“I ran in ten thousand six hundred and three circles,” Harry Junior boasted. “Then it all went higgledy-piggledy.”

  “How about you kids find some stuff to put in the pancakes,” I suggested.

  Sam and I mixed blueberries in ours. Harry and Harry Junior mixed sour gummi worms, craisins, and mini Snickers bars in theirs.

  “Do you think Dad wants blueberries?” Sam asked.

  “Yep,” I said, checking the clock on my phone.

  Odd. Phin usually finished his morning jog by 9 A.M. It was going on 9:30.

  What was taking my husband so long?

  LARRY

  Destiny, Colorado

  August 19, 1978

  Driving a hack was the perfect job if you wanted to clandestinely murder people.

  Destiny led them to Destiny, Colorado, and Corporal Bob’s wartime looting and post-war drug dealing allowed them to buy a home, a car, and new identities, for cash.

  Larold and Rita Goodall became Larry and Rita Wintergarten, with brand new social security numbers so they could vote and pay taxes and be good, law-abiding American citizens.

  Except for the killing folks and eating them. But there was probably an analogy for capitalism somewhere in there.

  It all worked perfectly for a while. Larry made cookies for his fares. If it seemed likely the riders wouldn’t be missed, such as picking up a runaway at the airport, or a cheating husband fleeing town, they would get his Special K cookies and pass out in the back seat. Or if they weren’t in the mood to snack, Larry had a handheld powder duster, normally used for spreading out diatomaceous earth to kill ants, but incredibly effective at spraying a cloud of ketamine in a person’s face.

  Then it was just a transfer from the garage to a tenderizing bag, and when they were properly ripe, to the newly purchased walk-in freezer.

  Larry didn’t even have to kill anyone. If they didn’t die in the bag, they died in the sub-zero temperatures.

  The setup was efficient. Life was good.

  They even had enough money to take Rita to several specialists.

  Unfortunately, no one could figure out what the Sickness actually was. Some thought it was a genetic condition. Some thought it was degenerative disease caused by tiny particles called prions. Some thought it was mental illness.

  No one had answers. No one offered any viable solutions. The only things that helped Rita were ketamine, and human meat.

  But even with those, the Sickness was slowly deteriorating his beautiful sister.

  Besides the hair plucking and nail biting, Rita had begun to chew off her own lips.

  It started with the lower one, a scab that she kept nibbling at until it grew into a divot. Then a gap. Then a hole. Eventually, both lips were eaten away, and she couldn’t fully close her mouth.

  Giving her a permanent smile to go with her constant giggling.

  Her endless picking at her eyes had also become worse. Pulling at the skin like fleshy rubber bands, pinching it off bit-by-bit. Rita barely had any eyelids left.

  Without her wigs, Rita resembled a living skull.

  But even with her challenges, his sister remained strong. Even stronger than Larry. She’d physically fought with him several times, when the Sickness overtook her, battles that left each of them battered and bloody.

  One of the doctors who strongly recommended that Rita be committed to an asylum, also suggested she be restrained. Tied up, like an animal.

  That was unacceptable. But as Rita grew wilder, Larry was running out of ways to control her.

  He even turned to an unlikely source. Years after abandoning his home and his religion, Larry began to pray to God to help his sister.

  He prayed for hours, every day.

  Prayed she would get well.

  Prayed she could be normal, like he was.

  Prayed until his knees were bruised.

  God apparently had other plans.

  On a terrible morning in August of 1978, Larry awoke to a terrible pain. He noticed two things at once.

  The first, on the side of the bed; a plastic baggie of ketamine, half-spilt.

  The second, at the foot of the bed; Rita, chewing the third toe off of his foot.

  The fight had been the worst yet. Only Larry’s fear and outrage allowed him to emerge the victor, breaking his sister’s nose, beating her to the ground for long enough to blow ketamine into her face.

  He injected her with it as well, enough to make her sleep for hours, and realized he had no choice.

  He would have to chain her up.

  And that’s when God, silent for over two decades, finally decided to intervene.

  Larry was in the bathroom, bandaging his foot, and the house shook, a sound like booming thunder, rattling Larry to his very soul.

  At first, he thought it was an earthquake, but it ended almost as soon as it began. When Larry inspected the house for damage, he found all the kitchen cabinets open, their contents spilled out. Lamps had tipped over. Pictures fallen from walls. A crack ran across the ceiling, spitting plaster dust.

  Larry’s search took him into the basement, and that’s when he realized God’s plan.

  The Lord had touched the ground beneath their home, and opened up a door.

  At first, Larry thought it was a gateway to hell. Punishment for all of the murders.

  But it lacked fire and brimstone. Though too deep to see the bottom, it seemed cool and safe. Almost cozy.

  Larry hurried to the store, buying supplies. Gloves. Boots. Ropes. A helmet. A block and tackle with a stand, used for lifting car engines. Lights. Extension cords. Candles. Shovels and picks.

  Then, after administering more Vitamin K to his sister, Larry went spelunking.

  The sinkhole that had opened up in the basement was a sight to behold. Thirty feet deep, perfectly round. The bottom was solid rock, and there were three tunnels tall enough to stand up in, the longest extending almost sixty meters. Larry probed the cavern walls and ceilings, causing a few minor collapses, but no cave-ins.

  Everything seemed solid.

  Solid, and without any exits.

  It took no consideration at all for Larry to figure out what to do.

  While Rita slept for three straight days, Larry furnished the cave. A bed. A freezer. A hose for fresh water. A chemical toilet. An electrical cord to power two lamps. A bookshelf.

  And last, but not least, his unconscious sister, lowered down with the block and tackle.

  Larry had prayed, and the Lord had answered.

  Gottes Wille.

  God’s will.

  The Lord had given Rita a home.

  PHIN

  It felt like I was waking up with the worst hangover ever.

  Pounding headache.

  Nausea.

  Cold.

  Dizziness.

  Fatigue.

  Thirst.

  Blurred vision.

  But hangovers didn’t usually smell like dead sewer rats.

  I touched my skull, found a bump big enough to cup with my palm, crusty with dried blood, and had the abrupt, terrible realization that I wasn’t in bed. Or in a room of any kind.

  I seemed to be in some sort of cave. The floor, dirt and rocks. Walls, dark earth.

  WTF? How’d I get here?

  Where was the light coming from?

  Panic began to mount, but I forced it back, focusing on deep breathing through my mouth because of the stench; part human waste, part rotten meat.

  The odor coated my tongue, jabbing at my gag reflex. I turned onto my side, vomited, and saw stars.

  Keeping a hand over my nose and mouth, I did a body inventory. Both legs seemed to work. Both arms. No injuries on my torso.

  But my head was bad. Concussion, at the very least. Possibly a cracked skull.

  Had I fallen in a hole?

  I remembered the sinkhole in my backyard.

  Had I gotten sucked in?

  Above me, black earth.

  How could I see?

  Again, where was the light coming from?

  It didn’t seem like natural light.

  Lightbulbs? Candles? Both?

  I managed to sit up, and the whole world spun. I almost puked again, but kept it down, putting my hand over my mouth.

  Vomit filled my cheeks.

  I swallowed it back down.

  I didn’t know where I was, how I got there, or when I’d get out. I needed to keep my fluids if I could.

  Clearing my throat, letting the world equalize, I tried to piece together my last recollections.

  Harry coming over. Drinking and laughing.

  We made a pillow fort.

  Then what?

  I’d been concussed before. Too many times. Sometimes the memories never fully returned. Sometimes they came back in faded, unconnected bits. Sometimes they returned suddenly, fully-formed.

  Concentrating wouldn’t speed up the process. Also, concentrating hurt.

  I closed my eyes, realized that falling asleep would be a bad idea, and instead examined my body.

  No shoes. No shirt.

  No service. Heh heh.

  At least the blow to the head hadn’t damaged my sense of humor.

  Since I wore just my underwear, that led me to one of two conclusions.

  Either I’d been stripped of my clothes, or I’d been sleeping.

  But had I been grabbed? Or was I sleepwalking, or high, or drunk, and wandered into the sinkhole?

  I examined the bottoms of my feet. Slightly dirty, but not like I’d been running around outside.

  But the backs of my heels, caked in mud.

  I’d been dragged here.

  But where is here?

  Where’s the light source?

  I tried to get onto my knees, but almost threw up again. I sat back down, my shoulder against the dirt wall.

  Dragged here. In my underwear.

  I’d been grabbed by someone.

  Who?

  I had a vague recollection of a bad guy. Is that why Harry McGlade had come over? To help us with a bad guy?

  The thought was just out of sight, like it was running away from me.

  I touched my head again. Felt for scabs. Found the big one.

  So I’d been there at least long enough for a head wound to stop bleeding.

  Also, my bladder seemed full. So did my bowels.

  I was an early morning crapper. Which made me think I missed that window.

  So I guessed it was past morning. I’d been grabbed sometime between last night’s pillow fort, and my morning bathroom routine. And dragged here. To some sort of tunnel or cave.

  I’d had some experience trying to move unconscious people. And dead people. Not an easy job. Even with more than one person doing the dragging. A limp body was heavy. Cumbersome.

  So I must have been close to home. And reasoning pointed to the sinkhole.

  Someone dragged me into the sinkhole? And then what?

  Nausea and vertigo and pain be damned, I managed to get on all fours. After a few deep breaths, I crawled toward the light source. I went around a small curve in the dirt wall, and found a lamp. Old, the 1970s-style shade in tatters. But with a modern LED bulb.

  And next to the lamp, stretching from ground to ceiling, something that looked like a giant honeycomb. Some sort of weird wall decoration, done in an offset grid, rows and rows of—

  Holy shit.

  Holy fucking shit.

  A wall of human skulls.

  Hundreds of them.

  Neatly stacked rows, heaped so high they reached the ceiling.

  Where the hell was I? A graveyard?

  Some were obviously old. Grey. Looking like they came from the French catacombs.

  Others were white.

  Others even had brownish bits still attached. And clumps of hair.

  The stink wafted over me like a breeze, musty decay and spoiled meat, and I turned away and had to cover my mouth again.

  I crawled away from the wall of heads, took a sideways tunnel, and found more bones. Long tibias and fibulas and humerus bones, cut in halves and thirds and quarters, piled like firewood. Next to those, a mound of ribs, some with leathery skin still clinging on stubbornly, despite the grooved slits.

  Knife marks?

  A noise, behind me, and I turned to see a skeleton.

  A living skeleton, shuffling toward me.

  But skeletons don’t have eyes.

  That’s when my memory came back. The fire alarm. Being attacked by some grotesque, monstrous fiend with a filthy, blood-caked face. Missing lips and hair and eyelids. A ghoul straight out of a horror movie. Something too horrible to be anything other than a special makeup effect.

  But this thing coming at me wasn’t a fake rubber monster.

  It was real.

  And it was coming at me, hard and fast, drool streaking down its filthy chin.

  JACK

  After breakfast I used Find My iPhone on my cell to see how close my husband was to getting home.

  It located him… in our bedroom.

  I went to check, discovering he’d left his cell on the nightstand.

  Very unlike Phin. He always took his phone with when jogging.

  That triggered all sorts of warning bells in my noggin, and I recalled Phin checking on the smoke detector last night just as I put my earplugs in.

  “Jackie? You seem freaked out.”

  I turned off Phin’s phone and made sure it was plugged in to charge. The kids had gotten dressed, both in jeans and matching T-shirts that Harry had brought. The shirts read Total Fatal Autonomy: The Soft Reboot. They were back at the GameMaster 2, giggling as they gunned down helpless pedestrians, and I turned to McGlade with a sick feeling in my stomach.

  “Can you start closing all the blinds in the kitchen?”

  “Sure. Can you tell me why?”

  “I may be overreacting. Phin left his phone in the bedroom.”

  “So of course I should close the blinds. That makes complete sense. Except for one thing. Why am I closing all the blinds?”

  Rather than argue with McGlade, I went to our bathroom and dug into the bottom vanity drawer, finding an old shaving kit bag. I unzipped it and removed a smaller leather pouch, and inside that, two bottles of powder. I ignored the Kastle-Meyer reagent and instead plucked out the luminol. Then I grabbed a plastic bottle of 3% hydrogen peroxide and stalked back into the kitchen, which was suitably dark thanks to Harry.

  Under the sink, next to the locked gun box, were a few empty squirt bottles. I shook a bit of luminol powder into one, mixed in some H2O2, and brought it to the spot on the floor where I found the reddish-brown streak among all the dirt.

  “You’re looking for hemoglobin.” Harry McGlade, Master of the Obvious. “Want to let your old partner in on the search?”

  I sprayed the floor and waited.

  It only took a few seconds for it to glow purple.

  A lot of purple.

  Harry squatted next to me. “You think that blood belongs to Phin.”

  Keeping my emotions in check, I covered a wider area with the spray, finding streaks from where I swept. I also found a drip trail, which I followed up the wall—

  —to the fire extinguisher. A large blood smear across the label.

  I did not panic. I was pretty good at staying calm when bad shit happened.

  And I also knew that Phin was pretty good at staying alive.

  If someone had gotten in the house and wanted to kill Phin, they had a chance last night. But they didn’t do it. Getting hit with a fire extinguisher smacked of improvisation. Disorganization. The attacker was either unprepared, or inexperienced.

  That meant it probably wasn’t someone from our pasts seeking revenge. A hypothesis reinforced by the fact that most of our enemies were dead.

  So I guessed this was a crime of opportunity, rather than specific intent. That still begged an important question. We’d been drinking last night, which led to uncompleted fooling around, and then the circuit breaker tripping and the fire alarms. A lot going on.

  But I was absolutely sure we locked all the doors before going to bed.

  So how could someone have gotten in?

  And how could they have gotten out, taking my husband with them? I would have noticed a broken window.

  If it was even possible to drag a full grown man through a window.

  “You’re thinking it was the neighbor,” Harry said.

  I had no idea. “I talked with Larry a little while ago. If he took Phin, he played it as cool as I’d ever seen a guilty party play it.”

  “Psychopaths are good at lying. If he’s a psycho.”

  “Psychopaths also like to gloat.” I recalled the words we exchanged. “Nothing he said pointed to this.”

  “So who was it?”

  I had a bad thought, and spun around, eyes locking on the refrigerator.

  The photo of my family, of me and Phin and Sam, that had been stuck to the door with a magnet—

  Gone.

  The Peeper? Destiny, Colorado’s very own boogeyman, rumored to steal pictures?

  Apparently it was more than just an urban legend.

  “I’m getting the police involved,” I took out my phone. “There’s enough evidence here.”

  I dialed 911—

  —and got a recording.

  Then I said a bad fucking word.

  “Jesus, Jackie. There are children in the other room.”

  “They put me on hold.”

  Harry scratched his chin, nodding. “Coronavirus. Hospitals and emergency services are stretched thin. Overcapacity and understaffed. A record volume of calls. Try the police station directly.”

  I looked up the number and gave it a shot.

  Then I said another unpardonable expletive.

  “Another damn recording.”

  “Not everyone gets along in lockdown. Domestic violence at an all-time high. We could swing by the station.”

  I considered it. But that would mean me wasting time trying to explain what happened to someone who might not be competent.

  While there were already competent investigators at the crime scene.

  McGlade apparently had the same thought.

  “You know, Jackie, once upon a time, we were cops. Pretty good cops. Cops that got shit done and solved crimes and kicked ass. How about we pay a friendly visit to your neighbor?”