Pierce sensed movement on the ground. He believed someone was standing over him. Then he heard a voice, maybe the same one that had called out his name.

“Like you don’t know.”

That was when Craig Pierce had an inkling about what might be going on.

“Look, I’m sorry,” he said. “Really, really sorry. I’ve learned my lesson.”

At this point, Pierce heard other breathing, of a kind that did not sound human. More like panting, or snorting. It was the sort of sound a dog might make.

What happened next made him jump, at least as much as a man could jump while staked to the ground. Something thick and cold and wet was being poured over his body. Particularly over those parts of him that were most exposed, most vulnerable.

“Hey!” he shouted. “What are you doing? What is that?”

As if to answer his question, a few seconds later more of the substance was poured over his face. It seeped through the fabric of the hood and reached his lips and tongue, where he could not help but taste it.

It was a mixture of something. A strange combination of ingredients. Like honey, and beef. Bloody and sweet at the same time.

Then, a flash.

His picture had been taken.

Craig had the sense that whoever had done this to him—one or more, he was not sure—was walking away.

Then he heard the voice say, “Go get him, boy. Dinner is served.”

The sound of something running. Something getting closer. Something panting hungrily.

Not long after that, Pierce passed out.

When the sun came up, and Craig Pierce was spotted, staked out in the middle of the park by Promise Falls, he was nearly dead.

Considering what had happened to him, Duckworth thought, he’d have been better off that way. He’d conducted interviews with Pierce in the hospital in the days following the attack.

Now he decided, three months later, that it was time for another chat with the man. He was not looking forward to it.

Sixteen

SIXTEEN

CAL

I put the phone back to my ear and said to Bob, “Too late. We’re here.”

I brought my Honda to a stop behind the red Porsche. Jeremy threw open the passenger door and ran up the driveway toward the house, careful not to look at the other car or even get near it, as though the vehicle were radioactive.

Slowly, I started toward the house. There were no police cars in the driveway, so I guessed Madeline Plimpton had decided against reporting the broken window. As Jeremy reached the front door, Gloria emerged with open arms.

“There you are,” she said. “You’re okay.”

He avoided her welcoming hug, blasted past her and walked into the house, but not before shouting, “Not with that asshole around!”

Bob appeared, cell phone in hand. He saw me and glowered. “I told you to stall. You got here too soon!”