Page 9 of Collect the Pieces

“I’d like to leave as little evidence behind as possible,” I warn, moving in front of him while turning my back to the television screen. “I wanted to stuff you into the wall. The way you did to Hoyt. But I feel like that’s going to take a lot of time and effort on my part.” I tap my chin as if I’m pretending to review all my options. “I don’t relish the idea of making your death look like a suicide, though. Because clearly you have no remorse for your actions.”

More choking sounds.

I pull a knife out of my pocket. “I really do want to take a souvenir, though, so I guess that will make it obvious it’snota suicide.”

Now I’m just babbling. I wish I’d come up with a more solid plan before tonight. Stun and paralyze him with an injection so I can take my time killing him was as far as I’d gotten.

“Maybe a closet will work? It’ll take a while for anyone to find you. Give any evidence some time to deteriorate.”

I pull a thick black zip tie from the cargo pocket of my pants. Grabbing the sleeve of his grimy sweatshirt, I tug and pull until his hand pops out of the waistband of his pants. I grip his other wrist and bind them together, cinching the zip tie tight. Just in case the drugs wear off before I finish my search of the house. Keeping an eye on him, I squat in front of the chair and bind his ankles together.

“Guh-guh-guh,” he sputters.

“Gun? You have a gun you want me to shoot you with?”

He squeezes his eyes shut.

I’m not sure how to interpret that, nor do I care. Instead, I return to the kitchen, where I grab one of the gross little Fourth-of-July towels. I return to the living room and force it in his mouth, tying it tightly behind his head. “Just in case those two doses wear off. I didn’t precisely measure them.” A wild laugh escapes from my lips. His eyes bug impossibly wider as if a little unhinged laughter is more terrifying than anything else that’s happened to him tonight.

“People think guys like you get ‘prison justice’ when they’re inside, but that’s not always true, is it?” I tsk. “You had a nice, cushy, segregated area of the prison where you had the luxury of associating with more sickos just like you, right?”

He grunts unintelligible sounds through the dishtowel.

I sit back and squint at him. “Are you working your way through the alphabet or something? I can’t make out what you’re trying to say.” I flick the dishtowel out of his mouth.

“Puh, puh, puh-lease.”

“Please?” I ask in a high, mocking tone.

He blinks his eyes.

“Please. Huh. That’s interesting.” I swallow hard. “Did Hoyt say please? Did he beg you not to hurt him? Did all those other kids before Hoyt say please too?”

He stares at me.

I stand and grab the remote off the side table, then punch themutebutton. Silence, except for Gade’s gasping breaths and my pounding heart, descends over the house.

“You stay put.” I laugh and shake my head. “Who am I kidding. You’re not going anywhere.”

With the final notes of uneasy laughter dying in my throat, I move out of the living room and into the long hallway stretching to the back of the house. On the left, a nightlight throws off enough dim light to make out a shadowy bathroom. Across from the bathroom, I push open a light door with enough force that the knob bangs into the wall with a harsh clang. I wince at the sound and throw my arm out to stop the door’s violent swing. Idon’t want to turn on a light but then I notice the heavy curtains over the sole window. I thumb the switch on the wall and squint at the harsh, yellow glare from a single bulb overhead.

Piles and piles of clothing are scattered over every surface. Some of it in baskets. Some just heaped on the floor. The scent of detergent mixed with foul funk triggers my gag reflex. Someone must not like doing his own laundry.

A colorful stack of boxes in the far corner snags my attention and I hurry closer. Disbelief and dread battle inside me. Candy. Not even good candy. The generic, colorful, sugary candy that looks pretty but tastes like fruity chalk. The kind that appeals to young kids who haven’t yet discovered that better candy exists.

What’s Gade doing with such a large stash of treats? Nostalgic for his own youth? Or am I looking at the bait he’ll use to attract new victims? He used to give Hoyt and me candy all the time when we were kids. He even gave Hoyt little toys sometimes. I search the colorful boxes. Just candy.

Has Gade already harmed another kid? I’ve kept tabs on him, but I can’t devote every second to the man without raising suspicions.

Whatever the reason, the candy stash seems like another sign that I’m doing the right thing. As I stand, the curtains catch my eye. They’re thick and heavy but that’s not the only reason it’s so dark in here. A sheet of plywood has been bolted to the wall, completely covering the window.

Gadereallywants to make sure no one can peek inside.

Still pondering the window situation, I wander into the next bedroom. It’s dark. Absolutely black inside. Probably more plywood covering the windows. I search the wall for a switch, flip it, and a small lamp in the corner blinks on, casting a soft pinkish glow around the room.

A child’s room.

Disgust and fear churns in my stomach. Who the hell would allow him to have a kid visit? Or is he setting up a trap for his next victim? The walls are painted a soft blue. A blue bookshelf holds rows of children’s books. The blue metal-framed bed is neatly made up with a bright red-and-blue race car comforter. Even the little lamp, now that I can see it better, is in the shape of a red race car.

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