Keeping Sykes in the tub would make it easier to rinse off any mess. Freddy’s eyes were open a little too widely. Wu had seen this look before: somewhere past terror but not yet death, a hollowness that fell in that awful cusp between the two.
There was obviously no need to tie Freddy up.
Wu sat in the dark and waited for night to fall. He closed his eyes and let his mind drift back. There were prisons in Rangoon where they studied spinal fractures during hangings. They learned where to place the knot, where to apply force, what effects different placement would have. In North Korea, in the political prison Wu had called home from the age of thirteen to eighteen, they had taken the experiments one step further. Enemies of the state were killed creatively. Wu had done many with his bare hands. He had hardened his hands by punching boulders. He had studied the anatomy of the human body in a way most medical students would envy. He had practiced on human beings, perfecting his techniques.
The exact spot between the fourth and fifth vertebrae. That was key. Any higher and you could paralyze them completely. That would lead to death fairly quickly. Forget their arms and legs—their internal organs would stop working. Any lower and you would only get the legs. The arms would still work. If the pressure applied was too great, you’d snap the entire spinal column. It was all about precision. Having the right touch. Practice.
Wu turned on Freddy’s computer. He wanted to keep up with the other singles on his list because he never knew when he would need a new place to live. When he was finished, Wu allowed himself to sleep. Three hours later he awoke and looked in on Freddy. His eyes were glassier now, staring straight up, blinking without focus.
When his contact called Wu’s cell phone, it was nearly 10 P.M.
“Are you settled in?” the contact asked.
“Yes.”
“We have a situation.”
Wu waited.
“We need to move things up a bit. Is that a problem?”
“No.”
“He needs to be taken now.”
“You have a place?”
Wu listened, memorizing the location.
“Any questions?”
“No,” Wu said.
“Eric?”
Wu waited.
“Thanks, man.”
Wu hung up. He found the car keys and took off in Freddy’s Honda.
chapter 3
Grace couldn’t call the police yet. She couldn’t sleep either. The computer was still on. Their screen saver was a family photo taken last year at Disney World. The four of them posed with Goofy at Epcot Center. Jack was wearing mouse ears. His grin was ear to ear. Hers was more reserved. She’d felt silly, which just encouraged Jack. She touched the mouse—the other mouse, the computer mouse—and her family disappeared.
Grace clicked the new icon and the strange photograph of the five college-aged kids appeared. The image came up with Adobe Photo-shop. For several minutes Grace just stared at the young faces, searching for—she didn’t know—a clue maybe. Nothing came to her. She cropped each face, blowing them up into something approaching four inches by four inches. Any bigger and the already-blurred image became undecipherable. The good paper was in the color inkjet, so she hit the print button. She grabbed a pair of scissors and went to work.
Soon she had five separate headshots, one for each person in the picture. She studied them again, this time taking extra care with the young blonde next to Jack. She was pretty with that girl-next-door complexion and long flaxen hair. The young woman’s eyes were on Jack, and the look was more than casual. Grace felt a pang of, what, jealousy? How bizarre. Who was this woman? Obviously an old girlfriend—one Jack had never mentioned. But so what? Grace had a past. So did Jack. Why would the look in that photograph bother her?
So what now?
She would have to wait for Jack. When he came home, she would demand answers.
But answers about what?
Back up here a second. What was really going on? An old photograph, probably of Jack, had popped up in her packet of pictures. It was weird, sure. It was even a little creepy, what with the blonde crossed out like that. And Jack had stayed out late before without calling. So really, what was the big deal here? Something in the photo had probably upset him. He turned off his phone and was probably in a bar. Or at Dan’s house. This whole thing was probably just a bizarre joke.
Yeah, Grace, sure. A joke. Like the one about the carpool to the pool.
Sitting alone, the room dark except for the glow from the computer monitor, Grace tried a few more ways to rationalize away what was going on. She stopped when she realized that this was only scaring her more.
Grace clicked onto the face of the young woman, the one who stared at her husband with longing, zooming in for a better view. She stared at the face, really stared, and a tingle of dread began to travel across her scalp. Grace did not move. She just kept looking at the woman’s face. She didn’t know the wheres or whens or hows, but she now realized something with thudding certainty.
Grace had seen this young woman before.
chapter 4
Rocky Conwell took up post by the Lawson residence.
He tried to get comfortable in his 1989 Toyota Celica, but that was impossible. Rocky was too big for this piece-of-crap car. He pulled harder on that damned seat lever, nearly ripping it out, but the seat would go back no farther. It would have to do. He settled in and let his eyes start to close.
Man, was Rocky tired. He was working two jobs. The first, his steady gig to impress his parole officer, was a ten-hour shift on the Budweiser assembly line in Newark. The second, sitting in this damn car and staring at a house, was strictly off the books.
Rocky jerked up when he heard a noise. He picked up his binoculars. Damn, someone had started up the minivan. He focused in. Jack Lawson was on the move. He lowered the binoculars, shifted into drive, and prepared to follow.
Rocky needed two jobs because he needed cash in a big, bad way. Lorraine, his ex, was making overtures about a possible reconciliation. But she was still skittish about it. Cash, Rocky knew, could tip the balance in his favor. He loved Lorraine. He wanted her back in a big, bad way. He owed her some good times, didn’t he? And if that meant he had to work his butt off, well, he’d been the one to screw up. It was a price he was willing to pay.
It hadn’t always been like this for Rocky Conwell. He’d been an All-State defensive end at Westfield High. Penn State—Joe Paterno himself—had recruited him and transformed him into a hard-hitting inside linebacker. Six-four, two-sixty, and blessed with a naturally aggressive nature, Rocky had been a standout for four years. He’d been All Big-Ten for two years. The St. Louis Rams drafted him in the seventh round.