Luther aims the laser pointer and a red dot appears on the boy’s pillow.  The laser moves onto his face and holds against the eyelid.  The boy jerks his head, rubs his eyes, and is still again.  The pinpoint of bloodlight finds the eyelid once more.  The boy sits up suddenly in bed.

With his middle knuckle Luther raps twice against the glass.

Seven-year-old Ben Worthington regards the dark shape of the man at the window.

The laser shines on Ben’s pajamatop.

In the blue darkness the boy looks down at the glowing dot on his chest, then back at Luther, smiling now, remembering.

Luther smiles too.

Ben waves to Luther and climbs down out of bed.  He walks in pajamafeet through scattered Legos to the window.  Sleeplines texture the left side of his face.

“Hey!” he says at full volume.

Luther touches his index finger to his lips, dangling the laser pointer between his thumb and forefinger.

And boy and man whisper plans to make their rendezvous at the back door.

11

FOUR hours later Horace returned the manuscript to the drawer.  He sat for a moment in Andrew’s chair in sheer shock.  If he were to believe the preface, that this manuscript was true, then Andrew Thomas was one damned unlucky human being.

He climbed down from the loft, laced his boots, buttoned his jacket, and stepped out into the premature darkness of the afternoon.

On the way back to his Land Cruiser, he couldn’t stop thinking about Orson Thomas and Luther Kite, how they’d destroyed Andrew Thomas’s life.

A splinter of pity worked its way in.

Having grown up with all those terrible stories about Andrew Thomas, that manuscript was hard to believe.  Maybe it was full of lies.  But why would a man living in the middle of nowhere in assumed anonymity have any reason to lie?  What if the monsters were really Orson and Luther?

He was running through the woods now, eyes watering from the cold.

When the idea hit him, Horace laughed.

But by the time he’d reached the Land Cruiser, he knew what he would have to do for his book.

Next time he came out here, he would drive right up to Andrew Thomas’s cabin, knock on the door, and politely ask the alleged serial killer for an interview.

12

BEN Worthington turns the deadbolt as Luther grins at him through a pane of glass.  When the boy has opened the backdoor, Luther extends an arm from behind his back and unfurls his long slender fingers to reveal the coveted laser pointer.

“All yours,” Luther whispers.

The boy steps through the doorway onto the deck, bigeyed as his little fingers grasp what has been foremost on his mind since midafternoon.

Luther gently places his right hand against the back of the boy’s skull and his left palm flat against his forehead.

“You’re a bad boy, Ben,” Luther says, and twists his little head around one hundred eighty degrees.