Page 13 of The Instruments of Darkness

“It’s already beginning to smell less like him.”

Colleen was standing in the doorway. She had changed into dark trousers and a long-sleeved white shirt. A blue casual jacket was draped over her left arm, and a purse hung from her right shoulder. She had put on some makeup, but her heart wasn’t in it, causing her to resemble an unfinished doll.

“I thought about sleeping on his pillow,” she continued, “but I was afraid that my scent would erase what was left of his.”

I said nothing, because nothing I had to say would help. I don’t think she even wanted me to speak, only listen. I watched her straighten a pile of T-shirts and smooth the topmost.

“Whoever took him knew about the restrictor,” I said. “A standard box cutter wouldn’t have been enough to sever it. They brought along a cable cutter.”

“The police asked if we had one in the house.”

“When?”

She thought about the question.

“After Stephen found the blanket.”

That made sense. Following the revelation of the blanket, the police had been seeking evidence of a setup.

“What did you say?” I said.

“I told them I didn’t know. Stephen has a tool set, but he doesn’t use it much. He’s not very good at that kind of thing.”

I was beginning to wonder what exactly Stephen Clark might have been good at. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t make for a long inventory.

“Did your husband show them the set?”

“Yes, I remember him going to look for it.”

“And?”

“I believe the police have it now.”

“Did it contain a cable cutter?”

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t say.”

I took one last look around the room, but there was only the evidence of absence.

“If you’re ready,” I said, “we can go.”

CHAPTER VII

In the Maine woods, unseen by man, a fly crawled across the basement floor of the house built from Kit No. 174. The surface was dirt, lately disturbed, and the fly could sense that there was something hidden in the cool dark, something worth finding.

The insect began to burrow, pushing aside loose soil, the taste organs on its tarsi growing increasingly stimulated. After a few seconds of activity, it paused as though alert to a new threat. Its body jerked, the shock sending it onto its back. It waved its legs in the air and tried to right itself, but the fight was over before it had begun. The legs curled in on the abdomen, and all movement ceased.

Whatever dwelt in Kit No. 174, whatever moved through its confines and stalked the surrounding forest, did not like to share its food.

CHAPTER VIII

We drove from Colleen Clark’s house without incident, apart from a trio of neighbors—one man, two women—who watched us go, their expressions shading from neutral to passing unfriendly. Colleen was wearing sunglasses, so I couldn’t tell if she was aware of their scrutiny. I kept an eye on them in the rearview mirror and thought I saw one of the women produce her cell phone and use it to take a photo of my license plate. Only when we were out of their sight did Colleen exhale.

“Do you know them?” I said.

“The Robacks,” said Colleen, “and Alison Piucci. She’s the blonde.”

It was Piucci who had taken the picture. All three were on the list of names Colleen had provided, each marked with the letter X to indicate a potentially hostile status.

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