He leapt from the car, engine running, and twisted the handle in the center of the right door. He hoisted it up, pushed it into the ceiling, then got back in behind the wheel and hit the gas. The car jumped so abruptly that he didn’t have a chance to fully close his door before it hit the frame of the garage opening.

He slammed on the brakes, killed the engine, jumped out and brought the garage door back down. Then he leaned forward and placed his hands atop his knees, struggling to catch his breath.

From inside the car, he heard, “Uhhh.”

Albert allowed himself three more deep breaths, then stood and opened the back door of the car. The backseat and floor were drenched in blood. Ron Frommer was on his stomach, his torso on the seat, left arm and leg dangling over the side. Although he was making some soft, guttural noises, he was not moving.

“What’s going on?”

Albert whirled around. The side door to the garage had been opened and Constance was standing there.

“You drove in here like a madman,” she said. “I was watching from the window. What the hell has gotten—”

“Shut up!” he screamed at her. “Shut the fuck up!”

Constance Gaffney shut up. In thirty-two years of marriage, she had never been spoken to that way by her husband. The words nearly knocked her off her feet.

“Close the goddamn door!” he bellowed.

“What . . . what have—”

“The door!” He was pointing.

She turned and shut the door. Then she took in the scene before her. The car with blood down the side. Her husband, covered in more of it.

And then the man in the backseat of Albert’s car.

She opened her mouth as if to scream, but Albert closed the distance between them and clamped a hand over her mouth. He put an arm around her, allowing him enough leverage to hold his hand there and keep her quiet.

“Listen to me,” he whispered. “You are not going to scream. You are not going to make a sound. Do you understand?”

Constance Gaffney’s eyes looked as though they might pop out of her head and shoot across the room.

“Do you?” Albert asked again.

She managed to move her head up and down. Albert took his hand from her mouth and released his grip on her.

“Albert,” she said softly, her lip quivering. “Albert, what’s going on here?”

“He’s the one!” he said, pointing at Frommer. “He’s the one who beat up Brian. The son-of-a-bitch motherfucking bastard. Him!” Starting to shake himself, he added, “And I bet he’s the one who kidnapped Brian. He’s the one who marked him up.”

Albert put a shaky hand to his mouth, ran it over his chin.

“Has to be,” he said. “He just . . . has to be.”