Chapters (68)
- Dedication
- Title Page
- Contents
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-One
- Sixty-Two
- Sixty-Three
- Sixty-Four
- Sixty-Five
- Copyright
Constance took a hesitant step forward, but she remained a good six feet from the car. She leaned her head to one side, trying to sneak a better look at the injured man.
“Uhhh,” Frommer said.
“Who is he?” she asked.
“Frommer,” Albert said. “Ron Frommer. He . . . he came at me. I think, I think he would have killed me. I did what I had to.”
“For God’s sake, he needs to get to the hospital,” Constance said. “He looks like he might . . . Albert, he looks like he might—”
He turned on her, his eyes fierce. “I thought he was dead. I thought I’d killed him. But then . . . he made a noise . . .” He looked around the garage, first at the floor, which had a drain in the center of it, then over to the wall, at a coiled garden hose. He walked to the rear of the building, to a small workbench that sat next to a plastic utility sink. Below the bench were drawers and cupboards. Above, on a pegboard, various tools hung.
He began looking through the drawers.
“I might need bags,” he said. “Thick ones.”
Then he looked up at the pegboard. His eyes settled on a hacksaw. He grabbed it.
Constance said, “You’re scaring me.”
He shot her a look. “Really. Isn’t that something.” He changed his focus from the workbench back to the car. “I’ll have to clean it down. The inside . . . that’s going to be hard. The outside, that’ll be easy. Your steam cleaner.”
“What?”
“Listen to me, you fucking cow. Listen to me. I’m going to need your steam cleaner.”
Constance took a step backward, toward the side door.
“And get me some clothes,” Albert said.
“Clothes?”
He gestured to himself. “Look at me. I have to get out of these. I can’t be seen like this. Shoes, too.”
Constance stood there, dumbstruck.
“Now!” he shouted.
She fled the garage. In her haste, she did not close the side door. Albert went over and shut it, then turned back to look at the car.
He stood there for the better part of a minute, steeling himself. Finally, he walked over to the trunk and opened it. Picked up the crowbar he’d taken from Ron Frommer’s truck. Felt its heft in his hand. Then he went around to the other side of the car and opened the back door.
Ron Frommer’s head was directly in front of him.
Albert raised the crowbar over his head and brought it down.
Whack.
Again.
Whack.
Ron Frommer made no further sounds.
Albert staggered two steps back and rested his back against the garage wall.
“You hurt my boy,” he said. “You did it. I know you did it. I know it was you.”