They advanced along the driveway, into the garage. Light streaming from the garage door opener alleviated the shadows. He noticed, on the floor, droplets of a dark, glistening fluid that he initially assumed had come from one of their vehicles, but the spatter trail led directly to the interior door.

He bent, touched a droplet. His fingers came away red, and smelled of metal.

“Holy shit, is that blood?” Sullivan asked.

“We’ve gotta hurry.” Troy rushed to the door, shouldered it open. Sullivan followed close behind.

The blood trail continued across the hardwood floor of the main hallway, and led around the corner, out of sight. Troy looked along the hallway and didn’t see Grace or Monica.

He followed the droplets toward the living room . . . and to where they ended at a familiar figure sitting in a chair.

“Oh, shit,” Troy said. It felt as if the bottom had fallen out of his stomach.

“Who is that?” Sullivan asked.

“Reverend McBride—Monica’s father.” Troy had seen his share of recently deceased human cadavers, but he couldn’t bear to look at the man. “Grace must’ve gotten to him after I saw him this morning.”

Sullivan drew his pistol.

“She figured out what you two were doing,” Sullivan said. “She’s raised the stakes, doc. We’ve gotta find your wife, now.”

Troy hurried away. The kitchen, family room, and other rooms were empty. There was only one place Grace in the house that could be with his wife.

“Let’s go upstairs.” Troy drew his gun, too. “To the bedroom.”

56

The door to the master bedroom was locked, of course. Troy had anticipated nothing less.

“Gonna kick it in?” Sullivan asked.

“I have a key, but what the hell.” Troy grunted, took a couple of steps backward.

“I kicked down my share of doors, back when I was a cop,” Sullivan said. He examined the hinges. “This one opens inward so you can do it. Use your heel. Aim for the spot near the keyhole where the lock is mounted.”

Drawing a breath, Troy rushed forward, lifted his leg into a front kick, and slammed his heel against the door. The wood rattled and buckled in the frame, his thigh muscles twanging like a tuning fork. He kicked the door again, and heard something snap.

One more kick sent the door flying open.

Raising the gun, Troy charged inside. The blinds were shut and the lights were off, drenching the room in shadows. He flipped the light switch.

The ceiling lights blinked on. A ragged length of rope dangled from the overhead fan, but Troy focused his attention on the bed beneath. Concealed underneath blankets, shapes shifted and thrashed. He heard the soft sucking sounds of someone feeding.

Feeling weak in the knees, he moved forward. He grasped the bottom of the blanket and snatched it away.

Behind him, Sullivan said, “Dear God in heaven . . .”