“This one must be turned from her tempting ways,” he said. “There is a treatment involving the crushing of one’s body on the tread wheel that is most effective with fallen women.”

Then he turned to Amy. She looked down at her lap, avoiding eye contact. She didn’t want to be seen by him. She squirmed like a bug on a needle while his eyes stripped her of her clothes, stripped her of her skin, laid her open and revealed her workings on the dissecting table.

“And you,” he smiled. “I’ve been looking forward to treating you most of all. I shall present you with a variation of my tranquilizing chair that will guide you to the fulfillment of your true nature. For this is not a penitentiary, you see. It is a mill. A mill to manufacture sound minds. It is quite easy to begin. Something I learned from the Serbian tribes. Churches are built where saints were martyred. A bridge requires a child in its foundations if it is to hold. All great works must begin with a sacrifice.”

And with that, Carl stood. Ruth Anne jumped, expecting to feel her left arm pull away from the table, but empty handcuffs dangled from both of Carl’s wrists. Somehow he had detached himself from her and Trinity without anyone noticing.

“Give me the key,” Matt said, trying to sound brave.

Carl turned his burning gaze on him.

“My whip shall split your bestial hides and drive you on to work, for work is the moral treatment that will mend your degraded minds,” he warned, his voice rolling like thunder across the Showroom floor. It was the voice of a preacher, a voice of the past, a voice for cathedrals, a voice from a time before microphones. It was a voice that denounced witches and flogged sinners. It was a voice that sang Latin while women burned at the stake and men were crushed beneath stones. “Now, let us make the necessary sacrifice for my great work to begin again. Let us use the materials at hand to fling wide the gates and open the door. Come inside my mill,” he said, licking colorless lips with his pale tongue. “Come inside, and let hard work cure the weakness inside your minds.”

With that, Carl took the empty cuff dangling from his left wrist and, holding it like a scythe, pressed the sharp end of the hasp against his windpipe. At first it looked as though he was scratching an itch—but then he forced the tip into his neck, pushing the handcuff’s teeth into his throat. Ruth Anne shrieked. Amy couldn’t look away. Carl pushed the hasp deeper into his neck, hooking it behind his trachea. Then he yanked on the chain. There was a wet crunching sound, and a bib of black blood cascaded down him.