him.
Back at her fatherâs house, she sat on the kitchen counter, looking at the wedding ring in the cup of her palm. A simple gold band, scuffed and scratched, all the shine dulled out of it. She wondered why she had taken it.
Mal knew Glen Kardon, Glen and his wife, Helen, both. The three of them were the same age, had all gone to school together. Glen had a magician at his tenth-birthday party, who had escaped from handcuffs and a straitjacket as his final trick. Years later Mal would become well acquainted with another escape artist who managed to slip out of a pair of handcuffs, a Baâathist. Both of his thumbs had been broken, making it possible for him to squeeze out of the cuffs. It was easy if you could bend your thumb in any directionâall you had to do was ignore the pain.
And Helen had been Malâs lab partner in sixth-grade biology. Helen took notes in her delicate cursive, using different-colored inks to brighten up their reports, while Mal sliced things open. Mal liked the scalpel, the way the skin popped apart at the slightest touch of the blade to show what was hidden behind it. She had an instinct for it, always somehow knew just where to put the cut.
Mal shook the wedding ring in one hand for a while and finally dropped it down the sink. She didnât know what to do with it, wasnât sure where to fence it. Had no use for it, really.
When she went down to the mailbox the next morning, she found an oil bill, a real-estate flyer, and a plain white envelope. Inside the envelope was a crisp sheet of typing paper, neatly folded, blank except for a single thumbprint in black ink. The print was a clean impression, and among the whorls and lines was a scar, like a fishhook. There was nothing on the envelopeâno stamp, no addresses, no mark of any kind. The postman had not left it.
In her first glance, she knew it was a threat and that whoever had put the envelope in her mailbox might still be watching. Mal felt her vulnerability in the sick clench of her insides and had to struggle against the conditioned impulse to get low and find cover. She looked to either side but saw only the trees, their branches waving in the cold swirl of a light breeze. There was no traffic along the road and no sign of life anywhere.
The whole long walk back to the house, she was aware of a weakness in her legs. She didnât look at the thumbprint again but carried it inside and left it with the other mail on the kitchen counter. She let her shaky legs carry her on into her fatherâs bedroom, her bedroom now. The M4 was in its case in the closet, but her fatherâs .45 automatic was even closerâshe slept with it under the pillowâand it didnât need to be assembled. Mal slid the action back to pump a bullet into the chamber. She got her field glasses from her ruck.
Mal climbed the carpeted stairs to the second floor and opened the door into her old bedroom under the eaves. She hadnât been in there since coming home, and the air had a musty, stale quality. A tatty poster of Alan Jackson was stuck up on the inverted slant of the roof. Her dollsâthe blue corduroy bear, the pig with the queer silver-button eyes that gave him a look of blindnessâwere set neatly in the shelves of a bookcase without books.
Her bed was made, but when she went close, she was surprised to find the shape of a body pressed into it, the pillow dented in the outline of someoneâs head. The idea occurred that whoever had left the thumbprint had been inside the house while she was out, and had taken a nap up here. Mal didnât slow down but stepped straight up onto the mattress, unlocked the window over it, shoved it open, and climbed through.
In another minute she was sitting on the roof, holding the binoculars to her eyes with one hand, the gun in the other. The asbestos shingles had been warming all day in the sun and provided a pleasant ambient heat beneath her. From where she sat on the
Back at her fatherâs house, she sat on the kitchen counter, looking at the wedding ring in the cup of her palm. A simple gold band, scuffed and scratched, all the shine dulled out of it. She wondered why she had taken it.
Mal knew Glen Kardon, Glen and his wife, Helen, both. The three of them were the same age, had all gone to school together. Glen had a magician at his tenth-birthday party, who had escaped from handcuffs and a straitjacket as his final trick. Years later Mal would become well acquainted with another escape artist who managed to slip out of a pair of handcuffs, a Baâathist. Both of his thumbs had been broken, making it possible for him to squeeze out of the cuffs. It was easy if you could bend your thumb in any directionâall you had to do was ignore the pain.
And Helen had been Malâs lab partner in sixth-grade biology. Helen took notes in her delicate cursive, using different-colored inks to brighten up their reports, while Mal sliced things open. Mal liked the scalpel, the way the skin popped apart at the slightest touch of the blade to show what was hidden behind it. She had an instinct for it, always somehow knew just where to put the cut.
Mal shook the wedding ring in one hand for a while and finally dropped it down the sink. She didnât know what to do with it, wasnât sure where to fence it. Had no use for it, really.
When she went down to the mailbox the next morning, she found an oil bill, a real-estate flyer, and a plain white envelope. Inside the envelope was a crisp sheet of typing paper, neatly folded, blank except for a single thumbprint in black ink. The print was a clean impression, and among the whorls and lines was a scar, like a fishhook. There was nothing on the envelopeâno stamp, no addresses, no mark of any kind. The postman had not left it.
In her first glance, she knew it was a threat and that whoever had put the envelope in her mailbox might still be watching. Mal felt her vulnerability in the sick clench of her insides and had to struggle against the conditioned impulse to get low and find cover. She looked to either side but saw only the trees, their branches waving in the cold swirl of a light breeze. There was no traffic along the road and no sign of life anywhere.
The whole long walk back to the house, she was aware of a weakness in her legs. She didnât look at the thumbprint again but carried it inside and left it with the other mail on the kitchen counter. She let her shaky legs carry her on into her fatherâs bedroom, her bedroom now. The M4 was in its case in the closet, but her fatherâs .45 automatic was even closerâshe slept with it under the pillowâand it didnât need to be assembled. Mal slid the action back to pump a bullet into the chamber. She got her field glasses from her ruck.
Mal climbed the carpeted stairs to the second floor and opened the door into her old bedroom under the eaves. She hadnât been in there since coming home, and the air had a musty, stale quality. A tatty poster of Alan Jackson was stuck up on the inverted slant of the roof. Her dollsâthe blue corduroy bear, the pig with the queer silver-button eyes that gave him a look of blindnessâwere set neatly in the shelves of a bookcase without books.
Her bed was made, but when she went close, she was surprised to find the shape of a body pressed into it, the pillow dented in the outline of someoneâs head. The idea occurred that whoever had left the thumbprint had been inside the house while she was out, and had taken a nap up here. Mal didnât slow down but stepped straight up onto the mattress, unlocked the window over it, shoved it open, and climbed through.
In another minute she was sitting on the roof, holding the binoculars to her eyes with one hand, the gun in the other. The asbestos shingles had been warming all day in the sun and provided a pleasant ambient heat beneath her. From where she sat on the
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