the house was paid off. That was something.
And Tara Coombes would get him money if he wanted it… except, he didn’t really think it was money he wanted. He wanted something else. What that was he was not sure. But it would come to him. In time.
(perverted sonofabitch)
(don’t let them talk to you like that we’ll fix ‘em)
He hadn’t chosen the Coombes out of hatred or revenge or even spite. He hadn’t even known them. Opportunity had simply presented itself in the form of Lisa walking up that road. He hadn’t consciously planned any of it. It all just suddenly took shape, fell into place the way things often do when they’re meant to be. A long time ago Henry had learned to stop fighting, to just accept things, to trust in the fact that Fate had his life all planned out whether he liked it or not. If it was predestined that he snatch Lisa Coombes, then so be it. Why feel guilty about something that was completely out of your hands? Part of him actually wanted to feel sorry for Tara Coombes and her kid sister—hell, he had a sister, he knew what that was like—but there was really nothing he could do about it. They had just been chosen by Fate to be on the receiving end of some particularly ugly shit. That’s all. Fate might have had something horrible planned for Henry tomorrow… a car accident, a fatal heart attack… but there was no point in raging against it. When it happened, it happened. You just had to accept it.
Just like Lisa and Tara had to accept it.
Henry was just a tool of Fate. Nothing more.
They had to accept their lot.
(just as you’ve had to accept your own, henry, hmm? people shitting on you, whipping you like a dog, squeezing the life out of you)
He was thinking about the older one, Tara. She was a cunt and he knew it. Sometimes you could just tell. The way she talked, the words she used, the shrewish tone in her voice, the way she screamed at him until she’d realized that she was powerless and then she got real coy, sweet innocent little girl done wrong. Then she’d even offered him her slit the way cunts always do, thinking they had something remotely unique that every other cunt on the face of the planet didn’t have.
Yes, Tara Coombes was a cunt.
(yes, yes, oh yes)
Henry had known a lot of them and they were always the same and in the end every one of them had turned on him, twisted the knife in his back, and played evil little head games. Well, that wouldn’t happen this time. Tara was the one who’d be on the business end of head games.
Henry had plans for her.
(mother knows best do what mother says)
Big plans.
When he was done with her, that uppity cunt would be just as crazy as his mother. Just as fucked-up and fancy-free.
They would play the game together.
One move at a time.
And only he would know what the object of it was.
“ You wait, Tara,” he said under his breath. “You have no idea.”
16
12:15 AM
There were worse things than blood.
Worse things than cleaning up after a murder.
Like having your sister kidnapped.
Having your sister buried alive.
Much worse things. This is what Tara told herself as she bagged up the remains of Margaret Stapleton. What Tara knew of that sort of thing came from novels and TV shows. She recalled seeing some mob movie where they cut up a body and then wrapped-up each piece in black plastic, taping each individual package up neatly like a Christmas present. And that’s what she was doing now. She’d locked all the doors and got out the Hefty bags, the twenty-five gallon lawn-size, and slit them up until she had some material to work with. At first, after that fucking monster had hung up on her, she’d dialed the police. Hung up, dialed again. Then slammed the phone down. If it were only that easy. But he was watching her and he told her so and she would have to play ball with that motherfucker if she ever wanted to see Lisa again.
But a voice, that same voice kept telling her: Don’t do this… get the
And Tara Coombes would get him money if he wanted it… except, he didn’t really think it was money he wanted. He wanted something else. What that was he was not sure. But it would come to him. In time.
(perverted sonofabitch)
(don’t let them talk to you like that we’ll fix ‘em)
He hadn’t chosen the Coombes out of hatred or revenge or even spite. He hadn’t even known them. Opportunity had simply presented itself in the form of Lisa walking up that road. He hadn’t consciously planned any of it. It all just suddenly took shape, fell into place the way things often do when they’re meant to be. A long time ago Henry had learned to stop fighting, to just accept things, to trust in the fact that Fate had his life all planned out whether he liked it or not. If it was predestined that he snatch Lisa Coombes, then so be it. Why feel guilty about something that was completely out of your hands? Part of him actually wanted to feel sorry for Tara Coombes and her kid sister—hell, he had a sister, he knew what that was like—but there was really nothing he could do about it. They had just been chosen by Fate to be on the receiving end of some particularly ugly shit. That’s all. Fate might have had something horrible planned for Henry tomorrow… a car accident, a fatal heart attack… but there was no point in raging against it. When it happened, it happened. You just had to accept it.
Just like Lisa and Tara had to accept it.
Henry was just a tool of Fate. Nothing more.
They had to accept their lot.
(just as you’ve had to accept your own, henry, hmm? people shitting on you, whipping you like a dog, squeezing the life out of you)
He was thinking about the older one, Tara. She was a cunt and he knew it. Sometimes you could just tell. The way she talked, the words she used, the shrewish tone in her voice, the way she screamed at him until she’d realized that she was powerless and then she got real coy, sweet innocent little girl done wrong. Then she’d even offered him her slit the way cunts always do, thinking they had something remotely unique that every other cunt on the face of the planet didn’t have.
Yes, Tara Coombes was a cunt.
(yes, yes, oh yes)
Henry had known a lot of them and they were always the same and in the end every one of them had turned on him, twisted the knife in his back, and played evil little head games. Well, that wouldn’t happen this time. Tara was the one who’d be on the business end of head games.
Henry had plans for her.
(mother knows best do what mother says)
Big plans.
When he was done with her, that uppity cunt would be just as crazy as his mother. Just as fucked-up and fancy-free.
They would play the game together.
One move at a time.
And only he would know what the object of it was.
“ You wait, Tara,” he said under his breath. “You have no idea.”
16
12:15 AM
There were worse things than blood.
Worse things than cleaning up after a murder.
Like having your sister kidnapped.
Having your sister buried alive.
Much worse things. This is what Tara told herself as she bagged up the remains of Margaret Stapleton. What Tara knew of that sort of thing came from novels and TV shows. She recalled seeing some mob movie where they cut up a body and then wrapped-up each piece in black plastic, taping each individual package up neatly like a Christmas present. And that’s what she was doing now. She’d locked all the doors and got out the Hefty bags, the twenty-five gallon lawn-size, and slit them up until she had some material to work with. At first, after that fucking monster had hung up on her, she’d dialed the police. Hung up, dialed again. Then slammed the phone down. If it were only that easy. But he was watching her and he told her so and she would have to play ball with that motherfucker if she ever wanted to see Lisa again.
But a voice, that same voice kept telling her: Don’t do this… get the
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