He continued pressing toward the hill in back of their house until he saw the camouflaged exterior of The Fort before him. “Billy!” he called.

There was no answer.

He stared at The Fort, and there seemed to him something ominous about it. He had never before thought of the wooden structure as anything more threatening than a children’s playhouse, but as he looked at it now, it seemed low and dark and claustrophobically closed, and he realized that the feeling he got from it was uncomfortably close to the feeling he had had when he’d looked at the house in which Ellen Ronda had been killed.

He took a tentative step forward. “Billy?”

He pressed his ear to the wooden wall. From inside The Fort, he could hear a low steady whimpering. “Billy!” he cried. He looked frantically for a weak point in the structure where he could pull off a board and get inside, but the makeshift building was remarkably well-constructed, with no protruding panels or obvious weak points. Desperate, he grabbed hold of the roof and tried to pull himself up. He was horrendously out of shape, and even a partial pull-up caused him to grunt and strain with the effort. A sliver slid into his palm, and his right ring finger pressed painfully against the bent head of a crooked nail, but with the aid of his feet kicking against the side wall for support, he managed to reach the roof and roll on top of the clubhouse.

Nearby, he saw the square open trapdoor that led down into The Fort. He peered in but could see nothing; he quickly dropped through the opening, landing hard. The whimpering was louder now, and he whirled around. “Billy?”

His son was crouched in a dark corner of the room in a modified fetal position, knees drawn up to his chin. His shirt was ripped and tattered, covered with grease and dirt. His face was blank.

He was wearing no pants.

“Billy,” Doug cried, rushing forward. He was screaming and crying all at once and he fell to the ground, hugging his son. Within him the rage and fear and pain had coalesced into one horrible all-consuming feeling of hatred, and tears flowed down his cheeks as he gripped Billy tightly.

“No,” Billy was saying softly. “No. No. No. No…”

Doug moved back, still holding his son. Through his tears, he looked into Billy’s face. The boy’s eyes were wide and scared and staring.

“No. No. No. No…”

On the dirt next to him was a soiled wedding dress.

And a pair of bloody underwear.

And several postmarked packages and envelopes.

A bolt of emotional pain wrenched Doug’s midsection, so sharp it was physical.

Billy’s faraway gaze focused on him for a moment. “I won’t wear it!” he screamed. “You can’t make me.” His entire body shook.