“I’m thinking it might be someone else. The Peeper.”

  “Maybe Wintergarten is Goodall. And Goodall is the Peeper.”

  “Could be.”

  “We can drop by. Ask him if he saw anything. Get a look in the house. Then, if we rule him out after grilling him, you can drive directly to the cops.”

  Not a bad plan. I had no idea if Larry was an actual threat, or if my paranoia was getting the better of me. Asking Larry some questions could help me reach a conclusion. And I still needed a picture of him to send to Sheriff Blaylock.

  “Okay. Let’s do it.”

  “Can I get dressed first?”

  “I’ve been waiting for you to say that. You need a weapon?”

  “I don’t travel without my .44. Lemme put on some clothes.”

  Harry left the kitchen. I went to the sink, knelt down, and took out the gun safe. It opened with a key, which was hidden in the garage, or a five digit code, or a fingerprint impression from me or Phin. I used my thumb, and hefted my S&W revolver, frowning as I stared at Phin’s Glock.

  I had no idea where my husband was.

  But I was going to find out. Or at the very least, eliminate a possibility.

  LARRY

  Things were escalating. Much faster than they had when Gregg and Sandy lived next door.

  Gregg had been a homicide cop. But without the same illustrious, infamous career as Larry’s new neighbor, Jack.

  Larry and Rita lived side-by-side with Gregg and Sandy for years, without a single incident.

  It had been tempting fate, having a police officer so close by. But also, oddly invigorating.

  Unlike Jack, Gregg lacked curiosity. It was his wife, Sandy, who had begun the process of killing her own family, by offhandedly asking Larry about his occasional visitor.

  “Are you friends? Such a big age difference.”

  Blood hadn’t liked that. Neither had Larry. Blood only came by at night, which meant Sandy had been spying.

  Even with that faux pas, Gregg and Sandy might have escaped their fate… if it wasn’t for their daughter.

  Rita had been patient. She’d gone years without her favorite food.

  But she’d seen so many pictures of little Bella. Watching her grow up, like an aunt did. Or a grandmother.

  A very hungry grandmother.

  So Larry had invited the family over for coffee and cookies.

  It took them two months before they actually accepted.

  It took Rita three months to finish eating them.

  That had been an easy three months for Larry. He hadn’t had to go shopping for food, which was made all the more difficult because his taxi business had folded.

  Goddamn rideshares.

  Larry could never work for a rideshare company. They tracked everything.

  Just like cell phones and computers tracked everything nowadays. Almost everyone left a cyber trail. Which meant picking up Rita’s monthly meal could potentially lead the police right to their door.

  The modern world lacked privacy. It was tragic.

  Happily, the local library had remained open until recently, allowing Larry the opportunity to read books, and newspaper articles, about Jacqueline “Jack” Daniels.

  A smart, capable, tough lady.

  Larry had never had a true adversary before.

  She seemed worthy.

  A woman, who’d spent her life catching killers.

  Versus a killer, who’d spent his life murdering hundreds.

  Age and experience, to Larry. Youth and training, to Jack.

  It would be quite the fun challenge.

  He considered his next move, while installing a new board in the bathroom. A replacement for the one Gregg had broken.

  Gregg hadn’t been a challenge.

  Gregg had been a screamer.

  Didn’t die quick. Or easy.

  Malingered. Begged. Sobbed.

  Hopefully, Jack Daniels would go out with more dignity than that.

  If anything, for her daughter’s sake.

  So terrible to see a parent become so diminished.

  The stove timer sounded off, indicating the cookies were done. Larry took them out of the oven and separated his and Rita’s according to the chocolate chip pattern. He put two of her cookies in a plastic baggie, turned the deadbolt on the basement door, and went downstairs to go fishing.

  The smell got worse each step he went down. By the time he got to the bottom, Larry had to tie a bandana around his nose and mouth.

  He approached the sinkhole cautiously, removing the Abu Garcia musky pole and reel from the rod holder.

  “Rita! I have cookies!” he called down to his sister.

  She didn’t respond. They’d had a rough few days. First, she ignored him. Then she began to wail nonstop about her hunger, forcing Larry to close the upstairs air vent gratings. Those vents enabled them to communicate through the ducts, but when Rita was feisty, the only solution was to ignore her.

  Cookies would help calm her down until the Sickness could be properly fed.

  “I’ll have meat for you soon. Do you want me to tenderize it first? Or immediately freeze it?”

  Again, no response.

  “Fine. Be childish. Cookies coming down.”

  The musky reel was strung with 60 pound test line, which was strong enough to lower a full picnic basket or a bucket, but not strong enough for Rita to try to climb up. She’d tried to climb up the garden hose and the electric cord, too many times to remember, but Larry had long ago rigged both to pull out once she put weight on them.

  When Rita was acting childish and stubborn and wouldn’t accept a care package or gift basket, Larry simply lowered down the offering and cut the fishing line. The following day, he’d lower a hook to bring up the basket, once she’d finished with her hissy fit.

  He hadn’t used the block and tackle since moving Rita into her new home. For her feedings, he would simply push a frozen corpse over the side, warning her to move out of the way first.

  Today, Larry didn’t bother tying the baggie to the fishing line and lowering it down. He simply dropped the cookies into the darkness, and waited for the sounds of her scampering to retrieve the treat.

  Instead, he heard a quite different sound. The upstairs doorbell.

  Interesting.

  Larry hadn’t had any uninvited guests since the pandemic began. He trudged back up the stairs, locked the basement door, adjusted the spring in the bathroom, put on his gardening apron, then went to the peephole.

  His neighbor, Jacqueline. And her male friend, who wore a suit with a telltale shoulder holster bulge.

  How fortunate. This would save him a lot of time.

  Larry put on a smile and opened the door.

  JACK

  You remember how to do this?” I asked Harry.

  It had been a while since we’d knocked on a suspect’s door.

  “C’mon, Jackie. Don’t insult my intelligence.”

  “Is that even possible?”

  “You’re funny like congestive heart failure is funny.”

  “Speaking of, how’s the heart?”

  “It beats with the strength of ten. I’m like a modern-day Hercules, with a bigger penis.”

  I knocked again. “Just back me up, Herc.”

  “You do the same. He’s your neighbor, so I’ll play bad cop. That way, if he turns out to be a sweet, innocent old man, you can still carry on your neighborly relationship.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  We continued to wait, and I tried not to think about where Phin might be, and if he was okay.

  “Don’t worry. Phin’s the biggest hard-ass I’ve ever met.” Harry, reading my thoughts.

  “I appreciate it.”

  “Except for Tequila. That guy could eat broken glass and shit out snow globes. And actually, Fabler is pretty tough, too. Guy looks like he was carved out of marble. And Chandler and Hammett are super-crazy-hardcore. Plus we can’t forget me, with a dong straight out of Greek mythology. So Phin is actually the sixth biggest hard-ass I know. Which, now that I’m thinking about it, really isn’t that impressive.”

  I tuned Harry out, which wasn’t the easiest thing to do. I also tuned out my worries about Phin, and about Sam, whom I left locked in the house with Harry Junior, under strict orders not to open the door for anyone.

  Not that locked doors helped my husband.

  Shit. Maybe I should go back and—

  The door opened. Larry wasn’t carrying his shotgun, which was a good sign.

  “Hello, Jacqueline. I see you’ve brought a friend over.”

  “My name is Harry McGlade. You’ve probably heard of me.”

  “I haven’t.”

  “Well, the elderly tend to be out of touch. Don’t blame yourself. Your brain is really old.”

  “What can I do for both of you?”

  “Phin is missing.”

  I scrutinized Larry’s face, and saw no obvious reaction. “Missing? What do you mean?”

  “I think someone broke into our house last night.”

  Larry twitched. But it didn’t seem to be a ping of recognition.

  It looked a lot like concern.

  “My goodness. That’s a shock.” No vocal uncertainty. He kept his hands at his sides, palms turned toward me. No fidgeting. No shuffling.

  No indication at all that he was lying.

  “Have you called the police?” he asked.

  Harry began to say something, probably something stupid, so I spoke over him. “We wanted to check here first. See if you saw anything.”

  “Of course, of course. Why don’t you both come in? I can make some coffee.”

  Larry held the door open for us, and as I brushed past I realized what a big guy he was. Not just tall, but solid.

  McGlade noticed too. “Christ, you’re a goddamn colossus. You ever play football?”

  “No.”

  “Did they even have football back then?”

  “They did.”

  “Did you fight for the North or the South?”

  Larry offered a terse smile. “I’m not quite that old, Mr. McGlade.”

  “Sure you’re not. Ever get drunk with Ulysses S. Grant?”

  “No.”

  “I knew it! A Confederate! The Union won, my ancient friend. You need to get over your ugly racism.”

  “You are quite a talkative fellow.”

  “I can also sing. Want to hear me sing?”

  “I do not.”

  I walked into the living room, a time capsule back to the 1970s, complete with an avocado floral print sofa, an Archie Bunker easy chair, and a shag rug with pile so high it looked like a dead, skinned Muppet. I also noted an unpleasant odor. Like a hoarder house, old garbage and dead mice.

  “Can I interest you in coffee? Homemade cookies?”

  “What kind of cookies?” Harry asked.

  “Chocolate chip.”

  “I love chocolate chips. They’re like tiny nipples that melt in your mouth.”

  “I’ll go and fetch a few.”

  I gave McGlade a steel stare. “We didn’t come here to eat.”

  “But eating enriches the soul, Jack.”

  “Your soul can go hungry.” I turned to Larry. “Did you see anything strange in the neighborhood lately? Anyone lurking around? Anyone on our properties?”

  “Just the Peeper the other day. Did you both want to have a seat, make yourself comfortable?”

  Harry went to plop onto the sofa, but I caught his arm. “We’ll stand, thanks. Has the Peeper ever broken into your house?”

  “No. We’ve never had a break-in.”

  “Have you checked lately?” Harry said. “There might be home invaders in your kitchen right now, eating all the cookies.”

  “That would be a shame. I make those cookies from scratch, using the finest ingredients. They really are delicious.”

  McGlade nudged me. “I heard they’re delicious, Jack.”

  “I’ve had them. They are delicious. But we don’t have time.”

  “I can eat pretty fast.”

  Was he playing good cop/bad cop? Or good cop/idiot cop?

  I stepped between the men. “Maybe we should check your windows, Larry. Make sure everything is secure.”

  “Is that how someone got in?” Larry asked. “Broke a window?”

  I didn’t answer. When interrogating a suspect, you only offer information when absolutely necessary. “Do you mind if we look around? Make sure everything is okay?”

  “Please do. That would help ease my mind.”

  I held his stare for a moment, trying to judge sincerity. But it was like peering into the eyes of a scaly old lizard.

  I went to the nearest window, pushing back curtains almost as old as I was, and saw it was locked. Harry checked the other one. Then we both moved into the hallway, Larry tagging along behind us.

  “What’s that door?” I asked.

  “Bathroom. I must warn you, though. It is a bit of a mess.”

  I reached for the knob, then another door caught my eye, further down the hallway.

  “And that one?”

  “That’s to the basement.”

  Curious. “Do you have an exit in the basement?”

  “No. It’s self-contained.”

  It had a deadbolt. Why have a deadbolt on an inside door, unless you wanted to keep something out?

  Or something in?

  I moved toward it, placing my hand at my hip, closer to the revolver I had tucked into my paddle holster under my shirt.

  Then McGlade opened his door—

  —and there was a CRACK! sound.

  Harry staggered back, falling onto his ass, blood spraying from a board that apparently smacked him in the face. I drew my Smith & Wesson just as Larry plowed into me, shoving me into the wall and lighting up every nerve in my body, my muscles seizing, the gun falling from my hand.

  I’d been tasered before, and knew he must have had a stun gun, and as I was paralyzed and powerless I watched him jab a syringe into my neck.

  He stepped back and I dropped to my knees, reaching for my revolver. Larry kicked it away then whirled on McGlade, who’d cleared leather with his Magnum.

  Harry fired, too high, and Larry went in low, pushing the .44 to the side with one hand, bringing up the stun gun with the other and jamming it into McGlade’s armpit.

  I began to crawl after my gun, and then my arms and legs began to melt into the floor, and my vision began to close in on all sides, like a closing camera aperture.

  I managed to get to my weapon, but my fingers couldn’t close around it. I had no feeling left, anywhere, just spreading numbness and blackness and confusion that swirled and blended with the crazy, nonsensical thoughts everyone had just before falling asleep, but I knew I couldn’t pass out, because if I did I was dead and all the horses would run off and I needed to shoot and a tornado would lift up our house and I think it’s here and I’m being lifted up and blown into the endless black sky and I aimed into the night and squeezed the trigger…

  PHIN

  The bald, snarling, drooling thing leapt on me, filthy fingers pulling at my neck, eyes bulging from blackened, scabby sockets.

  My first reaction; full-body fear, obviously.

  My second; this couldn’t be human. This was some sort of demon, some monster, some supernatural creature that hid in closets and under beds and dragged children from their beds.

  But I was no child.

  I could defend myself, monster or not. Concussion or not.

  I threw a hard rabbit punch, aiming for kidneys, and hit a wall of hard muscle beneath the black hoodie, while my other hand pushed at its chin, trying to keep it away.

  But it was strong. And it snapped its jaws at my arm, opening its mouth wider than possible because along with having no lips, it was missing its cheeks.

  I let it get closer, teeth snapping, and brought up an elbow, connecting with its pointy chin, knocking it sideways. Then I hooked an arm and continued the motion, rolling it off of me, trying to pin it down.

  It tried to scamper away, and I reached out both hands, grabbed its sweatshirt, and it pulled free, leaving me holding the stinking hoodie, and I finally realized what I was fighting.

  An old woman. A horribly scarred and deformed old woman. Corded with muscle but shrouded in loose, saggy skin, her breasts flopping down to her belly, puckered scar tissue in place of nipples.

  I sat up, putting my palms up, trying to show that I wasn’t a threat.

  “Who did this to you?”

  She didn’t answer. Instead, she shoved her hand into her mouth and began to gnaw, drawing blood, and I came to the awful conclusion.

  This woman had done this to herself. Pulled off her own hair, and eyelids. Chewed off her own lips and cheeks and fingernails.

  “Rita! I have cookies!”

  The voice was far away, but I recognized it.

  Larry.

  “Is that your name? Rita?”

  She continued to chew herself, wide eyes staring.

  “Where are we, Rita?” I asked. “Can you talk?”

  A wave of vertigo hit me, and I put my hands on the ground to steady myself.

  I blinked—

  —and Rita was gone.

  “I’ll have meat for you soon. Do you want me to tenderize it first? Or immediately freeze it?”

  The voice sounded like it came from far above.

  I tried to reason it out.

  Were we under Larry’s house?

  Did he grab me and put me down here?

  Is that how Rita got here?

  Is that where all of these dead bodies came from?

  I tried to remember how I got the concussion. But the memory just wasn’t there, and thinking made my head hurt even more.

  “Fine. Be childish,” Larry said. “Cookies coming down.”

  Using the wall to balance against, I painfully and awkwardly got onto my feet. The world went wobbly, but I managed to stay upright. I followed the dirt wall around another curve, toward the voice, and came to a toilet chair, the kind put at the bedsides of the elderly, a seat over a bucket.

  The smell was otherworldly.

  Next to it, an old, wooden trunk, which I quickly searched through with one hand, the other covering my mouth and nose. It contained rolls of toilet paper, an ancient, battered first aid kit, a bag of rough candles with matches, bars of soap, and bottles of water.