He wasn’t sure if this was the guy they were looking for or another one of his victims, hadn’t actually been sure they were at the right house until he stumbled across the crawling mess of a guy and the trail of blood behind him. He shone a flashlight back along the streaked gore and found a sword lying in the grass beside the house’s foundation.
He moved away from the body and back to the patrol car, where Hollis Breckmore was yakking into the radio. He opened the door and said, “We’re looking at a DB here. Better call in for some backup. I’m gonna take a look around.”
Breckmore nodded, and Moore shut the door. He’d made it halfway around the house, hand on his holstered pistol, when the patrol car’s headlights shut off and he heard the passenger’s door slam. He looked back. Breckmore hustled after him, his flashlight and his gut both bobbing.
Breckmore paused at the corner of the house to have a look at the corpse before hurrying to catch up with his partner.
“That’s a mess,” Breckmore said.
Moore nodded and told him it sure was, and then the two of them walked around the back of the house together.
EPILOGUE
THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS, COLORADO
2005
On the first night of the rest of his life, Hank Abbott drove out of the mountains in a silence broken only by the sound of gravel ricocheting off the undercarriage of the Honda and the occasional groans and bursts of rustling from his newfound family. Lori sat slumped in the passenger’s seat with her cheek flattened against the window, her lips parted, her breath frosting the glass. George and Davy sat tangled around the dog in the back seat, looking scared though Hank knew what they really felt was relief.
The clock on the dashboard went from 11:59 to 12:00, and Hank realized it was no longer his birthday. But that was all right—he’d gotten everything he wanted.
Their trip out of the mountains had been twenty-three years in the making, but late was better than never at all. Hank watched the sides of the road carefully, looking for glowing eyes or dark-brown blurs. He couldn’t make the same mistake twice. This was his family, after all, and he loved them.
He piloted the car around a sharp curve and thought to himself that this had been one hell of a vacation. As the road straightened out ahead, Hank guessed he didn’t care if he never saw the mountains again.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I was fourteen years old when I wrote my first novel,
Thanks to Mom and Dad for influencing, nurturing, and encouraging me. Thank you to my wife, Amy, whose faith that I would reach my goal never wavered, and my daughters, Dakota and Katelyn, who join their mommy in putting up with me on a daily basis. To my brothers and sister, Samuel, Krista, Andy, and Enoch, who are my readers and supporters. To my teachers, Karen Poulson, Diane Dickey, Alisa Boyd, Roland Merullo, Catherine Newman, Corinne Demas, Helen von Schmidt, and Justin Kimball, who each pushed me in the right direction, sometimes more than once. To my friends, Paul Reschke, Jon Lhost, and Leigh Borum, for being my family away from family. To everyone at the Amherst College post office. To Paul McCartney and Collective Soul for the music I listened to most often while writing not just this book but also the ones leading up to it. To Jonathan Maberry, who offered me advice and encouragement when I needed it most.
And, of course, to you, my readers. Thank you very much. I hope you enjoyed the book.
DP
ALSO BY DANIEL PYLE
NOVELETTE
ANTHOLOGY EDITED
(COMING 2011)
Daniel Pyle lives in Springfield, Missouri, with his wife and two daughters. For more information, visit www.danielpyle.com.
PRAISE FOR DANIEL PYLE
DISMEMBER
Dismember’s
—Jack Ketchum
—Jonathan Maberry, multiple Bram Stoker Award-winning author of
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DOWN THE DRAIN
—Michael Louis Calvillo, author of