And, finally, there was the cleanup, the very essence of the professional cleaner’s services: to leave no evidence. None at all. The appearance was to be that the victim—or victims, as was often the case—simply vanished. Disappeared. It didn’t matter why. What mattered was that not a trace of them could be found. Stanley often amused himself watching C.S.I. reruns. The show was science-fiction. True investigators were usually far less scrupulous in their examination and far more interested in figuring out what brand of beer they would order at the bar that night.

Joe had been difficult. He was large. He was fatty. His bones were thick. Unusually thick, actually. Stanley wore out three blades just cutting apart the legs. And the tranquilizer had not worked very well. Not that it mattered. Joe seemed determined not to make a squeak. Stanley had found the whole thing a little disconcerting. One of the things he enjoyed most about the process was how human it felt. Joe’s absence of fear, his lack of screaming and writhing, seemed so alien. In fact, Stanley noted that the expression on his face toward the end was almost angelic.

Martyr, indeed.

Stanley poured acid into a bowl and began to contemplate who his next victim would be. The kid? The grandmother? They would make equally boring work. Little struggle. Little resistance. They would yell at first, but they would quickly allow their minds to leave the unpleasantness of the present. They would still be alive, barely of course, but they certainly wouldn’t be present. Their brains wouldn’t allow it. Stanley had seen it time and time again, the sudden shift from shock to horror to nothing.

The grandmother. She seemed like an appealing choice for a date on the tarp. He’d start with her toes. Then fingers. Then . . . well, he’d just let the spirit lead. Maybe he’d let the kid watch. Or maybe . . .

The kid. A less-obvious choice, but putting him next in line would certainly drive the old woman up the wall. It was surely the more evil choice, something that would amplify the intensity of the religious experience. He’d have to do it slowly, take his time, give the kid small enough doses of the tranquilizer to keep him aware of exactly what was going on. And then he’d repent afterward, and bathe in the glory of God’s mercy.

It was beautiful, really.

“I’m almost done in here,” Stanley called out. “Joe was excellent, just excellent. A true model of decency for each of you.”