CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Grant’s finger was getting numb from pressing the doorbell at Janet Larson’s house. He’d peered through the front windows—everything looked normal, a scatter of toys on the rug, a half-empty bottle on the coffee table in the living room, a changing bag nearby. There was a Buick in the driveway, the same one Grant had seen at Marianne’s house. The doors, front and back, were locked. An uncarved pumpkin sat on the porch next to the door, the outline of a to-be-cut face fashioned in magic marker.

“Y’ won’t find ’em there, mister!” a voice called, and Grant turned to see an old woman staring at him from the property next door. She had stopped precisely at the border between the houses, next to her driveway. She had a face like a lemon, and Grant noticed that there was no pumpkin on her stoop.

“Do you know where Mrs. Larson is?” Grant asked, stepping down from the porch to better talk to her.

“Left early this mornin’, the whole bunch of ’em! Piled into the SUV like Satan was chasin’ ’em. Kid squawking like always.”

“Do you have any idea where they went?”

The old woman made her face look even more sour, turned around, waved her hand in dismissal. “No idea, ’cept they had a couple bags with ’em. Usually means they’re off to New Hampshire, to his brother’s in Derby. Only place they ever go.” She stopped and turned around, making a sudden fist and shaking it at the house. Her face became very red. “Used t’ take in their paper when they went away, but they’re ingrates! Not even a thank-you! Young and selfish.”

Her face lost its color, and she turned and walked slowly back to her house. “Well, they’ll get what they deserve when they don’t dish out any candy to the little monsters tomorrow and the house gets egged.”

There were three Larsons in Derby, New Hampshire, and the second was the right one. After some negotiation with Chuck, Janet finally got on the phone.

“Make it quick, Detective. Baby Charlie needs a change.”

“Why did you leave so quickly?”

There was a long silence on the other end of the phone. “Let’s just say I was asked to.”

“By whom?”

“He said he knows you. He also said he’d kill Chuck and Baby Charlie if we didn’t go.”

“Did you—”

“I don’t have time for this, Detective. I’m too busy being scared to death. As you’ve seen, I put on a good bluff, but underneath I’m just a grade-A chickenshit like most people. I believed what I was told.”

“When—”

“I stayed at my sister’s house again last night, Detective. Most of the night there was nothing to look at in the corner of her bedroom but that ugly wallpaper. And then there was something else. And, well, here I am.”

“What if your sister needs you?”

“She’s on her own, now. All she did was coo and sing, anyway, when this thing appeared. He seemed pretty fond of her, too. Me, I don’t like ghost stories, much less the real thing.”

Grant started to ask another question, but the line went dead.