no picture of Henry Torrance, Corbin somehow knew right away that he had finally, after all this time, found him. The biography listed Aurelius College and Columbia University for a master’s degree in conflict resolution. It was definitely Henry. There was a phone number and an office address in Newton.
He’d found him.
Even though it was nearly five, and the chances of Henry’s still being at work were slim, Corbin hailed a taxicab on Charles Street and gave the address of Henry’s office in Newton. It took forty-five minutes to get there through stop-and-go Boston rush hour traffic. The office was in the village of Newtonville, above a bakery on a tree-lined street that ran parallel to the turnpike.
There was a bench across the street, and Corbin sat there, keeping an eye on the building. He needed a moment to think. He couldn’t quite believe how close he’d finally gotten to Henry. It was entirely possible he was up in his office right at this moment. The thought filled Corbin with equal amounts of hope and fear. If Henry actually was up there, he had no doubt that he could kill him with his bare hands, choke the life out of him. But what if there was someone with him? Or someone on the same hall who heard the commotion? What if Henry had a gun?
Corbin stood, the seat of his jeans now slightly damp from the wooden bench, and looked up and down the commercial block. There was a tavern, a sub shop, two banks, a jewelry store, and down at the far corner, what looked like a mom-and-pop hardware store. It was exactly what he was looking for. He walked briskly to its entrance, pushing through the door, jumping a little as it set off a bell to let the owners know they had a customer. The place was dark and narrow, its aisles just wide enough for one person.
“Can I help you?”
Corbin didn’t immediately know where the voice was coming from. He swiveled his head and spotted a woman with tightly curled gray hair behind the register. He thought for a moment that she was kneeling, because her head barely rose above the countertop, but then watched as she scooted up onto a tall chair. She was incredibly short, possibly with some dwarfism.
“No, thanks,” Corbin said. “Just looking around.” His voice, to his own ears, sounded nervous and disingenuous.
“Just holler if you can’t find something you’re looking for.”
He entered a random aisle that turned out to have plumbing supplies, shelf after shelf of plastic pipes and fittings. What am I looking for? Corbin thought. He found another aisle filled with hand tools—hammers and screwdrivers and wrenches. There was a smallish hammer, its rubber handle only about five inches long. It fit nicely in his hand. He could easily knock Henry out with it, then either strangle him or hit him till he was dead. But even though it was small for a hammer, it would be awkward to carry, too noticeable in his jacket pocket. He kept browsing, considered a chisel that really wasn’t sharp enough, then found what he was looking for, a heavy-duty box cutter with a rubber grip. It was small enough to fit in his pocket with the blade retracted. He could even carry it in his fist without its being too visible.
He was about to take it up to the register, but paused. If Henry was in his office, and Corbin killed him with the box cutter, then wouldn’t the woman working at the neighboring hardware store remember the shady man who bought the cutter just before the murder occurred? He glanced at the ceilings, looking for mounted cameras, but saw none. He slid the box cutter into his sweatshirt pocket, wandered over to the next aisle, picked up a cheap bottle of rubber cement, and brought that up to the register.
The woman put down her Dean Koontz paperback and rang up the rubber cement on a cash register that looked as old as she did.
“Found something you couldn’t live without, I see,” she said and smiled.
“Can never have too much glue,” Corbin responded, trying not to make eye contact. Maybe he should have just walked out of the store with the box cutter in his pocket. Now this woman would definitely remember him.
Back outside, carrying the small plastic bag with the rubber cement, Corbin walked with purpose down the street toward the sub shop. There was a large garbage bin on the