In the middle were three bodies—one male and two females—all of them covered with a sticky coat of blood and honey, a nappy blanket of bees and flies, and rice-size maggots. The skin was bloated, the underlying fascia had been partially eaten away by bugs and decomposition. Though the insects were crawling over most of the flesh, it was possible to make out the remnants of faces—a light blue eye, a lip, a cleft chin. One female had a hand resting on her open bowel, the male had his right leg blown off. To the right, slumped against the metal door of a walk-in refrigerator, lay another male. His face had been a meal ticket for the bugs, and most of his innards had been exploded. His legs were nearly severed from his body. His body was attached to his limbs by only thin strings of tendons. A human marionette. Shotgun blasts all around. Decker shook his head.

As he stared at the piles of blood and infected meat, he felt a sudden, sharp pain on the back of his neck. Damn. One of the suckers had finally got him. He felt a warm swelling rise on his neck and looked around for Marge.

She’d left, but another had come to take her place. In the corner of the room stood Byron Howard, his eyes fixed upon the carnage. His shoulders sagged forward, his eyes and cheeks were wet with tears. His lips uttered one word over and over. Linda, Linda, Linda…

12

Rina squeezed the Porsche into the garage and breathed a sigh of relief. She and the car were whole. Her head and neck ached from the tension of driving—God forbid she’d come home with a mark on the metal. Why were men like that about cars? To her, an automobile was nothing more than a way to get from one place to another. From now on, either she’d drive the Jeep or rent an old Volvo. Besides, she felt strange behind the wheel of a German car. Though it never bothered her parents—they’d driven Mercedes for years, and both of them were camp survivors—it bothered her. Carl Benz had been a war criminal, Ferdinand Porsche a star member of the SS.

She locked the car, closed the garage door, and heard banging coming from the backyard. Although the unmarked wasn’t parked out front, Peter must be home. Maybe Marge had taken the Plymouth and dropped him off.

“Peter?” Rina shouted as she walked toward the barn. “Peter, I’m back. And the Porsche’s still in one piece.”