The large room inside the door—a basement den—was faintly lit by the blue clock of a VCR. Beyond, a hallway bisected the far half of the basement, leading, he recalled, to a bathroom, the kid’s bedroom, and a spare bedroom jammed with junk. Easing down the dark hall, he found all three doors ajar, all three rooms empty. Retracing his steps, he returned to the stairwell and started up, testing each step for any hint of a squeak before committing his full weight to it.
A line of golden light showed beneath the door at the top of the stairs, the sound of voices mingling with the clink of cutlery on ceramic. “Jeff, mind your manners,” he heard the woman say. “Leave a little for the rest of us.”
“Sorry, Mom.”
He conjured up his mental picture of the layout. The door from the basement opened directly across from an exterior door—a sliding-glass door—that led to a patio and a garden in back of the house. To the right of the stairwell was the dining room; to his left, the kitchen. Judging by the direction of the sounds, they were eating in the kitchen.
Satterfield slipped the Mag-Lite into the pizza bag and pulled the pistol from his waistband. Hanging the pizza bag from his left wrist by the nylon strap, he took tender hold of the doorknob and twisted, his thumb moving as slowly as the second hand on a clock. The door opened inward, into the stairwell—much better for him than if it swung outward, into view. He eased it open an inch, then waited and listened. “Bill, have some more salad,” the woman said.
Another careful inch.
“Thanks, hon, but I’m not really hungry.”
A foot this time.
“I’ll take some more,” the boy said.
Satterfield swung the door fully open.
“Please?” prompted Brockton.
“It’s okay, Dad—you don’t have to beg me.” A half second later: “Hey, come on. That was funny.”
“No, not really,” Satterfield said, taking two quick steps—through the doorway and then around the corner, into the kitchen. “Who wants pizza?” Their faces, startled and stupid with surprise, swiveled toward him. Four startled faces, not three. A girl. Who the hell’s the girl? Brockton, seated at the near end of the table, started to his feet, the look of surprise on his face giving way to anger and fear as his gaze shifted from the Domino’s shirt and pizza bag to the face of the man. The face of Satterfield.
Satterfield swung the pizza bag sideways by its strap, the heavy rectangle slicing through the air and smashing into Brockton’s face, the weight of the heavy flashlight inside adding to the force. Brockton toppled backward, knocking over his chair as he fell, and then struggled to rise from the floor. Satterfield kicked him to put him back down, then took a step back and waved the pistol. “I’m sorry to have to break it to you,” he said, “but I lied—I don’t really have pizza for you.”
CHAPTER 46
Decker
DECKER KNEW THAT THE detective and the forensic techs didn’t want him there—he was lurking and watching, radiating anguish and rage—but nobody wanted to get in his face about it; nobody wanted to be the jerk that told a guy whose brother had just died to get the hell out of the way. The detective, Kittredge, was squatting beside Bohanan, the senior forensic tech, who was kneeling near the feet of the headless corpse, using tweezers to pluck filaments of wire from the floor.
“Detective?” The voice came from behind Decker—from the direction of the kitchen, where one of the junior forensic techs was taking photos—and floated past him, into the living room, to Kittredge.
“Yeah?” Kittredge looked up, past Decker, toward the kitchen doorway.
“You just want pictures of the garbage? Or do you want me to bag it up and bring it back to the lab?”
“What’s in it?”
“A bunch of pizza, mostly.”
“How much pizza?”
“A lot. Looks like a whole pie.”
“Uneaten?” Decker saw Kittredge frown, furrow his brow, reach up and rub the stubble on his chin. Bohanan glanced up, too, his tweezers poised in midair.
“If it were eaten, it wouldn’t be here. You hungry, detective?”
“Hang on. I’m coming to take a look.” Kittredge didn’t head straight to the kitchen, though; Decker watched as the detective detoured to the near side of the den and squatted beside a battered Domino’s box. Using the tip of a pen, Kittredge lifted the lid. Decker leaned in far enough to see what Kittredge saw: that the box contained three ragged pieces of pizza crust. Kittredge picked up one with a gloved hand. On his way into the kitchen, the detective edged passed Decker, avoiding eye contact.