out and darted through the rain across the lot, spotting four other cars. They would belong to the nightshift orderlies and nurses. He skipped up the front steps of the main administration building and pressed a four-digit code into a metal box affixed to the brick wall. A beep sounded, the locks unclicked, and he stepped inside.
He shook the water from his blazer and proceeded down the drab hallway, his rubber-soled loafers squawking on the polished laminate flooring. He was greeted by the usual smell of cleaning solutions, antiseptic, and laundry starch.
Spencer enjoyed coming to the hospital at nighttime to work. One, it got him out of the house and away from Lynette. Two, it was serene, peaceful even, the opposite of the controlled chaos that reigned during the day.
At the end of the hall he stopped before the nurse’s station. The duty nurse, a twenty-four-year-old local named Amy who had albino skin, horse teeth, and blowfish lips, looked up from the trashy paperback romance novel she was reading.
“Good evening, Dr. Pratt,” she said, flashing an ugly smile that made Spencer wonder if she had ever been laid. “Burning the midnight oil again?”
“Work keeps you young. Isn’t that what they say?”
“I don’t know how you do it, Doctor. All of your late hours, I mean. I think it would make me go crazy.” She pressed her hand to her mouth and looked about, as if fearful she had insulted eavesdropping patients. “Oops, I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Quite all right, Amy. We’re all a little crazy, aren’t we? If you need me for anything, I’ll be in my office.”
“Thank you, Doctor. But it’s pretty quiet here at night, as you know.”
Spencer continued to his office, which was located at the end of the adjacent corridor. He withdrew his keys from his pocket, opened the door, and flicked on the overhead light. Without entering, he locked and closed the door again. A window opened to the hallway. The sheers were drawn, but you could see that a light was on inside. He didn’t think Amy would need to contact him for any reason, but if she did, she would see the light and assume he was somewhere else in the building.
Spencer exited the hospital through a side door that led to manicured gardens bordered by neatly trimmed hedges. He made his way back to the parking lot and his car.
Satisfied with the alibi, he started the engine, turned up the heat, and continued on his way to Mother of Sorrows church.
Spencer Pratt had not always been a Satanist, but he had always been a killer. He’d grown up in Shaker Heights, an affluent suburb of Cleveland. His father had owned a shoe factory, which made him a wealthy man when it became one of the manufacturers and suppliers of boots to American soldiers fighting in World War Two. Spencer, Cleavon, Earl, and Floyd had all attended the same prestigious private school. While Spencer was a stellar student, and Cleavon a mediocre one, Earl and Floyd were both born with chromosomal abnormalities linked to inherited mental retardation and were enrolled in the special education program. They weren’t trusted to walk home unsupervised, so at three o’clock each afternoon either Spencer or Cleavon—they rotated the responsibility every other day—would escort them. There were two routes you could take. The first kept to the sidewalks. The second cut through a hundred-acre swath of undeveloped woodland. The latter was quicker and more scenic, but a group of bullies often hung out along the path and would throw rocks and sticks at Spencer if he were by himself. That’s why he only cut through the woodland when he had Earl and Floyd tagging along. Everyone in school knew Earl was not only big and strong but also a lunatic. They knew if you teased him he would break your arms or legs if he could catch you. He earned this reputation when he was in grade four and beat up a kid two years his senior so badly the boy didn’t return to school for a month. Kids would taunt Earl and pelt erasers at him from a distance because they knew they could get away with that; Earl could never remember faces long enough to hold grudges. But no one risked getting up close and personal with him.
On the day Spencer committed his first murder at thirteen years of age, he was walking through the woodland with Earl and Floyd. It was warm, sunny, June,