The Killing Vision - By Will Overby Page 0,6

it.

The cell phone rang next to his bed, and he picked it up after the first ring.

“Mike? It’s Scotty.”

Halloran took a drag off his cigarette. “What’cha got?”

“Well, she was strangled before her throat was cut.”

Halloran blew out a stream of smoke. “Christ.”

“And there’s something else. I’ve been looking at some tissue samples…”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve never seen anything like it. I’m gonna call in my friend from the state, have him come take a look just to be sure.”

Damn, Scotty could be vague sometimes. “For God’s sake, Scotty, what’re you talking about?”

Scotty’s voice was hard. “I was wrong about the time of death. She’s probably been dead for quite a while—maybe since she disappeared. But she’s only been exposed for about four days. That’s based on insect larva found in her mouth and other orifices.”

Halloran clinched his teeth on the butt of the cigarette. “What are you saying, Scotty?”

“Her body’s been kept refrigerated. Probably frozen.”

FRIDAY, JULY 6

3:23 AM

Joel sat in the dilapidated recliner in the living room, watching the lightning flash outside. An hour ago, the power had gone out, leaving the house in utter darkness. He had awoke in the sudden blackness and fumbled for the battery-powered weather radio in the bedside drawer, and when he was sure there were no tornadoes heading his way, he tried to go back to sleep. But the crashing thunder kept rousing him, and he finally got out of bed and shuffled to the living room to wait out the storm.

Sometimes he wished during one of these big storms that the wind would just suck up this house where he had grown up and everything in it—the furniture, the knick-knacks, the memories. He hated the place. He hated the old life it represented, the way things were before his mother and stepfather got killed. It was as if the house had held on to all the hate and oppression and now leached it back out like some deadly radiation, a force that had weakened him so that he could never get away from it.

Mama and his stepfather Clifton had been dead for five years now. They had been killed when Clifton had pulled in front a train at a crossing in town. The stupid bastard. He had been trying to outrun it, to save a couple of minutes, but he had misjudged the distance. The freight train, hauling seventy-three loaded coal cars, had slammed into the pickup truck and dragged it a mile before it could stop. Mama and Clifton were both dead at the scene.

In a way, it was a relief. The fucker was dead. He could never hurt anyone anymore.

Clifton Roberts had come into their lives when Joel was three and Wade was seven. Their real father, Paul Coffman, had died a year earlier in a mining accident. Mama seemed to waste no time in finding another man; hell, she knew she needed a man if she and the boys were to survive. She and Clifton dated a few weeks and were married one day on Clifton’s lunch hour. By the time she discovered the monster he really was, he had already adopted the boys and taken control of all their lives. It was too late.

When Joel was ten, Clifton lost his job at the quarry. As time passed with no other job prospects in sight and money becoming tighter, Clifton grew increasingly irritable, increasingly violent. Any cross word or transgression by the boys, no matter how unintentional, resulted in immediate and merciless punishment.

Clifton’s favorite method was surprise. He would come at you without warning, without any indication that you were a target. The first time Joel could remember was when he had spilled his milk at the dinner table. Clifton stood up and slapped Joel so hard that he fell out of his chair.

“Clean that mess up,” Clifton spat. “You know how expensive milk is. We’re barely makin’ it, and you go spill all that.”

With the side of his head stinging in pain, Joel got to his feet and grabbed a dishcloth from the kitchen counter. He sopped at the milk, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“Stop that goddamn blubberin’.”

Carefully, Joel wiped up the rest of the milk.

“Now sit down and eat.”

Joel looked at his empty glass. “Can I get some more milk?”

Rage flared in Clifton’s eyes. “Hell, no. You’re gonna have to do without.”

The hatred, the anger in that voice pierced Joel to his very core, and the tears started up again.

Suddenly, Clifton was on his feet, pulling his belt from around his