no other buildings, front or back. Probably very few people ever came this way.
A cold feeling swamped Herkus’s gut to match the icy wind that blew snowflakes all around him. He knew many things that no man should know. Things that can’t be forgotten, no matter how much you might want to.
And Herkus knew this was a killing place.
So he would be careful. He went back to the Mercedes and fetched the Glock 17. Its weight in his pocket reassured him.
A lane cut along one side of the house, leading to the back. Herkus followed it, noting the snowed-over tire tracks, and came to the rear of a walled yard.
The tracks formed two sides of a triangle where the vehicle had turned and reversed through the wooden gates that now stood closed. They would be locked, of course, but he tried them anyway.
He crouched down and put his eyes to the opening through which the padlock and chain were visible. Like the front, the back of the house showed no sign of life. A van stood parked in the yard, however. Its owner was in there somewhere, Herkus was certain of that.
If he stretched, he could just reach the top of the gate. He grabbed hold. The toe of his boot barely fit in the opening, but enough to get some purchase. He hauled himself upward, his arms straining to lift his bulk.
Balancing there for a moment, he caught his breath while taking in the whole of the yard. It was dark, but he could make out the vague shapes of things under the snow. A wheelbarrow, what looked like a cement mixer, and other white-covered forms.
He pulled once more, threw his leg over the top of the gate, and let his body follow. Herkus was not a graceful man, and he landed heavily, jarring his ankles and knees. He steadied himself against the gate for a moment before crossing the yard to the van.
He placed his hand against its hood. Cool. He looked at the ground. Footprints led to and from the gate, then back to the house, all covered with a fresh layer of snow. No new tracks except his own.
Herkus walked to the back door. He tried the handle, found it locked solid, then went to the window.
Cupping his hands around his eyes, he could make out a kitchen beyond the glass, and deeper inside, a hint of light. He scoured the yard until he found a pile of bricks submerged in snow, neatly stacked to form a cube. He tested the heft of one, then returned to the window.
Putting his weight behind it, he threw the brick at the center of the window. He had to make a hurried sidestep to avoid being struck as it bounced back. A scuff on the glass was all the evidence of the blow.
Tempered glass, he thought. Whoever lived here wanted to keep those on the outside where they were, and perhaps those on the inside, too. But Herkus knew how to break tempered glass. He could use the Glock to do it, certainly, but the sound of the shot would carry across the streets and draw attention.
All he needed was a stout screwdriver, the point of which he would place at the very corner of the pane, and something substantial to strike the other end with. The brick would do, and he had a screwdriver back in the car.
“One minute,” he said to the glass.
54
BILLY CRAWFORD STOOD quite still, listening.
What had he heard?
It was loud enough to be audible above the girl’s choked cries. He had been working for some time with the toothbrush and bicarbonate of soda, her head pushed back, her mouth forced open.
Ideally, he would have liked to brush her teeth several times over the course of a day or two, but circumstances were not entirely under his control. Given that extra bit of time, he might have been able to whiten her teeth even more. Besides, they were already exceptionally pretty teeth, so he couldn’t be too disappointed.
She had fought him at first. That was only to be expected. They always fought him, until they found out the powder was harmless. She had sealed her lips shut, clenched her jaw tight, keeping the toothbrush out until he yanked on her hair. Then she opened her mouth to yell in pain, and the toothbrush slipped in like a cat through a neglected doorway.
She had squirmed, but he maintained his grip on her hair, peering in, guiding the brush back over her molars and up to her incisors. Her spittle made cool points on his skin when she coughed.
Then the noise: a ringing, hollow bang from somewhere above.
He froze, his head cocked to one side. The toothbrush remained in the girl’s mouth, and she gagged.
“Quiet,” he said, pulling the brush free.
She coughed hard, bucking in the chair.
He reached down, lifted the towel from the floor by the bowl. She tried to bite his fingers as he forced it between her teeth, but the material got in the way. Her muffled cries continued.
“Quiet,” he said again.
She would not obey.
Anger flared in him, and he raised a hand to strike her. She shrank from him, suddenly silent, her eyes screwed shut.
“Good,” he said. “Now stay that way.”
She breathed hard through her nose, her shoulders rising and falling. He stepped away, his attention directed to the top of the stairs.
Had the noise come from the back of the house? It sounded like something striking a window. At Halloween, children from the nearby estate ventured over and threw things at the house. He watched them from the top floor, little demons sneaking through the laneway, thinking themselves invisible. But he saw them, and he imagined the punishments he would inflict upon them if not for fear of drawing attention to himself.
He went to the bottom of the stairs, straining to hear anything above the sound of the girl’s whimpering and his own thundering heartbeat. He had given the thing upstairs a second dose of barbiturate; it would remain silent, not stirring until tomorrow. He considered telling the girl to be quiet again, but decided it was pointless. It was no good, he would have to go up there, find out what the noise had been. He climbed.
The house stood in darkness, just as he’d left it. The place had a stillness about it that he’d loved since he first set foot in it three years ago. The thing upstairs had been human then. Before it changed. Before the Lord gifted this place to him.
He walked to the kitchen, slow and careful, placing each foot before him like a tightrope walker. The world outside glowed orange on black, the streetlight on the path to the rear coating the snow. He approached the window, his breath held tight in his chest.
Footprints on the snow.
A scuff at the center of the glass.
He released the air from his lungs as his head went light. Someone had been here. Someone had tried to break his window. Someone wanted in. Maybe a teenager from the estate, a hooligan seeking valuables to steal.
The tempered glass had been expensive, but it had saved the life of whoever had tried to gain entry. If the trespasser had succeeded in breaking the glass, it would have—
He inhaled, held his breath again.
A figure appeared at the top of the gate, silhouetted by the streetlight. A big man, hauling his weight over, dropping to the other side. Not a teenager, not a hooligan out for some easy thieving. This man wore good clothes. This man had broad shoulders and big hands.
Why had he come here?
The man who called himself Billy Crawford did not panic. Instead, he dissolved back into the darkness of his own house and watched. And waited.
55
HERKUS STOOPED TO pick up the brick with his right hand and returned to the window. With his left hand, he placed the point of the screwdriver against the glass at the lower corner of the pane.
