Page 117 of The Furies

“All the signs here are spelled wrong,” I told Angel. “It’s part of the singular character of the institution.”

“Maybe you’re dyslexic,” said Angel to Wadlin.

“I’m not dyslexic,” said Wadlin, as he emerged from behind the desk. “I just don’t give a shit.”

CHAPTER XLVI

Melissa Thombs was in the bedroom she shared with Donnie Packard, lying on her side with the comforter tucked under her chin and her stomach still churning. Donnie, unfortunately, was with her. She’d had just enough time to hide the new cell phone under the mattress before he arrived. In the interim, he’d thrown away all the half-prepared food in a fit of pique, and was now sitting on a beanbag, supplementing his diet with a bag of Munchos and a can of Old Style. For a moment Melissa had believed he might be concerned about her, but that passed as soon as she saw the manner in which he continued to scrutinize her, as though daring her to proceed with whatever plan she and her mother had cooked up between them.

She turned her back on him, but could see his reflection in the window. He hadn’t tried to force himself on her, which was something. Melissa had deliberately neglected to wash her mouth out after puking, and neither had she changed her T-shirt. It would be enough to keep Donnie at bay. He might have tolerated, even contributed disproportionately to, a state of squalor in the house, but he liked her to be fresh for him.

Melissa let her right hand hang over the edge of the bed, one finger tucked beneath the mattress to touch the phone. It was muted, but she’d feel it vibrate if a message came through. What then, though? Because it hadn’t escaped her attention that Donnie had positioned the beanbag near the bedroom door.

“I love you,” he said.

She didn’t turn around, didn’t even reply.

“Did you hear me?” he said.

He wasn’t going to let it go unacknowledged.

“Yeah, I heard you.”

“You’re supposed to say you love me too.”

“I just threw up, Donnie. Right now, all I feel like doing is dying.”

She regretted the last word as soon as it was out of her mouth.

“I don’t want you to do anything but say it,” Donnie persisted. “Say you love me.”

She detected a new note to his voice, distant and discordant, like the trumpet blast of an approaching horde that would crush her as it passed.

“I love you, Donnie,” she said.

She listened to his breathing. It sounded labored, the inhalations and exhalations of a man struggling to restrain himself from committing an act both shameful yet devoutly desired, and Melissa knew she was as close to being killed by him as she had ever been.

But Donnie did not move, and soon she heard the crunch of a potato chip in his mouth.

“I’ll always be here,” he said. “I won’t leave your side, not ever.”

She stroked the cell phone with a fingertip.

“Not even,” he added, “in death.”

CHAPTER XLVII

I took the stairs to the third floor, Bobby Wadlin behind me, Angel and Louis at his back, just in case Wadlin’s nerve failed and he tried to make a break for safety. The Braycott had an old cage elevator that ran up and down the center of the main stairwell, which wound around it. If anyone decided to summon the elevator, we’d know, but it remained unused. The hallway was empty when we reached it, but we could hear some Neil Diamond coming from one of the rooms.

“Must be Pantuff,” whispered Wadlin. “There’s no one else staying down that end.”

He was trying not to look at the guns in our hands.

“Listen to me,” I said. “You’re going to knock on the door and identify yourself. When Pantuff answers, you say that you don’t want to alarm him, but a police officer just came by to ask about a blue Chrysler that was seen in the parking lot earlier, and this is something that ought not to be talked about in the open.”

It wasn’t the greatest of pretexts, but the key wouldn’t be much use to us if Pantuff had set the security bolt, and it was better than trying to kick in one of the Braycott’s heavy doors while he prepared to take a shot at us.

“What if he won’t open up?” said Wadlin.

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