The Killing Vision

SATURDAY, JULY 7

5:24 AM

Halloran came slowly awake in the early gray light, coming out of a dream in which Sarah Jo McElvoy’s mother was chasing him through the darkness of an inner-city alley. She was screaming at him. “You bastard! Look what you did to my daughter! My beautiful daughter!” He turned and saw that she was wielding an ax, and he knew she intended to kill him with it. He had just reached the dead end of the alley and had turned to brace himself for the blow when he discovered that Mrs. McElvoy had turned into Sarah Jo. Not the smiling, fresh-faced Sarah Jo from the photographs, but the rotted, blackened corpse from the morgue. She shuffled toward him, like something from a bad horror movie, her hair slimy and dripping, her eyes white and glazed, her skin a yellowish green. She was wearing the purple shirt with the cat on it, and the rest of her body was bare. “See me?” she said in a voice that sounded like dry leaves crunching together. “See me?”

At that point he became aware of the weight of the covers on his chest, and the purring cat by his face. He opened his eyes toward the blank ceiling. Mel meowed softly, then stretched. Halloran glanced over at him. “Hello, you stupid cat.”

He yawned and lay there silently, remembering the dream, listening to the voice still echoing through his head. See me? He shivered, pulling the sheet up to his neck. Where the hell had that come from? He closed his eyes trying to summon back his sleep, but beside him, Mel had decided it was bath time and was noisily licking and purring.

Halloran pulled himself out of bed, pulled a pair of boxers out of the bureau drawer and padded nude across the hall to the bathroom. He took a long, loud piss, watching himself in the mirror as he did so, noticing how his stomach, once lean and flat, had begun to pooch over the last couple of years. It was what his late dad had referred to as “Dicky-do Disease,” because, he said, “My belly hangs out farther than my dicky do.”

He pulled on his boxers and headed toward the front door. He slid the chain from the slot and reached out into the hallway for his morning paper, then made his way through the dark living room toward the kitchen. While his coffee brewed, he unfolded the paper on the table and blew out a breath, staring down at the top story:



STILL NO SUSPECTS IN GIRL’S MURDER





Officials said Friday there are still no leads in the murder of 14-year-old Sarah Jo McElvoy of Cedar Hill.





Police Chief Norman Pettus said the investigation is proceeding “as well as can be expected,” although there are currently no suspects and no apparent motive. The young girl’s body was pulled from Cedar Hill’s Riverside Landing on Red River July 4.





Pettus declined to comment on whether McElvoy had been sexually assaulted, but sources close to the Cedar Hill police department said the girl had been violated by a blunt wooden object.





Halloran pounded his fist on the table. “Shit.” He had tried hard to keep that fact out of the paper, but someone in the police department was always willing to talk, especially when gory details were involved. At least there was no mention of the body being frozen. He could only imagine what kind of alarm that would set off in the community.

He folded up the paper and tossed it aside, then poured himself a cup of coffee. He stood at the counter, sipping it, then set his cup down. His briefcase was in the corner by the refrigerator. He reached for it, then plopped it down on the table and pulled out the file on Sarah Jo McElvoy.

In the back of the folder, tucked inside a large manila envelope, were the crime-scene photos from Wednesday night. He pulled them out and spread them over the table.

There really wasn’t much to see. The girl’s body was half on the dirt shore, half in the river, surrounded by piles of rotting tree limbs that had apparently been used to hide her. Close-ups of the body revealed the putrefying skin bloated over the bones, hellish and gruesome. The dirt of the riverbank was covered in shoe prints; probably dozens of people had been along the landing that day, and who knew how many since the body had been placed there, and the freshest prints were those of the Davis boy and his girlfriend. How many times had that very place been searched since April? At least three times that he knew of. When had someone taken the body down there and concealed it under a pile of rotting limbs? And why? And who?

Another envelope in the file contained the photos from the autopsy, which he had just received yesterday from Scotty. Several of the pictures showed close-ups of the throat wound from different angles, but again there was not much to look at. In one photo, a measuring tape showed the slit to be a little over six inches long.

See me?

A sudden chill rattled him. He shoved the pictures back into the envelopes, then locked the file back in his briefcase. It was too early in the morning for this shit. Way too early. He rubbed his blurry eyes.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was missing something. Something important. And he didn’t believe he would find it in the file.

* * *

11:43 AM

Joel pulled his Explorer onto the highway and headed in toward town. There were several things he needed at Walmart, chief among them coffee and cigarettes. It was kind of sad when your very existence revolved around such things. He sucked on the Marlboro between his lips, savoring the flavor of the smoke as it rolled over his tongue and down his throat. Oh, well. Things could always be worse. At least it was a bright sunny day, Luke Bryan was on the radio, and his pack of smokes was still half full. Yeah, things could always be a lot worse.

Almost as an afterthought, he decided he would stop by Wade’s before he made it all the way into Cedar Hill. Perhaps they might work on the Mustang this afternoon, and Joel could always pick up something while he was in town.

He pulled into the driveway, his wheels crunching on the dry gravel. Wade sat on the edge of the front porch, wearing only a pair of cutoff denim shorts. Beside him was an opened can of Budweiser. Shit. He knew what an a*shole Wade could be when he was drinking, and he wondered if stopping was such a good idea.

Joel stepped out of the truck and flicked away the butt of his cigarette. “’Morning.”

Wade looked up at him with red eyes. He was unshaven and his curly hair was matted against his head. “Hey.”

Joel walked over and slumped down beside him. “Looks like you had a rough night.” He barely got the words out before the smell hit him—a mixture of stale beer and sweat. And something else.

Wade gave him a crooked smile. “Up late last night.” He glanced at Joel’s shirt pocket. “Can I bum a smoke?”

Joel handed him the pack with the lighter stuffed inside the cellophane wrapper. “You okay?”

Wade nodded, lighting up and blowing out a plume of smoke. “I’m all right.”

“Where is everybody?”

Wade motioned toward the house. “Marla’s in there. Derek’s at work.”

Joel looked away, toward the highway. An old rusted pickup was passing by; the driver—someone he didn’t recognize—waved, and Joel threw up his hand. “I’m on my way into town. Thought if you needed anything I’d pick it up for you.”

“Nah.”

“Thought you might need something for the Mustang. Did you want to work on it today?”

Wade took a sip of his beer, staring at the ground between his feet. He blinked, then looked at Joel. “What?”

Joel studied him. Something wasn’t quite right. He thought briefly of touching him, just putting a hand on his shoulder in a gesture of brotherly concern. He would be able to tell almost instantly. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. The thought of seeing and how much it would drain him was too overwhelming. “I said, do you want to work on the Mustang today? I can pick up something for it while I’m in town if you need me to.”

Wade shook his head. “Nah. Not today.” He took another drag off the Marlboro.

“You sure you’re all right?” Joel said.

Wade looked away, toward the fields across the road. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

Joel stood up and pretended to yawn and stretch, feigning indifference. He didn’t want to appear worried; that tended to piss Wade off, especially when he was half-lit. “Well,” he said, “I’m going on. Call me later if you change your mind.”

Wade nodded. “See ya.”

Joel was at the first stoplight in town when it finally hit him that the underlying smell he had noticed was pot. The son-of-a-bitch had been high.

It certainly wasn’t the first time he’d seen Wade stoned. Hell, in younger years the two of them had occasionally smoked some weed together. But Wade hadn’t just been stoned today, he’d been f*cking loopy. Half out of his head. Joel wondered what else Wade had been on. He almost wished now he had touched him, just to know. He supposed it was possible Wade was into something else, something harder, and it gave him a spark of anger and concern. He’d never known Wade to do anything but an occasional joint, but that didn’t mean jack shit. People did all kinds of crazy things to f*ck themselves up, and Wade was no exception.

Behind him, a horn bleeped impatiently, and Joel looked up to see the light had changed to green. He gave an apologetic wave to his rearview mirror and sped on through the intersection.

* * *

12:05 PM

Wade watched Joel roll out of the driveway. His vision swam; Joel’s Explorer was just a red blur moving out onto the highway. He rubbed his eyes, and the lids felt as though they were moving over sand.

He’d had a rough night, all right. After work he’d taken a quick shower and put on some fresh clothes, thinking that maybe he and Marla might ride into town to see a movie. But as soon as dinner was over and Derek was cloistered in his room with his computer, Marla started riding his ass. She flung a crumpled piece of paper at him, which turned out to be Missy’s phone number. “Who the hell is Missy?” she spat at him.

“Just a customer,” he told her. “I was doing an upgrade at Hidden Oaks Apartments. She saw me working and wanted to know some prices. I told her I’d have the office call her back. I forgot to give Rhonda the note.”

She watched him, her eyes narrowed. “Bullshit,” she said. “That’s bullshit and you know it. Why couldn’t she just make a call herself?”

He could feel the first flares of anger licking his cheeks. “How the hell should I know? I just told her I’d have somebody call her back.”

Marla’s lips had pursed so tightly they were almost invisible. “You’re lyin’. You’re f*ckin’ lyin’ to me.”

His hand flew out with a sudden rush of rage. The flat of his palm connected with her cheek with a loud smack, and she went sprawling against the kitchen counter. Grabbing her by the hair on the top of the head, he jerked her face up toward his. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth, and her eyes were clenched tight as she braced herself for whatever was to come. “Listen to me,” he said. “Don’t you ever, ever talk to me like that again. Understand?”

She nodded with considerable effort, and the first few tears squeezed from the corners of her eyes.

“Whatever I do outside this house is my business. My business. If I want to go rent fifty whores for a f*ckin’ hour at the Ramada, I’ll do it. You do not tell me what to do. Is that clear?”

She nodded again, her cheeks glistening with tears, her lips smeared with blood.

Wade gave her hair one last violent tug before pushing her away. “You are so goddamn paranoid. Every time I look at another woman, you think I’m f*ckin’ her. Well, maybe I am. If you’d spread your legs once in a while I wouldn’t have to.” He grabbed his keys off the hook by the door and stomped out toward his truck. He’d had enough of her bullshit for one night.

He drove into town to the Wild Horse and was soon parked at the bar with a cold Bud in front of him. And soon he’d had four more. The crowd was wild, the music was too loud, and all the women were either ugly or with somebody. A couple of guys that he recognized, regulars here like himself, nodded to him from a corner booth, but he was in no mood for conversation. His head had begun to ache, and he just wanted to be alone, to let the beer take the edge off everything.

A little while later, standing in the men’s room, taking a gusher of a piss, he felt something in his pocket and realized he still had the note with Missy’s phone number. A rush of excitement surged through him, and his cock began to stiffen in spite of the beer.

In a little alcove outside the restrooms, he pulled out his phone and punched in her number. After three rings she answered, and her voice sent a buzz of electricity through his gut. “Missy?”

“Yeah, who’s this?”

“Hey, it’s Wade. Wade Roberts. I met you by the pool yesterday. Cable guy.”

“What do you want?”

“Thought I might come by and see you. Take you up on that swim.”

She let out a sigh. “Do you know what time it is?”

He glanced at his watch. It was past eleven. “Jesus, I’m sorry. I just lost track of time. You weren’t in bed, were you?”

“As a matter of fact, I was.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “Look, if it’s too late—”

“I got a call from your wife today.”

His body suddenly froze. Marla never said she’d called the number. “What?”

“Yeah, so don’t ever bother me again. I don’t have time to waste on losers like you.”

“Missy, wait.” But he was talking to a dead line; she had hung up. He shoved the phone back in his pocket. F*cking cunt. He thought briefly of driving over to the apartments anyway, but that was nuts. He wasn’t sure which place was hers; hell, he didn’t even know her last name.

He threw some bills out on the bar for his tab, not sure if it was even enough, and stormed out to the parking lot. Even out here, the pulse of the music throbbed in his head. He slid into the truck, started the engine, and pulled out on the street. He didn’t know or care where he was headed.

After about an hour of cruising up and down the quiet residential streets, his headache had eased and he turned back toward town, back toward the college campus. As he got closer to the college hangouts, which were noticeably dead this time of the year, one of the places caught his eye. The Capitol, which had once been a movie theater years ago, was now a bar and dance club. Unlike most of the other places on the street, the Capitol seemed to be doing a booming business. He wheeled into the lot and parked between a Nissan and an Oldsmobile, both of which sported Greek window decals.

He hadn’t been here since he was a kid, since it still showed movies, and he thought that this was the place he’d come to see a bad horror flick called Amityville Dollhouse. The old ticket booth held a mannequin, but a live burly black guy at the door was more than happy to take Wade’s five-dollar cover charge.

Inside, the old concession stand was now the bar, and where the auditorium had been was a huge dance floor full of people writhing and dancing beneath pulsing, multi-colored lights. The music blasting over the sound system was some kind of techno dance shit, its repetitive beat thumping at such a breakneck pace that it was impossible to tell whether the music was driving the dancers or the dancers were driving the music. Most of the crowd seemed to be college age, though he was sure hardly any of them were actually students. The pounding bass of the music coupled with the energy of the crowd around him was suddenly exciting, and the buzz of arousal began to hum through his body.

He got a beer from the bar and moved through the people, looking for somewhere to sit and watch everything. This place was sure a far cry from the atmosphere of the Wild Horse. Women were everywhere, many without men and most of them worth a second look; they were young and lively, not the broken-down old crones that frequented the Wild Horse. This was more like Derek’s kind of place, and he wondered briefly if the kid had ever tried to get in.

In a far corner, he found a tiny table and took a seat, his gaze drifting across the dance floor. Strobe lights were flashing monotonously, turning the whole place into a huge pixilated orgy. Groups of people were dancing together, not just couples; they bounced and gyrated like an undulating human sea under a storm of light. He leaned against the wall, sipping his beer and watching.

A group of girls were dancing frenetically about ten feet away; a couple of them caught his eye and smiled. He smiled back, flashing his killer grin. One of them, a blonde, leaned close to the brunette beside her and said something into her ear; it must have been hysterical, because they both burst out laughing. The blonde looked at him again, and waved him over. He shook his head, but she waved more insistently, and he reluctantly set down his beer and made his way out onto the floor.

“What’s your name?” the blonde asked, not stopping her pace.

“Wade.” He was practically screaming to be heard above the music.

“I’m Shelley,” she said. She motioned to the brunette. “This is Abby.”

Abby smiled at him from beneath her dark, kinky curls. “Hey.”

Somehow, the three of them maneuvered into their own frenzied, surging triangle that seemed to take on an energy of its own. And just when he thought he couldn’t keep up the pace any longer, when sweat was pouring down his face in rivers, Shelley pressed two tablets into his hand. He looked down at them curiously. At first he thought they were some kind of candy; they were mint green and embossed with a picture of a leaping dolphin. “What are they?” he yelled above the noise.

She laughed breathlessly. “Just take ’em. It’s all right.”

He popped them into his mouth and felt them dissolve on his tongue into a bitter, chalky paste, which he washed down with a swallow of beer.

After that, everything became fuzzy and strange.

He continued dancing with the girls, and was beginning to think he wasn’t doing half bad, when the music just became part of him somehow. It was an extension of him, flowing through the room and through his body at the same time, a type of radical energy storm. He’d seen those glass globes with sizzling bolts of purple light inside that would follow your fingertips along the surface, and this was almost like that. Except now he was the center of the globe, and his energy, his light, seemed connected to everyone else in the room. He could almost see it, like a shimmering, pulsating web extending from his center outward.

Shelley was watching him, smiling. “How ya feel?”

He nodded. “Fantastic.”

She grinned wider. “You keep laughing.”

“I do?”

“Isn’t it great?” Abby said.

Abby’s slender body seemed to move in slow motion, writhing with the beat. He wondered what she looked like naked, and then it seemed as though he could see through her clothes, watching her breasts sway, her sleek flat stomach undulate.

Suddenly, he wanted her. He wanted Shelley, too. He wanted both of them, and they wanted him. The three of them were pressed together, moving together with the music, their arms wrapped around each other, and he was kissing them both. He was hard as a stone.

How or when they left the Capitol he could not recall. The next thing he remembered was rolling around in a bed between the two of them. They were all three kissing, licking, moving, flowing. He tasted one, then the other, and he didn’t know which. The three of them were one huge writhing, sweating, slippery, f*cking mass. He was deep inside Shelley, thrusting powerfully, then he withdrew and plunged into Abby. Something, either a dildo or a vibrator, slipped inside him and began moving in and out. Really pushing the old envelope now, he thought. And suddenly he was coming, an orgasm that erupted from his very soul. White sparks of light flashed before him, and then he drifted away to a plane where the pleasure was so painfully intense that his mind could not fathom it. His whole being, even his skin was caught up in it; each hair on his body seemed to be firing off its own explosive synapse.

And then in the next instant he was in the truck, heading out of town in the pre-dawn darkness. He was completely naked, and the gas pedal was strange and foreign beneath his bare foot. His heart was pounding—no, hammering—in his chest. Sweat was pouring down his face, his back, his stomach. How did he get here? Where were his clothes? The clock on the bank sign said it was a little after four; where in the hell had he been the past few hours? Had he and the girls fallen asleep? Why couldn’t he remember?

He realized he was almost home. He managed to pull into the driveway and stop the truck. He killed the ignition and sat there in the dark for a moment. His heart felt like it would burst out of him any second. He took a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself down, but it seemed futile.

Then he remembered those little green tablets. The ones with the dolphins on them. What the hell had they been? It was both wonderful and terrifying at the same time. If Shelley had told him what they were, he couldn’t remember. He just knew they had knocked him flat on his ass and he had lost complete control of everything, including his memory.

He took a few more deep breaths, then crawled out of the truck. The house was dark, and he wondered briefly if he should wake Marla to take him to the emergency room.

He let himself in the back door and felt his way through the pitch black to the bedroom. Marla was sleeping, her breathing heavy and steady. Suddenly, he was afraid. What if he died right here on the floor next to the bed?

It’s just that his heart was racing. On and on. Why wouldn’t it stop? What was in those pills? Were they some kind of uppers? Maybe he needed a sedative, something to counteract it.

He pulled on a pair of shorts from the bureau and quietly made his way back outside to the barn. He switched on the lights, and the sudden brightness stabbed painfully into his head, blinding him momentarily. As his eyes adjusted, he squinted at the tarp-covered Mustang, remembering he had promised Derek they would work on it this weekend. F*ck that, he thought.

Behind his workbench in a little niche of the barn wall was an old cigar box. Inside the box was a small plastic bag of pot, some cigarette papers, a roach clip, and a lighter. His hands were shaking so badly he could hardly roll a joint. He didn’t know if this was safe to do on top of those pills or not, but he had to bring himself down, and he had to do it fast.

He turned the lights out and melted back into an old wooden desk chair in the dark, sucking down the sweet smoke and holding it in. Even the pot seemed intensified. What the hell had those pills been?

Gradually, his pounding heart began to slow and he began to cool off. The rivers of sweat dried up, and his mind no longer felt disjointed.

He realized he was exhausted, completely and utterly drained. He went back to the house and crawled between the sheets next to Marla. He was asleep in seconds.

When he awoke, the bedroom was full of light. The clock said it was almost noon, and he could hear Marla stirring around, doing her Saturday cleaning. He sat up on the edge of the bed, his head thick and groggy, his stomach half-nauseated.

In the kitchen, he grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and headed for the front porch. He brushed past Marla, who was wiping down the counters, but didn’t say a word. Neither did she; he figured she knew better.

He sat down on the cold concrete of the edge of the porch, his feet dangling, which is where he was when Joel pulled up. He wondered again about his crazy night. Where all did he go and what did he do during those hours between screwing around with Shelley and Abby and waking up naked behind the wheel? It was frightening, and it made him angry.

Beside him, his beer had grown warm and yeasty in the midday sun; he drank it anyway.

* * *

1:20 PM

Joel weaved his cart through the aisles of Walmart, trying to stay in the edges of the store as far away from activity as possible. He hated public places like this. Occasionally when pressed with other people in a crowd, he accidentally brushed against them, and their thoughts would float through his head like a drifting radio station. Other times another person’s smell might simply be enough to trigger a vision or strong feeling, but that was unpredictable.

A couple of years ago he’d gone with Wade, Marla, and Derek to a Civil War battlefield that was now a state park. They’d planned on having a picnic and maybe renting a boat down on the river. But at one point, while poking around the battlefield, they had ended up in the park’s museum, a building that had served as a hospital during the skirmish that had occurred there. Everything was fine for a little while; they moved through the exhibits of dusty rifles and minié balls wordlessly and unimpressed. But when they’d reached the room featuring a display of medical equipment, Joel had been unable to go in. The whole feeling of the air had changed. Its sudden heaviness pressed on him and he couldn’t breathe. He bolted, running out of the building to the sunlit park. It wasn’t as if he’d seen a ghost or anything; it had simply been an overpowering and oppressive sense of fear. Later he learned the room had served as the operating ward, where doctors had amputated the arms and legs of screaming soldiers, most times without an anesthetic. The panic and terror of those few wounded men was so strong that Joel had been able to sense it a hundred and fifty years later.

Most objects or places he encountered never had much emotion attached to them. That was particularly lucky considering how much time in other people’s homes his job required. There came a point when you didn’t want to know certain things about people, especially when you were crawling around under their houses or hunkered down on their bedroom floor.

He maneuvered the cart around the end of the aisle, not really looking at anything, just walking and thinking. He stopped. Someone was following him. He could feel eyes boring into him like drill bits. He froze. He had entered the crafts section, and now he scanned the shelves, pretending to be extremely interested in the colors of yarn, but watching along the periphery of his vision.

And suddenly, there she was. A slender dark-skinned woman in jeans and a red T-shirt. Her black hair was pulled back neatly into plaits, and a slight smile curled the corners of her full lips. She was staring at him with an air of familiarity as if expecting him to greet her. He glanced around and saw that no one else was near.

His first thought was that she was some kind of psycho. But as he looked closer, he knew that could not be the case. She was dressed too neatly, was too clean, and had an aura of wealth about her. But yet, there was something in the back of his mind, something both comfortable and thrilling at the same time, something that made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. Was he supposed to recognize her? Had she been a customer?

He cleared his throat. “Do I… do I know you?”

She smiled fully, and it was a smile of kindness. “I don’t think so,” she answered, and her voice was like warm, dripping honey.

“You seem so familiar.”

She nodded, still smiling. “You’re a sensitive, aren’t you?”

His arms and legs went numb. He stared at her blankly. “What?”

“A sensitive. A seer. Whatever you call it. You can read people, can’t you?”

He continued to stare, and he felt himself nod almost involuntarily. “How…?

She laughed. “I’m one, too.”

A dry laugh of incredulity escaped from his throat. “You’re kidding.”

“I’ve been watching you for several weeks.” A stab of alarm shot through him; it must have shown on his face, because she laughed again. “I don’t mean I’ve been stalking you or anything. I’ve just seen you out places, noticed things about you. Watched how you stayed on the fringes of things. Tried not to touch people. That kind of stuff. I wasn’t sure at first; I have been wrong before about people. But when I ran into you today, I knew.”

“How?”

“I was behind you when you came into the store. I saw the greeter try to give you a cart, but as soon as you touched it, you asked for another one.”

All he could do for a moment was blink. It was true; he had refused to take that first cart. It had felt corrupted somehow, like grabbing hold of—

“It was like grabbing hold of a live wriggling snake,” she said, finishing his thought, and laughing at his expression. “I know. I didn’t take it, either.”

He was smiling in spite of himself. “What do you think it was?”

She shook her head. “Not sure. Maybe the person who’d used it before was psychotic. Who knows?”

He was beginning to feel as though he had passed over into a surreal dream. This beautiful black woman had appeared from nowhere knowing bizarre, intimate aspects of his life. She was practically reading his mind. Unease again overtook him. “Look,” he said, “I don’t mean to be rude. You seem like a very nice person. I’m just not interested in anyone right now.”

A burst of laughter popped out of her, and she covered her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she said, stifling her giggles. “I didn’t mean for you to think I was hitting on you. It did sound like that, didn’t it?”

He was more confused than ever. His face was suddenly hot and flushed. “Then what do you want?”

She was laughing, shaking her head, showing her perfect white teeth. She dug into her purse and pulled out a notepad. “My name’s Deb,” she said. “There are about fifteen of us now. We meet one Sunday afternoon a month over in Springfield at St. Thomas Church. Tomorrow’s the day. Two o’clock.” She scribbled this information down and handed him the note.

He shook his head, bewildered. “I don’t understand.”

She looked at him directly. “We’re like you. All of us.”

“All fifteen of you?”

“Well, some of us have different gifts, but it basically amounts to the same thing.”

He stared at the paper in his hand, then back at Deb. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m just a little flustered.”

She laughed. “I understand. You thought you were the only one, didn’t you?”

“Well, no, not exactly. I mean, I always assumed there were others. I just didn’t expect so many. So close.”

“We’re not all from Springfield or Cedar Hill,” Deb said. “Some of the members drive a couple of hours to get to the meetings.”

“Really?”

She nodded, then turned to look back at her half-filled cart. “Well, I should really be going. I hope you’ll join us. If not tomorrow, then another time.”

“What exactly do you do at these meetings?” He was beginning to feel a touch of skepticism, and he worked to keep it out of his voice.

“It’s more of a support group than anything,” she said. “It’s just a place to belong. To make new friends.”

He shrugged, still noncommittal. “I’ll think about it.”

“Most of us have spent our lives either denying we had the gift or feeling like freaks. At our meetings we can feel normal.”

Normal. He liked the sound of that. He had never at any point in his life felt normal. He glanced at the note again.

She smiled and grabbed her cart. “I really do hope you’ll come. Once you meet everyone, you’ll know you don’t have to be alone anymore.” She started moving away. “Goodbye, Joel.”

He stood silently, watching her go. He realized that at no time during their conversation had he given her his name.

* * *

5:42 PM

Halloran had finally decided he could stomach the Mexican leftovers, but now they had been in the refrigerator so long they had started to mold. He scraped them off into the trash and let the plate clatter into the sink. Mel sat on the counter, watching him intently. “So much for dinner,” Halloran said. There was nothing else to eat in the apartment, so now he supposed he would have to head out. “Guess it’s Mickey D’s tonight,” he told the cat.

His phone rang, and he flopped down on the sofa and answered it.

“Halloran?” It was Pettus. “I need you to come down here to the station if you can.”

“Now?”

“Are you in the middle of something?”

“Not really. Just gonna go grab a bite to eat.”

Pettus grunted. “Well, get it to go.”

“What’s up?”

“You’re gonna love this. We got another missing kid.”

Halloran’s heart sank. “Another one?”

“Yep. Another girl.”

“I’ll be right there.”

* * *

Her name was Carmelita Santos. Her parents, both migratory workers from Mexico, were already seated in his office talking to Chapman when he arrived. The mother wept softly against her husband’s shoulder, her round, brown cheeks glistening with tears. Mr. Santos sat slumped over, his dark eyes glassy and fearful beneath the red brim of his St. Louis Cardinals cap.

Chapman was scribbling information onto a report form, a chewed-up Bic pen clamped in his fingers. “Carmelita is how old?” he asked.

“Quince años,” said Mr. Santos, then shook his head, seemingly embarrassed that he had lapsed into Spanish. “Soy arrepentido. Fifteen years.”

Chapman noted it on his report. “Tell us again what happened.”

Mr. Santos’s eyes flashed hotly. “We have already told everyone. Three times.”

Chapman smiled sympathetically. “I know. But let’s go over it one more time.” He nodded toward Halloran. “Lieutenant Halloran and I will be investigating your daughter’s disappearance. I’d just like him to hear everything from you.”

The Santoses eyed Halloran suspiciously. “You will find our Carmelita?” Mrs. Santos asked.

“We’re certainly going to try,” Halloran told her.

They spoke hesitantly at first but gradually opened up and began talking faster, at times in Spanish and then repeating themselves in English. The three of them were living in a rooming house on Bellevue Road, an area on the fringes of town where most of the migrants stayed during farming season. Carmelita had left just after lunch to meet some friends at the city park. The friends returned about two o’clock. Carmelita was not with them; they had not seen her all day. Somewhere in the four blocks between the rooming house and the park, she had vanished. The Santoses and the others staying at the house had searched the neighborhood for two hours, but they found nothing.

Halloran pulled a chair into the office from the hallway. “You know of any reason why your daughter would run away?”

The Santoses shook their heads adamantly.

“Any problems with boys? Or drugs?”

Mr. Santos looked at Halloran, his face hard. “Our Carmelita was happy,” he said.

Mrs. Santos pulled a photograph from her shirt pocket and handed it over to Halloran. It was a slightly fuzzy snapshot of a beautiful slender girl who looked just on the verge of womanhood. She was smiling into the camera showing the dimples at the corners of her mouth. Her hair, long and black, was tucked playfully behind her ears. She was wearing an ash-gray jersey with purple sleeves and blue jeans.

“She says Carmelita was wearing that shirt today,” Chapman said.

“Por favor,” whispered Mrs. Santos, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Mi bebé. Mi bebé.”

Halloran looked at her and nodded. “Entiendo,” he said.

* * *

10:55 PM

Joel sat in the recliner, staring at the television. Saturday Night Live was on the screen, but he wasn’t watching it. Beside him on the end table a cigarette sat in the ashtray; its length had smoldered to gray ash until the fire had hit the filter and it sputtered itself out.

In his fingers was the note Deb had given him today. He had tried to tell himself all evening that it had just been a chance encounter—a fluke. That she was like some psychic Hare Krishna handing out Post-It note equivalents of flowers. But he knew otherwise. She had sought him out. And she had been telling the truth. He was sure of it.

And she had known his name. He shuddered with a sudden chill.

A place to belong. That’s what she had said. And he wanted that. Needed it.

Maybe he would go tomorrow. Just to check it out. He didn’t have to stay long. And no one said he ever had to go back if he didn’t like it.

He could try it. Just once.





SUNDAY, JULY 8

11:30 AM

Marla sat in the pew of the church, holding her open bible and watching the minister but thinking of Wade.

Yesterday he had staggered to bed at five in the morning, reeking of pot and sex. She pretended to be asleep until she heard him snoring, then she sat up in bed, staring out at the early gray dawn as her eyes brimmed with tears.

She wondered where he had been and with whom, although it probably didn’t make much difference. She looked down at his head of dark curls, his tanned shoulders, his muscled arm ringed with the tribal tattoo peeking just above the sheets. She tried to remember how it felt to love him, how she had felt when they were younger and she would hang on to him for all she was worth when he made love to her, pulling him as deep inside as she could. But now all she could feel was a painful loathing.

Why did he stay? What good was it possibly doing for him to hang around? Maybe he simply enjoyed the sadistic kick of making her miserable, of hurting her, of making her feel like a caged animal. Maybe that was it.

She had dragged herself out of bed and made her way to the kitchen, where she sat at the table in her T-shirt and panties while the coffee brewed. She had noticed his clothes were not in the floor where he usually dropped them when he crawled into bed, and she thought that odd; then she wondered if he had hidden them from her. But why would he? He didn’t care if she knew he was out with other women (he most assuredly had been), and he didn’t care if there were telltale signs somewhere on his clothes (there probably were). What was worse was that she didn’t care either. So why would he hide them from her? She had thought about asking him when he got up just before lunchtime, but when he stumbled through the kitchen to the porch, he looked like walking death, and she thought it wise to simply ignore him.

After Joel stopped by, Wade had come back in and cleaned up. “I’m goin’ into town,” he told her. He climbed into his truck and barreled out of the driveway, his rear tires spitting gravel. She had not seen him since.

This morning when he was still not home, she started to call the police because he might have had an accident of some kind. But she didn’t. It was, after all, not the first time he had disappeared only to return later with no explanation. He was like a tomcat out searching for a female in heat. It made her sick. But she did not want to worry about it because that was what he wanted her to do. She knew he hoped she had been awake all night waiting for him, expecting him to call and say he was in trouble. Or worse, for the state highway patrol to show up on her doorstep with bad news.

Instead, she called Joel. She only meant to ask if he had seen Wade, but instead she found herself sobbing over the phone and telling him that his brother had been out God-knew-where for the past two nights, and that she had no idea who he had been with or what he had been up to. And Joel had been angry; he hadn’t said so, but she could hear it in his voice. He told her not to worry, that Wade was probably all right, that the two of them would have a chat, and for her to call as soon as she heard anything. She hung up feeling more than a little embarrassed, and somewhat fearful that Wade would be furious with her for calling Joel.

It wasn’t fair. If Wade didn’t give a damn about her, he should at least think of Derek. A boy needed to have his father around.

She looked over at him now, sitting complacently next to her in his crisp white shirt and khakis. There were times when she worried dreadfully over him. She smiled at him, and he caught her eye and smiled back. He really was a handsome boy, she thought. He had his father’s dark curly hair and her dark eyes. He was a looker already.

“A-men!” shouted the man behind her, making her jump. Derek looked at her. Some of the teenage girls in the back had seen her and they snickered. Damn them, she thought. Damn them to hell.

When the service was over and she and Derek filed out of the church with the others, Marla did her best to keep up the chitchat with those around her. Yes, I’m fine. How’re you? How’s that grandson of yours? Your kids enjoying their summer off from school? Still like your job? Sure has been hot.

She wondered about these other women in the congregation. Did any of these women have to live with what she did? Did any of them have to pretend everything was just grand when it was really black and rotten inside?

Sally and Rob Carpenter floated by in their new Buick Regal like a dream. Sally waved to her, like Queen Elizabeth in a horse-drawn coach. Rob owned an appliance store in town and Sally taught fifth grade. She tried to imagine them in bed. Sally on her hands and knees, her hair all disheveled and hanging in her face; Rob behind her, pumping away, sweat pouring down his face, chest and arms, his thinning hair splayed across his damp forehead. Let’s push the envelope tonight, Sal. She shuddered.

“Mom?” Derek said, and she looked at him. “I was talking to you.”

She smiled distractedly and slid on her sunglasses. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I said, can we go to Pizza Hut? I’m starving.”

She unlocked the car door. “Not today, babe.”

* * *

When they pulled into the driveway, she was half-relieved, half-disappointed to see Wade’s truck there. Wade was reclining on the front porch in one of the plastic lawn chairs, still wearing the clothes he had left in yesterday. His shirt was wrinkled and damp and clung to him like fungus. He took a drag off his cigarette, watching them get out of the car.

“Dad!” shouted Derek, crossing the lawn to the porch. “Can we work on the car today? Please?”

“I don’t know,” said Wade. “I’m pretty tired.”

Marla glared at him as she came up the steps. “Hey,” she said.

He nodded at her. “Hey.”

And now that she was close to him, he reeked of beer and sweat. Fury swept over her. “Out kinda late, huh?” she said before she could stop herself.

Wade’s eyes were red-rimmed and tired, but she still caught a flash of anger. “Yeah, I guess I was.”

She brushed past him into the coolness of the house, leaving the two of them on the porch. Just pushing the envelope, she thought.

* * *

1:35 PM

He had left early because he wasn’t sure how long it would take him to find the church. He didn’t have a need to go to Springfield often, and though he knew where most of the major streets and landmarks were, he wasn’t familiar with St. Thomas Church. He spotted it, though, as soon as he entered the city. It was a large rambling brick structure with an open bell tower and stained glass windows. He’d seen it before, but he supposed he’d never paid any attention to it.

He was thirty minutes early, so he drove around a nearby McDonald’s and got a Coke. He sat in the parking lot of the restaurant sipping his drink and looking at St. Thomas’ bell tower above the treetops. He was nervous. His heart pounded in the pit of his stomach, like he was a teenager on a first date. He wasn’t sure what to expect. What would these people be like? How weird would they be? What kind of meetings did they hold? He pictured strange rituals where everyone wore dark robes and chanted, or where they all cavorted naked in a circle.

He finally drove over to the church, circling around it, looking for signs of life. Behind the church proper was a new aluminum building with a sign out front that said “ACTIVITY CENTER.” There were several cars parked in the lot. This must be the place.

He parked his Explorer as close to the street as he could, took a last-second glance at his face in the rearview mirror, and headed out across the hot asphalt toward the building, his heart knocking a mile a minute. There were no windows in the building, and the glass on the front door was tinted, so he couldn’t see inside. Were they watching him now? Watching him trudging across the parking lot, sweating like some massive, frightened beast? He took a breath, grabbed the door and opened it.

A blast of refreshingly cool air hit him at once, and at first he thought he was mistaken, that he had walked into a bridge party or a bridal shower. The large, open room was well lit and clean and smelled of the fresh flowers decorating a buffet line full of snacks. Several people milled about, talking with one another and eating off paper plates, some sitting at small round tables. One of the men, Joel was startled to see, was a priest. Everyone looked so ordinary. Surely this wasn’t right. He turned to go before anyone spotted him.

“Joel!”

He looked back and saw Deb coming toward him, smiling broadly, and he felt a self-conscious grin appear on his face. “Hi.”

“You came,” she said, clearly pleased.

He nodded. “Thought I might check it out.”

“Not what you expected is it?”

He laughed, shaking his head. “No. I thought…” He stopped, not sure how to finish.

Deb was nodding. “I know,” she said, and he truly believed she did. She motioned him toward the others. “Come on, let me introduce you to some folks.” He followed her toward the murmuring group, and nearly jumped a foot when she clapped her hands and said loudly, “All right, everyone, your attention, please.” They were all looking at him now, he noticed, but not in puzzlement; they seemed to already know why he was there. “Everyone, I’d like you to meet Joel. He’s the one I told you about.”

They all greeted him, and Deb introduced them one by one in a flurry of names and faces he knew he would never remember. There was a young blonde girl who appeared to be in her late teens, and an old gentleman who looked at least eighty; everyone else fit somewhere in between, and seemed to come from all ethnic backgrounds and social circles. Deb introduced the priest last, a distinguished looking pudgy man with thick gray hair and blue eyes. “This is Father Michael. He’s not a sensitive himself, but he lets us use the church’s facilities for our meetings.”

Father Michael nodded to him. “Good to meet you, Joel. I think you’ll find everyone here is friendly and accommodating.”

Gradually, everyone drifted back into their own conversations, and Joel moved to take a seat at the table next to Father Michael. “So how did a priest get involved in something like this?” he said.

Father Michael smiled. “Deb’s one of my flock,” he said. “I’ve known of her gift for years, knew her struggle with accepting it. When she found a few others like herself, I encouraged her to start a group. They met at her house at first, but as more and more people became involved, she knew she had to have a larger place. I told her to feel free to use the church’s activity center.”

“That was nice.”

Father Michael shrugged. “Whole purpose of having the place.”

“So do you come here just to keep an eye on things or what?”

“I have a real interest in it, in what the old-timers call ‘second sight.’ I believe that it truly is a gift, though I understand the people who have it would tend to disagree.”

“Yeah,” Joel said. “Myself included.”

“Now, you take Joseph over there,” Father Michael said, pointing toward the old man Joel had noticed earlier. “When he was a young man, his family was convinced he was a demon. Or that he’d been touched by Satan. They were scared to death of him. Especially after…” The priest looked away.

“What?”

Father Michael looked back at him abruptly. “Did you ever hear of the big train disaster here in Springfield? Happened in ’twenty-five or ’twenty six.”

Joel nodded. Everyone knew that story. How a locomotive had jumped the track one sunny April morning and plowed right through Springfield Elementary School, completely demolishing the building. No one had even been scratched; all the students and teachers had gone to the town common for a picnic that day and the school had been empty.

“Joseph had organized the picnic downtown,” said Father Michael. “He knew something was going to happen that day. Saw it in a dream.”

“Really?” Joel looked at the man now, just a frail, little man dressed in a natty sports jacket and droopy trousers.

“I’m convinced,” the priest continued, “that God used Joseph’s ability that day to save those people.”

Joel stared at the wall, thinking about the train that had snuffed out the lives of his mother and stepfather. If he had known, if he could have seen, would he have warned them? Would he have kept them alive, even though it would have meant who knew how many more years of violent abuse from Clifton? He didn’t know; it was just a dead end question. Like what would have happened had the school been full. “What’s the point?” he said.

Father Michael looked at him. “Excuse me?”

“What was the point of giving Joseph a vision, of making him responsible?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“If God could do that, then why not just keep the train from derailing in the first place? Why not just make it easy?

Father Michael smiled crookedly, looking away. “It’s not our purpose to question God,” he said. “Perhaps it was a test.”

“A test? For who?”

“For Joseph.”

Joel glanced at the others, and his gaze fell on the young blonde girl. She was talking animatedly to Deb, holding a cookie in one hand and a Diet Coke in the other. “Who’s the kid?” he asked.

Father Michael smiled. “That’s Dana West,” he said. “She’s only been aware of her gift a couple of years, but Deb says she’s exceptionally strong.”

“How old is she?”

“Older than she looks. Twenty-one.” Father Michael pointed to a nondescript couple sitting nearby. “That’s her parents there. Frank and Bonnie.”

“So they…?”

“Yes. The whole family.”

Joel looked at the three of them, incredulous. “This kind of thing tends to run in families, doesn’t it?”

“So I’ve been told. It sometimes skips a generation or two, but it’s not rare that parents and children share it.” Father Michael took a sip from his foam cup. “They live in your neck of the woods, by the way.”

“Cedar Hill?”

“Yep. Dana attends the college there.”

Joel glanced around and caught a red-bearded guy looking at him. The other man quickly turned his attention to the floor. Something about him gave Joel the creeps.

Father Michael followed Joel’s line of vision. “Barry’s had a very troubled life. Tried to commit suicide. Bounced around from job to job, city to city. This is the first place he’s ever felt comfortable with himself and his ability.” He looked at Joel. “I hope you’ll feel comfortable here, too, Joel.”

* * *

A little while later, the group gathered the folding metal chairs into a circle, and they all sat facing the center. Deb led the group as they discussed the various events of their lives the past month. Most talked of their feelings of self-doubt and guilt, of their loathing for their abilities. Some, he was surprised to discover, regularly used drugs in an effort to deaden their feelings, to “desensitize” themselves. A few, including Barry, spoke of past suicide attempts. All, however, seemed open and honest; no one appeared to be lying or secretive. Joel had never been to a meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous, but this is how imagined one would be.

Finally, Deb turned to him. “So, Joel, what do you think? Are we all crazy?”

Everyone laughed, and Joel smiled. “You’re all nuts,” he said, and they laughed louder.

* * *

6:45 PM

Halloran sat in his office, sipping stale black coffee from a foam cup, letting his thoughts drift in the quiet. There had been no sign of Carmelita Santos.

A massive search party organized of people from the neighborhood, the police, and other volunteers had meticulously combed through the park and surrounding streets, looking everywhere. They searched behind every building, in every ravine, under every bush. Nothing. Carmelita had vanished without a trace. Finally, in the middle of the afternoon, a canine unit was brought in from Springfield; that, too, failed to turn up any clues.

Mr. and Mrs. Santos were nearly incapacitated with grief and worry. Now, more than yesterday, they eyed Halloran and Chapman with suspicion, as if the police were somehow to blame for their daughter’s disappearance. It was understandable, but these days Halloran found it harder not to take such things personally.

Chapman stuck his head in the door. “Hey.”

Halloran sat up. “Hey yourself. Come on in.”

Chapman flopped his lanky frame into one of the chairs opposite Halloran. “Don’t guess there’s anything new.”

Halloran shook his head. He held up his cup. “Want some coffee? I think it’s only about eight hours old.”

Chapman gave a strained laugh. “No, thanks.” He rubbed his eyes. “Long day.”

“No kidding.”

He looked at Halloran. “You think these two cases are related? Sarah Jo and Carmelita?”

Halloran took a swig of coffee. “I’d bet money on it. Same circumstances. Both girls about the same age.”

Chapman licked his lips. “I think we’ve got a serial offender.”

Halloran nodded grimly. “I agree.”

“What do you think our chances are of finding the Santos girl alive?”

Halloran stared at the wall. He drained his cup and plopped it onto the desk. “Between you and me, almost none.”

* * *

10:47 PM

Wade lay beside Marla, listening to her steady breathing and staring up into the nothingness of the dark room. Boy, he had really been f*cked up yesterday. He barely remembered getting up. Barely remembered Joel pulling in and talking to him. Barely remembered getting dressed and heading back into town. All he could recall clearly was sitting at the Wild Horse later with a beer and a plate of cheese-drenched potato skins, listening to some old geezer next to him ramble on drunkenly about his dog.

When he was finally feeling alive again, he left the bar and drove across town to the cable office. He was still tired. God, was he tired. In the lounge of the office was a large sofa, and he stretched out on it and slept for a few hours.

He awoke slightly achy but clear-headed a little after eight o’clock. He splashed some water on his face and ran a wet hand through his hair. Straightened the collar of his shirt. Refreshed, he headed back out to the truck and took off toward the other side of town.

The Capitol was already bustling, even at this early hour. Once inside, he scoured the dancing mob for Shelley and Abby, and when he didn’t see them, he grabbed a table and watched the dance floor, nursing a beer and filling up the ashtray. The crowd was about the same tonight—lots of attractive women, all young and lithe, but no one he felt he could connect with.

After an hour, just when he thought he couldn’t take the boredom any longer, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Shelley and Abby had appeared behind him. Seeing them again immediately charged his system, and the three of them were soon on the floor with everyone else. Shelley produced more of her magical tablets, and again he felt that wonderful, beautiful connection to everyone and everything. This time, however, he was prepared for it, and the feeling wasn’t quite as intense.

For the second night in a row, the three of them ended up in the same bed together. It was an apartment that Shelley and Abby shared, he discovered, but he never could quite figure out if the two of them shared the bed when they were alone. Again, the sex was mind-blowing and when he awoke this time, he was at least still in the bed between them, the morning sunlight spilling over the white sheets and their tangled limbs.

He climbed carefully from the bed and pulled on his jeans, lit a cigarette and looked around for his shirt.

“What’re you doin’?” said a groggy voice. It was Abby, brushing her tangled curls from her eyes.

“I gotta go,” he said.

“It’s too early.”

“It’s after ten.”

“Stay and have breakfast.”

He slipped on his shirt and stepped into his shoes. “I can’t. I really gotta go.”

Abby flopped back down. “Your clothes from the other night are on that chair over there.”

He found them and tucked them under his arm, then knelt beside her, kissing her twice on the lips. “Give one of those to Shelley for me.”

She smiled sleepily. “You’re beautiful,” she said, and then she was drifting off again.

Outside, the sun was dazzling and blinding as he left town, and when he got to the house, he was relieved to see Marla’s car was gone. He tossed his dirty clothes in the laundry room and grabbed a bowl of spaghetti from the refrigerator. He stood at the kitchen sink, staring through the window at the back yard and the barn, slurping down the cold noodles and acrid sauce until the bowl was empty.

He had promised Derek they would work on the Mustang, and he had blown it off yesterday, thinking today would be better. But here he was, dog-ass tired and hung over again, and he knew there was no way he would feel like bending over an engine out in the heat.

He was just like Clifton.

No, he thought. God, no.

When Wade was thirteen, puberty had hit him like a brick wall. Seemingly overnight he went from a scrawny little kid to a six-foot teen who had to shave at least twice a week. His hormones had been working overtime; in addition to the occasional wet dreams (which were scary at first, but he grew to look forward to them) and the sudden appearance of hair in all kinds of strange places, Wade was cursed with a severe case of acne. His face and shoulders—even his back and arms—erupted in ugly, angry, red blemishes that sometimes swelled to the size of boils. He tried everything to rid himself of them—soaps, lotions, ointments. Nothing seemed to help. If he had known then that in a year or so the condition would suddenly disappear, almost like magic, it might not have been so unbearable. The physical pain was bad enough, but the torment of going to school with his appearance was pure hell.

One day while he was standing in line in the lunchroom some ass-wipe two years his senior made the mistake of calling him “leper,” apparently trying to coin a new nickname. Wade jumped on him and beat the shit out of him, breaking a lunch tray over the f*cker’s head in the process. He had been suspended for three days over the incident, but no one had made fun of him again. Ever.

Unfortunately, Clifton was out of work at the time, and he spent his days getting drunk and railing against everything he didn’t agree with. Though he especially hated the government and taxes, he wasn’t above going off on a tangent when the occasion called for it. When Wade was sent home, Clifton demanded an explanation. Wade gave it to him—told him what the guy had said to him, what he had called him, and what Wade had done to him. For an instant, Clifton’s eyes were clear and lucid; the next moment they were drunk and hazy. “You know what causes them pimples,” Clifton told him. “It’s because you play with yourself too goddamned much. You leave your cock alone, them things’ll go away.”

Infuriated, Wade stormed off to his room, not only insulted and offended by Clifton’s remarks but wounded by his lack of understanding and sympathy. He flopped on his bed, his eyes stinging with angry, hurt tears. In a little while, drained by everything that had happened, he fell asleep.

He was awakened abruptly by his door being flung open. Clifton stood just outside his room, swaying slightly, a bottle of Jim Beam clutched in his hand. “What’re you doin’ in here?” he demanded. He tipped the bottle and drained the last of the bourbon into his gaping mouth.

“Nothin’,” Wade answered. “Sleepin’.”

“You’re doin’ it again, ain’tcha?”

Wade shook his head, trying to clear out the grogginess. “What? No. I was sleepin’. Honest.” He moved to scuttle off the bed and out of the room, but Clifton was too quick for him. He seized him by the shirt collar and slammed him facedown onto the bed. For a drunk, he was surprisingly strong and agile.

“You’re gonna see how they do it, the f*ckin’ faggots. You’re gonna get it like they get it.”

Wade felt his jeans being wrenched down, and terror seized him. He was screaming, hoping his mother—or anyone—could hear him. Clifton pinned him down and held him tight against the mattress. “Shut up, faggot,” he whispered in Wade’s ear, and his breath was like acid. Sweat was pouring down his face, dripping onto the bed. “Let’s see how you like it now.” From the corner of his eye, Wade could see the lips of the upturned bottle moving toward his bare buttocks.

With the last of his strength, Wade pushed himself off the bed, flinging Clifton back across the room. The bottle hit the floor and shattered. Clifton slammed into the wall, then slid down to the floor, his eyes round and startled. Wade went for him. “You bastard!” His fist connected with Clifton’s nose, and a sudden spray of blood erupted down the man’s shirt. “You f*cking bastard!” Clifton curled into a ball as Wade’s fists pummeled him.

There was a sudden gasping, choking sound. Clifton’s face was twisted and red and wet, and he was crying. Wade brought his foot back and kicked Clifton as hard as he could in the side.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Clifton kept repeating, his voice broken and sobbing.

“Don’t you ever f*ckin’ touch me again,” Wade spat at him.

Wade never told anyone about the incident, not even Joel. He was left feeling violated and ashamed, but he hoped that by fighting back he had cured Clifton of his mean streak.

That lasted about two months. The hostility began at first with a few smacks to the back of Wade’s head; soon it had escalated back to point it had been before. Wade remembered the bottle incident, and was tempted to fight Clifton again. But after Clifton punched him and broke his jaw—this time for smoking, the self-righteous prick—Wade was too afraid of him. He made the decision that he would escape from that hell as soon as he got the chance, and when Marla came up pregnant he took the opportunity and ran.

Marla’s parents let them move into the abandoned trailer behind their house, and at first Wade was happy. Being away from Mama and Clifton was almost as good as heaven. But after a few months he knew he had made a mistake. Being married was simply another kind of hell. But leaving Marla would have meant going back home, and he sure didn’t want that. But gradually he realized there was one critical difference between living with his stepfather and living with Marla: here, Wade was in control. Marla might argue and disagree with him, but she didn’t fight back. Not anymore.

He knew she was not happy with him. No more than he was happy with her. In fact, she hated him sometimes; he could see it in her eyes. And sometimes he hated her, and there was pleasure in hurting her. But he tried not to think of that. Besides, Marla was an adult; no one was stopping her if she wanted to leave.

Now, in the musky darkness of their bedroom, he rolled over to her and put an arm around her waist, settling in to finally go to sleep. Marla dozed on, unaware that a hand she had cowered from so many times now lay gently and almost affectionately across her stomach.