The Butterfly Killer Read online

  THE BUTTERFLY KILLER

  by

  Charles W. Harvey

  SMASHWORDS EDITION

  * * * * *

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Wes Writing on Smashwords

  The Butterfly Killer

  Copyright © 2013 by Charles W. Harvey

  Smashwords Edition License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Disclaimer

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, organizations, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  “You shall have no other gods before me.

  “You shall not make for yourself an image in the form of anything in heaven above or on the earth beneath or in the waters below. You shall not bow down to them or worship them; for I, the LORD your God, am a jealous God, punishing the children for the sin of the parents to the third and fourth generation of those who hate me, but showing love to a thousand generations of those who love me and keep my commandments.”

  Exodus 20:3-4

  Prologue

  The Driving Lesson

  Timmy thought it was odd that Carrie’s Father didn’t want anyone to know about the Sunday driving lesson. He churned it over and over in his head, Mister Cross’ reasoning for the secrecy.

  “Your friends will be as mad as wet hens if they fail to pass and they find out you passed because you had an extra lesson. I can just hear my Carrie, ‘Dad, you gave Timmy private lessons, but not your own Daughter?’ Whoo! That gal can be jealous. But you know her. You and her are tight like a drum aren’t you?”

  That explanation sounded reasonable to Timmy. Kids at South High tended to act

  like crabs in a barrel. If half of Mister Smith’s Trig Class was failing, they all had to fail.

  Shining stars weren’t tolerated. And Mister Cross was right about his daughter Carrie.

  Most kids shied away from Carrie, partly because of him and his crazy love for chasing butterflies all over the neighborhood. But she also had a jealous streak that was about as green as her hair. Girls didn’t stay friends with her very long. Even other lesbian girls fell victim to her rants and arm twisting because she had caught them talking to boys or other girls. But Mr. Cross had put his hand on his shoulder in a most fatherly way. Or was that creepy, Timmy wondered? The hand lingered a moment longer than it should and

  squeezed harder than it should have, as if it was a massage.

  If only he could see better, Timmy thought to himself as he looked deep into his blue eyes while he brushed his teeth. He knew he needed glasses. That’s why he squinted and held books far from his face as he read. He heard his Mother cough. He listened as she hacked and gasped for air. Then there was silence. Timmy’s toothbrush rested against his left molar. He was about to yank the brush out of his mouth and run to his Mother’s room, but she cleared her throat. He continued brushing. “Another false alarm,” he said to himself. He didn’t want to bother her about his eyes. Lord knows she had had enough problems of her own with a breathing disorder so bad it had placed her in a scooter.

  Money was tight. He had to pass his driving test. She had scrimped and saved the one hundred and seventy-five dollars in a pickle jar for him to take Driver’s Education. He had to do all he could to keep from failing. But as much as he wanted to be a man at that moment, he also knew his Mother insisted on knowing his goings and comings. Even at sixteen, she warned him as if he was six, about getting into stranger’s cars. But Mister Elliot Cross was no stranger and he wasn’t like Mister Slaughter who lived in the pinkish house two doors down from him. Carrie’s dad chased butterflies, not boys.

  “Maybe I should tell Mom,” Timmy thought, as he stood in front of her closed door.

  He had his hand on the knob when he heard her begging his Aunt Peggy for a ride to the grocery store. Timmy turned, grabbed his jacket and cellphone, and headed out the door to meet Mister Cross.

  He thought of sneaking a smoke as he stood behind the abandoned shopping plaza

  where Mister Cross had insisted they meet. It was a windy day and scraps of paper blowing aimlessly about under the azure sky made him feel melancholic. His gum

  chewing didn’t help his nerves. He thought of getting on his cellphone and texting or calling Carrie. However he was afraid he might open his mouth and say something about

  the secret driving lesson. His stomach fluttered and growled. As soon as he put his hand on the pack of cigarettes in his back pocket, he saw the car swing around the corner. It was Mister Cross’s big blue Buick. Timmy wished it had been the little green Mustang that was going to be Carrie’s. He thought how much fun it would be to tell her he got to drive her Sweet Sixteen birthday present before she could sit behind the wheel. He knew he would have to dodge her fist, but the look on her face would have been worth the trouble. Mister Cross waved to him as he drove up. When he stopped the car, Timmy opened the door to climb into the passenger seat, but Mr. Cross motioned for him to come around the driver’s side. He opened the door and told Timmy to slide in.

  “You’re the chauffer, sport. I’m going to slide in the back so I can see everything you do.” He sensed Timmy’s hesitation. “We can’t be too careful. Those idiots at the DPS

  watch everything, even the way you’re chewing that gum there.” Timmy spit out the gum and slid behind the wheel, while Elliot propped himself in the back seat. “Make a left by that sign, then make a right,” he instructed.

  It had been a pleasant lesson and Timmy felt grateful. Mister Cross had determined it was his bad eyes that made him overshoot or come up short at stop signs.

  “You have to learn to use markers and count. Everything in life has a marker marking its spot in relation to other crap. That’s how the blind get along in this world. They constantly count and mark where every footstep goes before their toes hit the table leg or they step off the curb. See that tree right before the stop sign? That’s your marker. When there ain’t no car in front of you, things like trees, bushes, cracks in the road, a house or a bum holding a sign is going to be your marker. Watch your marker and start counting backwards from five to one.”

  Timmy had stopped perfectly at the stop signs each time he followed Mister Cross’s advice. He was so happy. He felt dizzy as if he had drank a beer. There was silence in the car and Timmy wasn’t sure if the lesson was over as he drove aimlessly down the long road. A few old tires lay by the side of the road and an empty refrigerator with its door gapped caught his attention. He looked in the rearview mirror and saw Elliot staring at it as they passed.

  “A man is a good marker,” Elliot said abruptly enough to startle Timmy. “It’s the way we compare ourselves against other SOB’s. When you’re running a race, the guy in front of you is your marker. He gives you something to strive for. If you open a business when you grow up, your competition is your marker. When I was in sales, all of those guys at desks with phones growing out of their ears, were my markers. ‘Gotta beat Kramer. Gotta get ahead of Schmidt. Gotta make my numbers.’ My heart beat to the ruckus in my head. I had headaches all the time. Almost had a heart attack. Since I’ve been a hospital orderly, the headaches are gone. The Ol’ lady is gone too. Couldn’t deal with the dip in my income. But that’s all right.
I got my Carrie and I got my butterflies.

  There’s more to life than pussy.”

  Timmy watched in the rearview mirror as Elliot smiled and ran his tongue over his top lip.

  “Sometimes it’s okay to do as well as the next man. Sometimes you want to do

  better. You watch and compare. You find little ways to fuck somebody (excuse my

  language) to get ahead. But you know who else is a marker?” Timmy shrugged his

  shoulders. “You’re a marker, Timmy. Somebody got their eye-sights on you. They’re

  measuring themselves against you. Your classmates are expecting you to fail. Carrie told me you’re the worst one in the Driver’s Ed class. You’re the most disadvantaged. Your Ma, she don’t have a car and she’s sickly. So how could you get good practice time?

  You’re the smallest boy in your class. You could pass for twelve. And them eyes of yours—I bet every day it’s foggy for you. I said to myself, ‘I’m going to make these South High punks out of liars.’ Timmy, unless God’s got other plans, you’re going to get a perfect score on your driving test tomorrow. You’re going to be the marker those punks look up to.”

  Timmy had slowed the car to a crawl. Hearing what the other kids thought of him

  and hearing Elliot pitying him and his mother, stiffened his arms and his eyes glazed with bitterness. There was a large rock in the road. The Buick’s front tire brushed it and the car shook and bolted to the left. Timmy jerked the wheel. Elliot slid in the back seat.

  “You okay, Sport?” Elliot asked as he readjusted himself behind Timmy.

  “Sorry. Yeah, Mister Cross, I’m fine.”

  “This is a mighty big machine. Let me know if it’s getting to be too much.”

  “I’m really okay, Mister Cross,” Timmy said with a hint of irritation.

  “Okay. Cool. We’ll pull over in a minute.”

  Timmy drove on. The purple horizon dipped to meet the road far away. He thought

  of asking if he could turn on the radio. The car’s droning wheels and what Elliot had just told him stirred up his melancholy. He felt so small and powerless in the world. He wanted to be a machine—a powerful machine of iron jaws and steel muscles—a machine like this car. That’s what he needed he told himself. A car would make him a man. A car would put him in the big leagues, ahead of the leagues even. Not too many football players had their own car. They had girls and their parent’s cars. He would have girls and his own car. That’s why he had a morning paper route and an afterschool job at the mall.

  He didn’t ask, he quietly reached over and turned the radio knob. He looked in the rearview mirror. Mister Cross appeared to be in deep thought as he stared out the window. He and Carrie’s favorite song played through the speakers. “I kissed a girl and I liked it.” He thought of the few girls he would kiss when he bought a car. He would bring them to this road after dark and park. He wanted a big car like this Buick with its big back seat that held a big man like Elliot Cross. What he could do to a girl in a back seat like that, Timmy imagined. He began to name to himself all of the girls in his homeroom class he could get into a backseat.

  His heart thumped when Mister Cross shouted for him to stop up the road a bit.

  Elliot got out and walked around to the front of the car. Timmy watched as he peered around. His apprehension lifted when he saw him open his pants and prepare to take a leak Elliot looked through the windshield at him. Timmy looked off. When Timmy

  looked again, Elliot shook vigorously, tucked himself in, and zipped up. He climbed into the back seat and they sat for a moment. Timmy listened as he breathed hard. Timmy twitched and stirred in the driver’s seat. Elliot offered a cigarette. But Timmy refused.

  Even though he wanted one so bad he bit his fingernails. He watched Elliot peer out the window as if he was looking for someone.

  “Should we be heading back home, Mister Cross?”

  “Yeah in a minute, let me tie my shoes real good.”

  Timmy felt a thump in his back as Elliot’s head brushed the front seat. Then he felt Elliot’s hot breath on his neck as the man suddenly rose, shouted something about a deer

  in front of the car and pointed. Timmy saw the belt’s shadow slip past his eyes before it gripped his neck like a claw. He raised his buttocks off the seat as he grabbed his throat.

  His nails tore at Mr. Cross’s hands, but Elliot’s hands were shielded in thick gloves.

  Timmy’s fingernails broke as he clawed. He glanced at the man through the rearview mirror. The massive red face frowned at him, before relaxing into a smile. Timmy felt the belt loosen a little around his neck.

  Elliot’s voice droned in Timmy’s right ear. The “yes sirs” that slipped out of

  Timmy’s mouth came from far away. Mister Cross’s words roared in his ear like a raging river. He caught snatches of talk about boys and God. Was it God who thought boys were liars and killers? Why was God jealous of him driving a car? Elliot made little sense to Timmy. All he knew was that he had to get that belt from around his neck. The ends of it were wrapped around a pipe and held by one of Mister Cross’s stout hands. Elliot’s other hand was balled into a fist and jammed against his neck like a rock. Timmy bucked again.

  The belt tightened and a calm voice told him to take it easy.

  “You’re not fighting me. Timmy. You’re fighting the man upstairs. Your bucking is making him mad. He’s old, bent over, and weary with the troubles of this world. Seeing you buck like this is just making him more mad and more jealous of you young snots.

  First it was your silly dream of driving a car. Now it’s this boy foolishness of bucking like a young bull. You got a lot of steam in you—all that steam for a young gal’s pussy.

  God’s jealous of you, boy. Calm down. Don’t make him any madder than he already is.”

  Timmy started to cry. Tears and snot ran down his chin. Mister Cross cooed softly in his ear. He switched hands and held the belt in his left fist. With the other hand he grabbed a tissue out of the box between the front seats and wiped Timmy’s eyes and nose. A butterfly floated across the hood of the car. Suddenly Timmy’s eyes bulged as if they were going to pop out of their sockets. The butterfly appeared like a red beast in the windshield. Timmy heard his mother crying softly in the telephone. Everything went black

  Elliot Cross got out of the back of the car. He pulled Timmy’s body out of the front seat and kicked it into a ditch. He watched it roll and come to rest with the head near a rusty tin can. A red cigarette pack peeked from the boy’s back pocket. Elliot turned to get back into the car and noticed the cellphone lying on the ground. He picked it up and threw it as far as he could. It hit a tree and splintered. Elliot got back into the car, stuffed the used tissue in his pocket, and turned off the radio. As he drove down the road, a flock of butterflies rose up in front of his car. A stench hit his nostrils. He looked over to his right and butterflies floated near a dead dog.

  Chapter 1

  Father, I do thank you for coming to sit and chat with me—despite me being the

  “beast of the earth.” Can you believe they call me that? A beast? I’m just a man who collects butterflies. In here I have to make do with a moth or two. And then they take that away. You want to know how it got started? You want to know where it began? Well maybe it began with the dawn of time. Maybe it began when some hungry ass caveman who decided one day he was tired of hunting four legged beasts who could just as easy turn him into something to eat. So he says, “Ol’ Bob over there looks good. Got just the right amount of meat on his bones, and he’s more stupid than me.” So he clucks Bob upside the head, throws his ass into a fire and has him a nice dinner of roasted rump, shoulders, and ribs. So he decides hunting his own kind ain’t so bad. Ain’t got to go deep into no fucking snake infested jungle looking. Ain’t got to set no special traps with stinking bait. Just go a couple caves over and grab a son of a bitch. Or sneak up on him or her while they’re squatting to take a shit. He’s familiar with them. They
grunt the same language. He likes the surprise look in their eyes. They’re not expecting him. They got their eyes peeled for the saber toothed tiger—not their own. Maybe that’s how it all began. Way before your limp-wristed Jesus, John Wayne Gacy, Dahmer, and a host of others.

  Of course your Jesus was a serial killer. Look how much blood he has caused to be spilled. Aw stop shaking your fucking head at me. You come in here all solemn and judgmental—asking me how it began, as if you’re some Daddy asking his son how he wrecked the family car. And you expect me to be a puppy dog with weeping eyes ready to spill my guts. And when I tell you how it began, you got your face all squished up like you sucking a lemon. Do you look like that when you’re sucking a cock? Got that collar around your neck and your skullcap on like you some kind of big cheese direct from the pope. Well if you want to know how Elliot Cross began, you take your fucking

  sanctimonious ass right back outside that door and come back when you’re ready to ask me your question like I’m a man. Say to me, “Mother Fucker, what got your sick ass started?” And I’ll tell you mankind to mankind. I don’t want your goddamn patronizing.

  Yeah, kiss my ass, Father. That’s where it begins. It begins with you puckering your lips, bending over, and kissing my ass right in the middle where it puckers and winks back at you.

  It began with a five-year old prick playing with butterflies and bricks. That’s where it began. It began with me waiting patiently watching as the worm jiggled along the garage’s concrete floor. I let some emerge from the cocoon so I could have them flitting around me. I love colors, love their intricate beauty. Butterflies are like pieces of stained glass floating in the air. Yes it is, Father. Stained glass is beautiful. It hides and obscures the world outside. Keeps prying eyes from looking inside a place too. Then the rest of them butterflies, as they struggled to free themselves, I held my brick high in my little hands and—Wham! Wham! Wham! Again and again until there was a mess of thick