Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 121578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 608(@200wpm)___ 486(@250wpm)___ 405(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 608(@200wpm)___ 486(@250wpm)___ 405(@300wpm)
Metal on metal grinds and clicks as I ease the key into the hole and meet resistance.
I swear under my breath and pocket the key. Although I have a small hammer in my little bag of tools, breaking the glass is a last resort. Instead, I finesse a small, thin, flexible piece of metal about the shape of a credit card out of my jacket pocket. Gripping it tight between my thumb and index finger, I wiggle it into the gap between the door and the doorframe, then slide it as close as I can to the doorknob. I’d practiced this at home on every door in the house. Once I get the feel for the mechanism, I tilt the metal toward the doorknob and quickly pop it back the opposite way. The latch springs free with a sharp click.
I push the door open a few inches and wait.
A hot wave of onions, garlic, and something more putrid rolls through the gap. I turn my head and gag. In all of my planning, I never considered how bad the house might smell.
There’s a slight whine as I push the door a few more inches.
Based on the photos I’d studied from the listing when the house had been for sale, I’m entering the kitchen. My eyes slowly adjust to the gloom, and I can make out old, white appliances—refrigerator, a crusty looking stove, and a battered microwave. It’s almost Christmas, but a filthy pair of Fourth-of-July-themed dishtowels dangle from the oven handle.
I close the door with the softest snick of metal on metal. Inside, the smell’s even worse. Like the man scrubs every surface and appliance with garlic cloves and onion peels instead of Formula 409 and a sponge.
The flickering from the TV in the front room catches my attention. I can’t see what’s playing on the screen but the sounds…they’re not innocent. My skin crawls and my heart lurches as if it’s trying to leave my body and run into the night.
No. I won’t give into my fear. This gets done tonight. Tomorrow, the world will be safer. One less fiend preying on children.
Or you’ll be the one who’s dead.
Or in jail.
Doesn’t matter. It’ll be worth it if I spare another kid Hoyt’s fate.
I’m not delusional. I don’t think I’m a savior or better than anyone else. I just don’t want to see another kid brutalized and murdered.
With my breath trapped in my lungs, I tiptoe across the tile floor. Even with my shoes on, it feels gritty or dirty under my feet.
Bam! My hip slams into something solid. A scrape of furniture against floor rips through the air.
My body freezes. I squeeze my eyes shut and wait. Blood pounds through my ears.
The awful moans and whines from the television continue.
In small increments I ease my body away from the kitchen chair I’d bumped into and edge forward. Silently, I slide the backpack off my shoulders and rest it on the chair I’d knocked away from the table. Feeling my way with gingerly outstretched hands and soft sweeps of one foot in front of the other, I continue toward the flickering blue light.
The living room is straight ahead. Long dark curtains cover the windows facing the street.
There he is. Dimly lit by the glow of the television. Unruly tufts of hair sticking out all over his head. No awareness that I’m creeping up behind him. Guilt and unease about invading someone’s private space prickle around the edges of my conscience.
No. He doesn’t deserve peace or privacy. The state of New York might think he’s “paid for his crime” but I strongly disagree. I’d bet my life Hoyt’s parents would agree with me.
I pull a syringe out of my pocket and uncap it. Two more full syringes are rolling around in my pocket—just in case. Full to the brim with a popular tranquilizer I’d helped myself to at the lovely veterinarian’s office when we did a pickup there last month. The poor man had a heart attack while tending to the animals overnight. One of the dogs who’d been boarded at the vet’s office stood guard over the old man’s body all night long. The vet techs had to gently coax the pup away so we could tend to the body. I suffered a twinge of guilt at the theft, but I didn’t have an easier way to get my hands on what I needed, and I knew this man had to be dealt with soon.
A sharp bleat of pain from the television’s speakers almost jolts my soul from my body. In the chair, Mr. Gade moans.
With great reluctance I turn toward the screen. Maybe my subconscious already knows what’s playing and my brain refuses to accept it. It takes great effort to force my gaze toward the sound of the awful noise. Finally, I take in the images. My stomach plunges.