“Make sure you call the pussy police,” Frommer said. “I think they could help you. You seem pretty much like a pussy, too. Get the fuck out of here. I’ve got work to do.”

He turned his back and started walking toward the house.

Albert stood there, feeling the shame and humiliation wash over him like hot tar.

He’d gone face to face with this man, hoping for some sort of insight, a clue that would lead him to decide, one way or another, whether this man had anything to do with what happened to Brian.

He didn’t know any more now than he had before he got out of the car. At least, not about Ron Frommer. But he believed he had gained some insight into himself.

He was a little man.

He was a small man.

He was a pussy.

Frommer reached the sawhorses, stopped. “Fuck, where’s my saw?”

Albert glanced into the back of the pickup. There were two different power saws, a ladder, a crowbar, about twenty lengths of two-by-four.

Frommer was striding back toward the truck.

“You still here, Pussy Man?”

When Albert played this moment over and over in his mind later, he would recall that everything seemed to go red. It was as though blood had washed over his eyes.

But it wasn’t blood. It was some rage-induced optical illusion.

He had no memory of forming intent. He didn’t think to himself, “Hey, I should pick up that crowbar and swing it into that son of a bitch’s head and beat the living shit out of him with it.”

He didn’t think that.

He just did it.

He grabbed hold of the iron bar, and as Frommer rounded the end of the pickup, Albert swung with everything he had.

Frommer only had enough time to say “What the—” before the bar connected with his temple.

There was the sound of skull cracking.

Frommer dropped instantly, but before he hit the ground, his head bounced off the edge of the tailgate.

He lay there on the gravel driveway, not moving, blood streaming from his head.

Albert began to giggle uncontrollably.

Thirty-Six

THIRTY-SIX

BARRY Duckworth called the forensics team still scouring Carol Beakman’s car for clues to tell them that when they were finished there, they’d have to come out to Dolores Guntner’s property. You’d think, a town the size of Promise Falls, one forensics team would be enough.

In the meantime, he decided to do some more scouring of his own.

Slowly, he explored every inch of the barn out back of Dolores Guntner’s house. A step-by-step search. As he began, he got out his phone and made a call.

“Dad?” said Trevor.

“Yeah. Where are you?”

“Still hanging around Carol’s apartment. She hasn’t shown up. Every time a taxi comes down the street, I look to see if it’s her. Where are you?”