When she looked back to the young man’s face, Keiko could almost feel the resistance of the nails as they came free of the flesh that anchored them, could hear the slender bones of the hand snapping, could imagine the screams. Screams, probably no, she decided, but she could imagine. The agony. The ecstasy.
The young man smiled at her. That was a mistake. It would not be his last.
“I’m Suzy,” Keiko said, leaning closer to the prey she had just claimed.
The closet door creaked open in the dark, and the man with red hair stepped out, holding a knife, the dangerous end toward Art.
Guess, he taunted. Guess.
The upper half of Art’s body sprang up in bed, tugging at the sheets and waking Anne. She rolled toward him and put a hand on his back.
“What is it?”
Art wiped at his face and batted his eyes. “A dream.”
“Good or…” Anne’s inquiry stopped abruptly and she sat up next to Art, ear tuned to the door. “Do you hear something?”
The blurred image of Mike Bell fading, Art opened his eyes fully and listened. There was something. He nodded and pulled the covers off his legs.
“What is that?”
Art stood and could tell that Anne was doing the same to his rear. His instinct was to take his weapon from the nightstand, but something about the sound quashed that.
Anne came around the bed, gathering her robe. “You hear it, right?”
A low, broken buzzing…no, humming, almost melodic in its fracture. Art stepped toward the door and eased it open. When he did, the sound defined itself. It wafted through the open door to the guestroom, a tortured repetition that made their hearts sink in unison.
“Daddy’s gonna sing. Daddy’s gonna sing. Daddy’s gonna sing.”
Anne started past, but Art held her back. “Let me.”
“Art.”
He didn’t know why he was about to say what he was about to say, but he nonetheless knew that it was right. For some reason. “I should do this.”
If she thought she’d been surprised earlier, Anne was doubly so now. Not by the words her husband spoke, but by the calm surety with which he spoke them. Before she could react, with either shock or approval, or a combination of both, Art was through the door and moving toward the guest room.
The lyrical repetition continued, even after Art pushed the door slowly open and saw Simon standing in the empty corner of the room he’d earlier stared endlessly at. Standing, hands folded together, rocking gently, and singing as though the song would make itself come true.
Art stepped into the room and said, “Simon.”
The singing ended, fading away on the word ‘Daddy.’ The rocking increased as Simon stood, silently now, in the barren corner of the room.
A few steps closer, until he was right at Simon’s side, and Art lowered to a crouch, looking up into the downcast face. The eyes flitted over his for the briefest of instants before finding haven in the inanimate anonymity of the rug.
“Did Daddy sing to you?” Art asked, notching his voice down somewhere below its normal commanding tone.
“Daddy’s gonna sing,” Simon said, the melody gone from the words.
Art nodded slowly. “What did Daddy sing?”
Simon’s head tilted away, and came back as a yawn swept over it.
“You look tired,” Art said.
“Simon is tired.” Another yawn now, manufactured this time, a gesture to please.
“Do you want to go to sleep now?” Art asked, his hands coming to rest on his knees. Without reply to the question, Simon reached with his hand and gripped the fingers of Art’s right hand. He looked long at the small white hand before standing and leading Simon back to bed. He guided him under the covers and pulled the bedding up snug over the exhausted body. Simon looked away, head sideways on the pillow, eyes dancing as the lids closed over them, and Art realized that, for the first time since his grandmother had lay dying in her bed, he had tucked someone in.
He watched Simon for a long time before he turned for the door. When he did he saw Anne standing there, watching him with wonder. He was embarrassed.
It was the first time she had seen him cry.
Chapter Seven
Process of Elimination
The lone door to the Chocolate Box swung open into the brilliant light of the early spring day, patches of snow still on the ground, and uniformed Marines staring seriously from their perimeter posts at Brad Folger. After a moment he saw their eyes track in another direction and followed the lead.
Kudrow walked slowly along the gravel bed that ringed the Chocolate Box just inside the inner fence. He knew he’d be causing havoc in the security center right then, trampling the buried motion sensors as he was, but he honestly didn’t give a damn. He needed air. He needed to walk in the open. He needed to think.
He did not, however, need Folger.
Granite pebbles grinding beneath expensive shoes brought Kudrow’s walk to a halt. He looked up and stared through the several layers of wire toward the woods beyond still more wire, letting Folger come to him. When his assistant was alongside he said, “I take it you’ve heard.”
White mist flared from Folger’s nostrils. “Nick, end this, now, before we all end up in prison.”
“I’m tiring of your resistance, Bradley,” Kudrow said, as if referring to an annoyance that could be driven off with the swat of his hand.
“Nick, the kid is with his doctor, who is married to a ranking FBI agent, who just happens to be running the investigation of Bell!” Folger glanced toward the Marines, but they were out of earshot.
“I’ll note your concern.”
“God dammit, Nick!” Folger swore, loud enough now that two Marines did look, briefly, before turning discreetly away.
Kudrow snatched his glasses off and snapped his head toward Folger. His small, myopic eyes glared at the shorter, younger man, saying much before the words came. “Bradley. I don’t have to say to you what I can say to you. Do I?”
Folger’s eyes fled first, then his face, looking off to the same woods that Kudrow had gazed at. He breathed deeply, haltingly, and felt almost like laughing, but nothing was funny. Everything, however, was quite absurd, and quite awful. “I never thought you’d do this to me.”
“I’ve done nothing,” Kudrow reminded and warned his assistant, then replaced his glasses.
Folger nodded. “Yeah.”
“I hope I don’t have to.”
Now Folger did chuckle, at himself, for being so damn naive to believe that G. Nicholas Kudrow had once saved his ass out of pure humanity. One mistake. One lousy mistake.
“You find this amusing?” Kudrow asked, mildly perplexed.
“Fucking hilarious, Nick,” Folger answered through a pained grin. “You’re good. You know that?”
Kudrow again looked off toward the trees and thought of whitetail season, the crack of the rifle, the taste of venison.
“You kept it real close, right up to the chest, making me feel like you weren’t even looking.” Folger swallowed hard. “You kept that card to play later. Right?”
“Stop worrying,” Kudrow said with irritation. “You think you’ve sinned?” His head shook slightly. He knew real sinners. “You’re a saint, Bradley.”
A saint. Folger was certain the authorities wouldn’t characterize him as such if Kudrow played his ace. “You have all the cards, Nick. The whole fucking deck. Who else do you own…or rent as needed?”
Kudrow told himself that when this was all over, when the next season opened, he was going to go into the field and bring down a magnificent buck with just one shot. Dead on. A clean kill. “You don’t want to know what I know, Bradley. You might wonder what we work so hard for.”