Brodie watched Craine drive up. He climbed onto the porch and eased himself into the rocking chair as Craine got out of the station wagon, spoke to his granddaughter in the back, then approached.

Brodie said, “No Bentley today, Mr. Craine?”

Craine ignored the jab and asked pointless questions about the cook cycle. The fake chatter didn’t fool Brodie—in a few seconds, Craine would ask what he really wanted to know. Brodie always knew when Craine was about to ask it—the man’s speech got faster, pitched up as he got ready to spit it out.

Here it comes, Brodie thought.

“And, uh, Brodie…you have something waiting for me downstairs?”

It was always the same question, the same words spoken the same way. It creeped Brodie out, made him feel sucked into Craine’s filth.

He nodded, contempt edging his expression.

Craine stood back, flushed. He glanced at Brodie’s men watching them from the porch, at the meth cooks smoking cigarettes under the eaves of Bunkhouse B, then back at the Volvo.

“I’m going to bring my granddaughter inside; she can stay in one of the upstairs rooms. Read a book, or something.”

Brodie nodded, said nothing.

“Okay, then. I’ll go get her.” Craine hurried toward the car, then turned to add, “She won’t get in your way. Though I think it’d probably be best to lock her in, so she doesn’t go wandering.”

Brodie spat. Yeah, it would be best to lock the girl up—she should never see the things her grandfather did in the basement. He gestured at his men; they left the porch and trooped toward the bunkhouses.

He shifted. “Actually, Mr. Craine, there’s a matter that needs your attention.”

“Later, Brodie. One thing at a time.”

Brodie grinned. “Yes, sir.” Fine by him—Craine would freak the fuck out later when Brodie told him about the bodies waiting for him down in the boathouse.

Craine led his granddaughter into the farmhouse. She was a pretty little girl, very skinny and watery-pale, but pretty. Brodie stood as she stepped up onto the porch; when he lifted his cap, she quickly looked away.

She didn’t like him. Or maybe Brodie frightened her.

The thought stung a little—he wasn’t so bad. There were worse men than him.

Brodie listened to the door close behind him. He didn’t turn; what happened in the farmhouse wasn’t his business.

He walked over to Craine’s station wagon. The rear compartment was filled with fancy suitcases; apparently Mr. Craine was off on a little trip. Smart move.

Brodie walked back up to the porch and sat in his rocking chair, but soon the squeals from the basement bothered him, and he walked over to Bunkhouse B to find Tony.

It was time.