocolate Covered Cherries,” he yelled, “Those aren’t cherries. Never were,” he howled.
From Dalton’s eyes to the dish on the table, Michael stared through a tunnel vision of pain and horror. Slowly reaching for one—willing himself not to—he picked up one of the “cherries” up and, rubbing the chocolate aside, stared at Kathryn’s eyeball underneath.
Dalton was cackling like an insane person creating a horrifying backdrop to an already demonic-charged moment.
Suddenly, the air was sucked from the room like a vacuum, and the screeching roared in his ears—worse than the music in prison—and with eyes squeezed shut, Michael screamed at the top of his lungs.
* * *
When the screaming stopped, Michael opened his eyes. At the opposite end of the table, Dalton stood—a syringe in one hand and a knife in the other.
“The meal was fantastic, Michael. Even better than expected,” Dalton’s voice sounded maniacal. “But it was that look, that realization you just had, even along with the pathetic screaming—like a little girl…that is what made this whole event worth it!”
Slack was slowly making his way toward the monster, but Dalton stopped him with a stare. “You take one step more and I’ll slice you into pieces.”
Michael was shivering—hands like ice—fearing his heart would explode from the fiery hatred boiling deep within his heart.
“You…can’t possibly be…this evil of a Fuck,” he moaned.
“But I can,” Dalton growled. “And I am.”
Fear coursed through Michael’s body and soul with such force he could scarcely breathe.
His eyes flicked toward Slack.
Slack’s eyes bounced from Michael to Dalton.
Dalton tightened his grip on the knife in his left hand while holding his thumb cocked on the syringe plunger in his right hand.
“Gentlemen, don’t underestimate my power or precision. I’ve been at this a very long time—and I’m a tenacious Motherfucker!”
76
Post Op
Michael had always prided himself in his mastery of certain talents. He had become adept with a bow and arrow when just a little boy. Later in life, he took to handling a rifle like an expert when he learned to hunt with friends. It was the deftness with which he handled a knife—both as a combat medic during his short stint in the Army, and later as a cook in his early professional life—that had truly shown itself. He was proud he had found his true calling as Chef.
It was a bit more than an hour later when Dalton awoke.
A double epinephrine injection into his neck expedited matters, and in an instant, he went from catatonia to eyes bulging as the drug coursed through his body, opening blood vessels and lungs to obscene levels.
His look was more than just panic: it was pure terror.
“Settle down, Freddie,” Michael grinned, standing between Dalton still seated at the table and the opening to the patio. “I’m the Warden now. I call the shots.”
Carrying a large platter and a pair of grill tongs, Michael tossed several large slabs of beef toward the two salivating dogs. Both animals vigorously attacked and devoured the leftovers.
“Since we had so many leftovers—and the night’s still young—thought I’d try a couple new recipes for you. Oops, I mean, on you.”
Placing a plate of peppered skirt steak and a couple of hamburgers on the table, Michael motioned for him to taste.
“Yeah, some really tasty shit in your fridge, Boss,” Slack said, taking a last bite before picking his teeth with a cocktail stir.
Looking down, Dalton could not understand why his arms had been anchored to the chair arms with belts. “What the fuck are you doing?” he shouted with anger.
Michael ignored him.
Dalton looked at his other dinner guests. Both Baxter and Stein were still seated, but instead of being frozen in place as before, they were lying back against their tall chairs with closed eyes.
“Yeah, you really knocked them out good, Freddie. Not sure what you gave them, but they are down for the count,” Michael grinned.
“You have no idea,” Dalton said, suddenly distracted by a hot dish Slack was carrying over from the stove.
“Something smells good,” Dalton said, catching his breath. “Brussels sprouts with bacon?”
“Thanks, Slack,” Michael said to his assistant as he placed the dish in front of Dalton. “Looks like someone’s been reading my recipes. But it’s actually prosciutto. Milder and smokier. And actually less fat—which you need to consider, Fatso,” Michael laughed, pointing at Dalton’s belly squeezed against the table.
“Looks great,” Dalton frowned. “But why am I belted to the chair?”
“And the sprouts are mixed with Italian baby broccoli and charred radicchio. But the real secret? Pure dark amber maple syrup.”
Michael handed a plate to Slack and waved for him to take a seat. Next, he admired a bottle of wine before pouring all three men a glass. “I think you’ll like this,” Michael said, eating a piece of meat from his plate. “Oh this is good. Right, Slack?”
Slack took a taste. “Hell yeah, Boss,” he said, licking his fingers before taking a sip of wine. “And pairs so nicely with this…whatever the fuck it is.”
Dalton saw the bottle. It was one of his prized vintages. “That’s nearly $2,000 a bottle. You may want to—”
“Have a second bottle? Hell, this is our third…Freddie!” Michael grinned. “Wait, who’s being the asshole host now? I am. Bet you’re hungry. You have such a hearty appetite.”
Still groggy and uncomfortable, he whined, “Yeah, but these belts are so—”
“Silly me,” Michael said, loosening the belts before sliding them back to Dalton’s elbows. This adjustment allowed Dalton to feed himself without being able to move them too far.
“And some wine,” Michael poured.
Dalton took a taste of the meat. “Oh my god, Michael. This is…unbelievable.”
“Thanks.”
“No, seriously,” Dalton fawned, shoving bite after bite into his stuffed mouth. “Some of the best I’ve ever had.”
Michael and Slack exchanged grins and clinked glasses. “Not much for veggies,” Slack said between sips, “But those fancy sprouts are dynamite, Michael.”
They sipped wine and watched until Dalton—clearly uncomfortable—said, “Can you guys slide my chair back. My belly’s crushed against the—“ he looked to the floor. “What the fuck?”
“What’s the problem, fuck face? Too fat for your own good? Maybe you should stop shoving so much grub in that ugly pie-hole of yours. And how ‘bout cutting your daily intake to maybe 5,000 calories?”
Confused, Dalton barked, “You’ve nailed my chair to the floor!”
“Who’s squealing like a little girl now,” Michael said to Slack.
“Sounds like a little bitch to me, Michael,” Slack grinned.
Michael slid from the table and joined Dalton. “Too close is it? I just didn’t want to spoil the surprise. Right, Slack?”
“Truly,” he said through a shit-eating grin. Then Slack began sliding the massive table away from Dalton. “See if this helps, Boss.”
Michael stepped back and watched Dalton’s eyes as Slack slid the table far enough to make the needed impact.
Dalton looked down to see that both legs—from mid-thigh down—were gone. His expression was priceless.
Michael, relishing the moment, tipped his glass first to Dalton, then to Slack who responded in kind.
Dalton looked from his legs—or what was left of them—to Michael before whipping his head from the serving plate to his empty plate to the dogs outside. Staring back, they licked their chops. Whipping his head back toward Michael, he began to hyperventilate.
Now, it was his turn to scream at the top of his lungs until he passed out from shock.
77
Well Done
Officer Proctor and Detective McKenzie, along with Jasmine and Roman, had arrived at Dalton’s house at just the right moment, one Michael had teed up via Baxter earlier in the day. He told them their signal to enter would be either a blood-curdling scream or a gunshot.
The scream told the story.
Inside, Dalton’s home held nothing out of the ordinary unless one considered cookbooks of extremely bizarre foods from around the world as “normal.” The sordid books of unusual dishes were filed among the classics of Child, Bourdain, Lagasse, Puck, Ramsay, and Rogan.
Inside his home office, Dalton’s computer browsing history appeared to have been cleared recently; however, a secure browser and shielded IP address suggested access to the Dark Web.
Dalton’s spotless garage was nothing out of the ordinary. There was the company SUV, his personal truck with a flexible bed cover, and an electric motorcycle—known for its silent motor.
The real catch was inside a building attached to the back of the four-car garage. Thanks to a hunch and a heads up from Michael, Office Proctor had alerted someone from the bomb squad to join them. They were able to gain access without tripping the elaborate security Dalton installed.
Unseen from the front, it was two-stories tall with the first floor being underground. There were double thick doors and no windows in the addition. There was a heat and AC unit, but the air vents were not visible. The main room was as immaculate and thoughtfully designed as an operating room. A drying room held deer hides and heads; a nearby dehydrator was assumed to be used for making jerky.
The large side-by-side refrigerator and dual chest freezers brought the most attention because they were filled with body parts. At first count, it appeared they collectively housed about two dozen men and women, a mix of Caucasian, African-American, and Asian. The freezers contained a vast supply of what appeared to be “steaks.” The refrigerator held mostly brains, livers, kidneys, hearts, and eyeballs as well as a number of genitalia from both genders.
In addition to the bomb squad, the Medical Examiner, a coroner, and a handful of technicians arrived to dismantle the entire property thoroughly while a rescue squad tended to the remaining guests.
Both Baxter and Stein appeared to be in drug-induced comas, but because the charade had ended more quickly than planned, they were expected to recover. The two dogs were returned to San Quentin fat and happy, thanks to a chef who crafted their dinner with most of Dalton’s calves and femurs.
Michael and Slack were attended to and confirmed fine.
Proctor and McKenzie, shocked to see Michael’s surgical handiwork on Dalton’s legs, decided to save their deeper inquiries for larger conversations over off-duty drinks.
While Michael wanted to destroy more of Dalton, he stopped with the legs—with one exception: he removed Dalton’s “family jewels,” cooking them into a sauce poured over his own personal flank steak. It was a dish Dalton thoroughly enjoyed at the end of the meal.
The following week, Roman Barthold took Dalton’s case and saw to it that the serial killer would not be tried in court as insane, rather condemned to San Quentin where he would serve four consecutive life terms for the murder of no less than twenty people.
As his bad luck would have it, Dalton was placed in the same cell where he tormented Michael and the same one Sebastian called home for more than thirty years.
The Warden-turned-convict would not only spend the rest of his days confined to a wheelchair but would also need years of physical therapy before he could write letters, feed himself, or wipe his own ass.
Evidently days after being imprisoned, Dalton had a late-night visitor who removed all but two of his fingers: the middle ones.
78
Final Toast
Today was the day Michael would drive to Kentfield Hospital to pick up his father. It was not lost on him how the facility was less than 20 minutes from both the prison where his father had spent the past thirty years and the home where Michael’s family had lived since arriving in the Bay Area. He grinned at the thought as he watched Natalie nervously fidget beside him.
He shot her a glance and asked, “Nervous?”
Caught off guard, she giggled awkwardly, “Yeah, I guess. I mean, it’s not every day I get to meet a complete stranger who’s been a part of your life for…well, your whole life.”
He was quiet for a moment. “Something like that.”
She picked at a dangling thread on her worn jeans and let out a heavy sigh. “You know what I mean.”
“Of course, Nattie,” he smiled, patting her hand. “I’m nervous, too.”
They arrived at Kentfield, parked in the patient pick-up area, and headed toward the Receptionist desk. While they signed release papers, Sebastian was being wheeled down the hall. Natalie’s head turned in his direction and instantly saw the resemblance.
“Pops,” she whispered, “That’s him, right?”
Returning the paperwork, Michael followed her glance and smiled. “Yep. The one and only.”
Sebastian squinted in their direction as though looking through bright lights. His hardened scowl slowly morphed into a sideways grin as he approached. “Well, I’ll be…” he snorted. “You are just about as beautiful as…well, I don’t even know what to say.”
As he slowly stood, Michael traded places with the orderly and said, “Sebastian, you’re looking much better since I last saw you.”
“Sure hope so,” he said to Michael while staring at Natalie who was inching forward.
“Natalie, meet your grandfather and Sebastian this is—”
“Really?” She smirked.
Sebastian playfully pushed Michael aside and opened his arms wide. While they hugged, Michael watched Natalie tear up and could not help but do the same.
Pulling apart, all three wiped their eyes and Sebastian chuckled, “Look at us.” Leaning in, he whispered, “But you know, Natalie? This feels really good.”
Back at the Rogan home, Jasmine prepared the spare bedroom and stocked the refrigerator with provisions per Sebastian’s doctor. Once everyone arrived and got settled, Jasmine and Michael prepared lunch.
During that entire time, Michael kept sneaking glances at Natalie and Sebastian standing side by side, looking out the living room window.
Natalie watched her grandfather’s expressions while he took in the breathtaking vista. “Nice view, huh?”
His slow nod bounced for a long moment. “Sure is,” he winked. “But you know what’s even better?”
“What’s that?”
“Freedom.”
Gathered around the table, Michael, Jasmine, Natalie, and Sebastian spent the next two hours sharing stories and catching up like old friends. They laughed and wept until the food was gone and coffee was served.
“I gotta say, Sebastian…” Michael quietly began, “I never thought I’d be sitting here with you…catching up on pieces of decades I barely recall. But I’m pretty happy to be doing so.”
Nodding, Sebastian’s chin trembled.
“Yeah, what Pops said,” Natalie grinned wide.
“And I can’t tell you which makes me happier…” Sebastian said, leaning over to touch Natalie’s dimple. “Seeing him, or finally meeting you!”
