CHAPTER 63

Simon stared at the tools on the wall, trying to decide which one to use on Joan. He had gotten used to her company. Despite hating to clean up her messes, he did like having her as his guest. He liked that she didn’t even ask to be let go anymore. He had control over her and he liked that, too. But that reporter had ruined everything. And now he had to get rid of Joan.

He had called in sick, telling the receptionist at the funeral home that he might have the flu. It was something he had never done before. And he wasn’t going to class this afternoon, either. Another first. Not since childhood had he missed a day of work or college classes. After all those missed school days growing up, he had always felt like he needed to catch up. Maybe he felt like he needed to prove something.

He hated missing. Hated ruining his regular routine. It didn’t feel right. But this was important. Already he had cleaned out two of the chest freezers, one here in the toolshed and one back at the house. He had tossed all the parts he had saved, all those pieces he had saved and wrapped in butcher-block white paper. He had tossed it all in the woods, where the coyotes would take care of it once it thawed. He hated parting with the pieces, but none of them proved interesting enough to showcase. He really didn’t need them. Besides, he needed some place to put Joan. At least until he found a new dumping ground.

He continued to stare at the tools. He had ruled out the chain saw, though it was tempting, especially since he still wasn’t sure which gland caused her hormone deficiency. She tried to tell him she was fine. That she had only made it up to excuse her overeating. Poor girl. Like the rest of them, she didn’t recognize what a valuable commodity she was in possession of. But it didn’t matter. He’d just cut all of the glands out. Surely he would be able to tell which one looked diseased. And if he couldn’t, he’d decided to keep all of them.

A knife would work. But which one? He had the entire collection now from his father’s shop. Anything from the huge cleaver to the small, delicate filet knife. Maybe something in between. He really didn’t want to do this. It was almost as if he had become attached to her. He liked coming home and having her there to talk to and share his collection with. He hadn’t ever had a pet before. No, no, not a pet. He didn’t mean that she was like a pet. No, no, no. It was like…actually he had never really had a friend before. That was probably what it was like. But he still reached for one of the boning knives. That was when he heard something outside.

Had the coyotes dared to come already?

He glanced out the small window of the toolshed. Nothing back in the woods. Then he saw her, walking around to the back of the house. He could see her, walking slowly, cautiously, sneaking toward the back door. And from this angle he could tell that Special Agent O’Dell had her gun drawn.