Doug drove as quickly as he could, but the Rondas’ house was on the other side of town and there was no shortcut. The Bronco bumped along, splashing through the creek crossing, bottoming out in the ruts. As they sped through town twenty miles over the speed limit, Doug hoped that a cop would see them and chase them, but the street seemed to be deserted. He glanced quickly over at the post office as they sped past it. The parking lot was empty. Even the mailman’s car was gone.

The front door of the Rondas’ house was wide open. Doug pulled to a quick stop in the driveway, then ran inside the house without waiting for Tritia. He had nothing in his hand and cursed himself for not taking out a tire iron or something that could be used as a weapon.

He ran through the wrecked living room, through the trashed family room.

Ellen was lying on the floor of the kitchen, naked. Dead. A knife was clutched in one hand; her other hand was clawed into the linoleum. She had died with her mouth open, screaming or trying to scream, and her face was frozen in a rictus of terror.

But it was not the upper half of her body that commanded Doug’s attention.

He stared down at Ellen’s body as Tritia came up behind him. The old woman’s legs were broken and spread wide apart, the ankles jutting out at impossible angles. Whatever had been used to assault her vagina had left behind a huge gaping hole from which hung small clinging pieces of flesh. The skin up to her navel had been split, and blood was everywhere, covering her legs, the floor, the kitchen table, thickly, darkly red.

“Oh, God,” Tritia said. “Oh, my God.” She rushed outside and promptly threw up.

Trying to keep his own lunch down, Doug called the police.

They were seated in the Rondas’ living room, listening to the sounds of the police and the coroner working in the kitchen. Doug found his eyes fixating on a photograph of Ronda, his wife, and both boys displayed on the mantel above the rock fireplace. Next to him Tritia sat silently. He held her hand, periodically giving it a small squeeze, but she said nothing and her hand did not react back. He heard a noise behind him as someone emerged from the kitchen.

“We’ll get him,” Mike said. “We’ll get him now.”

“Kind of late, don’t you think?” Doug stood up, turning to face the policeman, but the anger within him dissipated as he saw the look of devastation on the young officer’s face.

Mike closed his eyes, trying to catch his breath. “Yes it is,” he said. “Way too late.”