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
He dropped the crowbar. It hit the cement floor with a loud, dead clang. Slowly, he regained control of his breathing, felt his heart rate getting back to something approaching normal. He felt oddly calm.
For the first time in perhaps his entire life, Albert Gaffney felt empowered.
He looked at the dead body of Ron Frommer and thought, I did that. I actually did that.
The door opened again. Constance entered carrying a bundle of clothing and a pair of running shoes. Slowly, he turned his head to look at her.
“Albert,” she said softly. “Albert, you’re smiling.”
He said, “It’s done.”
She said nothing. She set the clothes and shoes on the workbench. “I got you some fresh boxers, too. I didn’t . . . I didn’t know if it had sunk through your pants.”
Albert went back to the other side of the car, grabbed Frommer by the legs and dragged him out of the vehicle. Frommer’s body slithered out, his arms stretched above him. When Albert let him fall to the concrete floor, Constance let out a small gasp.
Her husband took another moment to catch his breath. He looked down at the body for the better part of a minute, pondering how he was going to go about this.
“I heard something,” Constance said.
Albert, who seemed to have drifted into some sort of trance, looked up. “What?”
Constance had walked to the garage door. There were two small, grime-covered windows at shoulder height in each of the two doors.
“Someone’s here,” she said. “There’s a car stopped on the street.”
Albert tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry. “Who? Is it Monica? Tell her to go somewhere, anywhere, just—”
“Not Monica,” she said. “It’s the policeman. The one with the funny name. Duckworth.”
Forty-Five
FORTY-FIVE
ABOUT half an hour earlier, Barry Duckworth had put the jar containing what he presumed were Craig Pierce’s body parts into an evidence container, then gone out to his car and placed it gingerly into the trunk. Then he went back into the house.
Alastair Calder had been standing inside the front door. When Duckworth returned, Alastair said, “My boy is some kind of monster, isn’t he?”
“I need a picture of him,” Duckworth said.
“How could he have something like that under this bed? How could he be doing whatever it is he’s been doing and I didn’t know anything about it? Maybe . . . maybe what’s in that jar isn’t what it looks like. It might be from an animal or something.”
“I need to find Cory as soon as possible,” Duckworth said. “Not just before he hurts anyone else, but before anything happens to him. I think he’s playing a very dangerous game right now.”
“Dear God, this is beyond imagining.”
“I know.”
“I . . . I think maybe he needs help.”
“That might be true. But right now, I need a picture of your son.”