Garcia peeked at Hunter, who kept his eyes on the kid.
‘And then,’ Marlon continued, ‘about a week or so ago, that same lone engineer was back working up on the same telephone pole. Again, with a telescopic ladder, not a basket-crane truck, but this time I saw him leaving.’ Marlon paused, maybe for effect, maybe to take a breath. ‘He wasn’t driving an AT&T van, or any company van. He was driving a Yukon that was parked on the other side of the road. It was just like Mom’s, but his was black. He placed the ladder on the roof rack and took off.’
‘About a week or so ago?’ Hunter asked.
‘Yes,’ Marlon confirmed. ‘I think it was about two or three days before the police came knocking the first time.’
This time Hunter and Garcia exchanged a semi-concerned look.
A loud crackling noise came from the radio attached to Officer Woods’ belt. He quickly reached for it, while getting up.
‘Please excuse me, ma’am.’ He turned toward the detectives. ‘I’ve been waiting for some information to come in. This will be it. I’ll wait for you outside.’ He addressed Ms. Sloan again, who was about to get to her feet. ‘It’s OK, ma’am, I can see myself out.’ He turned and left the room.
Hunter resumed his questioning. ‘Did you manage to get a good look at this engineer?’
‘I only saw him from the back, while he was up on the post,’ the boy answered with a disappointed look. ‘He was tall, like the two of you. And he wasn’t fat, like the two AT&T engineers.’
‘Was he skinny, muscular?’ Garcia this time.
‘I couldn’t tell. He was wearing a jacket.’
‘An AT&T work jacket?’
‘I can’t remember, but I don’t think so.’
‘How about hair color?’
Once again, the kid shook his head, disheartened. ‘Sorry, I couldn’t really see it. He was wearing a baseball cap. I wasn’t really paying much attention to him or anything. It didn’t really look like he was doing anything wrong. I only thought of it because the officer who just left came asking. The only non-residents I’ve seen around the street in the past weeks were the AT&T engineers, this third engineer I told you about, and the police. That’s it.’
Everyone understood where the kid was coming from.
‘How about his vehicle?’ Hunter asked. ‘You said it was a black GMC Yukon?’
‘Yeah, it was.’
Hunter saw Ms. Sloan consulting her watch one more time.
‘And you said it had roof racks,’ he asked.
‘Yeah, it did.’
‘Did you notice anything else about the car at all? Like... were there any big bumps or scratches on the bodywork? Bumper or window stickers? Anything you can remember, really.’
Marlon looked down at his hands. ‘No, sorry. Only that it was a black Yukon.’
Hunter and Garcia exchanged one more look. There was nothing else they needed from Marlon or his mother, who was now looking rather impatient again.
Both detectives got up, thanked Marlon and Ms. Sloan, and made their way to the door. As Ms. Sloan saw them out, Hunter turned to face her.
‘The therapist session you’re taking Marlon to now, is that for his social anxiety and panic disorder?’
Ms. Sloan frowned at Hunter, mainly because she was surprised by his accurate diagnosis. Her next few words were a lot more guarded than before.
‘Yes... it is.’
Hunter glanced at Marlon, who was standing just behind his mother. He had heard the question and now looked a little embarrassed.
‘How long now?’ Hunter asked. ‘How long has he been going to therapy?’
A deeper frown from Ms. Sloan this time.
‘I’m sorry, but I fail to see how that is any of your concern, Detective?’
‘It hasn’t helped a great deal, has it?’
Ms. Sloan looked offended.
‘You should stop with the therapist,’ Hunter said.
Behind his mother, Marlon came close to a smile.
‘Excuse me?’ Ms. Sloan said.
‘You should stop with the therapist,’ Hunter repeated.
‘And why on earth would I want to do that?’
Hunter’s gaze found Marlon before returning to the boy’s mother. ‘The sad truth is that therapy and shrink visits are mainly hogwash. It’s in their financial interest to keep their patients coming back. Marlon’s condition is a lot more common than you might think, Ms. Sloan. And though you might think you’re helping by being overly protective of your son, you’re not.’
Ms. Sloan glared at Hunter. Anger crept into her eyes.
He ignored her look and addressed Marlon. ‘Every week, just try to walk a block outside your comfort zone, Marlon, however far that might be. If you can’t manage a block, try half a block. Find a park bench and have a seat. When your breathing calms down, ask a passing stranger for the time. Next week, ask two. The week after that, three. Next month, walk another block outside your new-found comfort zone, and repeat what you did before. Before you know it, you’ll be making new friends and the whole anxiety thing will be behind you.’
Ms. Sloan’s glare morphed into an intrigued stare.
‘You don’t need a therapist’s mumbo-jumbo to crack this thing, Marlon. You can do it yourself. One small victory at a time.’
Thirty-eight
Cautiously, Squirm raised his left hand and brought it to his face, but the tips of his fingers touched nothing. They paused less than half an inch from the swollen flesh that now surrounded his left eye.
Back in the projection room earlier that day, his trick had worked. By using both of his thumbs and index fingers, he had managed to force his eyes open and keep them that way while those horrific images played on the large screen before him. ‘The Monster’ didn’t seem to mind it. In fact, he had laughed out loud, telling Squirm it was an ingenious move.
‘I like that, Squirm,’ he said as he used his dirty fingernail to pick something from between his teeth. ‘You were faced with a problem, and you came up with a smart alternative. That’s clever. I like clever.’
Without noticing, Squirm’s breathing had become labored. He’d never seen so much blood. He’d never heard screams like the ones coming from that woman — guttural and overwhelmed with pain, drowning in terror, and completely void of hope.
Sharon, that was her name. The man had made him repeat it a number of times while the film played on. Squirm would never forget that name for as long as he lived.
On the screen, Sharon had finally passed out. Somehow she had managed to endure the pain for a lot longer than anyone would’ve imagined. Several minutes, in fact. Squirm actually thought that she’d finally let go of the desire to live and accepted the inevitable. That the film and her suffering would finally be over. But he couldn’t have been more wrong.
The images played on, and Squirm watched as ‘The Monster’ turned off the sander, placed it on the floor and walked over to where the camera was. Once he got to it, he zoomed in on the grotesque mess that her face was turning into. Lumps of skin and flesh hung loosely from her forehead and brow. Blood surged from her wounds in sheets. It ran down on to what was still left of her face, moving past her chin and down to her naked torso, but Squirm could see that Sharon was still breathing.
The ordeal was far from over.
‘Keep your eyes open, Squirm,’ ‘The Monster’ had said, excitement coating his words. ‘It’s just about to get really good.’
Squirm felt like something had gained life inside his stomach and had begun crawling its way up the inside of his chest. Shock had forced the boy’s mouth to fall half open. His hands were shaking and he had to keep readjusting his fingers so as not to let go of his eyelids. Cold sweat had begun trickling down his face and back.