Her mother realizes none of these things.

Instead, she lets out a scream so powerful it sounds loud enough to be heard all the way back in Lubbock. And when Marjorie sees the pickup that just flew past them slam on its brakes and pull a U-turn in their direction, she realizes her mother has destroyed their family with a single, unending cry.

20

Amarillo, Texas

Her mother’s scream is playing on a longer tape loop than usual in her dreams, and for a second or two, Marjorie thinks the wind chimes along the porch are to blame. Then she realizes it’s the ringing phone. If it’s one of the calls she’s expecting, they won’t hang up no matter how long it takes her to answer. She’d disconnected the machine a few days ago; the only messages she needs this weekend are from her boys, and she’ll receive those herself, thank you very much.

Rising from her recliner tightens little bolts of pain in her right hip, but the voice of one of her boys will make the effort worth it, she’s sure. She picks up the pump-action shotgun she’ll be keeping within easy reach all weekend and walks through the darkness to the jangling phone.

She dozed off just after dusk, and so the only illumination in the house is coming from the oven light in the kitchen, like a lantern that’s been left on in the recesses of a cave. It’s dark out, but the expansive, dry land around her house looks darker than usual. A few days ago, she got up on a ladder and unscrewed the bulbs from the security lights ringing the roof of a barn that hasn’t seen a horse in years. Dangerous work for a woman of her age but essential preparation for what’s to come, and worth the risk because it’s for her boys. Even though they didn’t wake her, the wind chimes along the house’s broad front porch are playing a vaguely harmonious concert. It’s a sound that’s always filled her with confidence and focus, a reminder that the breath of the universe is something that can be played to your advantage.

She answers with a clipped greeting, and a familiar male voice says, “Good evening, ma’am. Is Sheryl there?”

It’s Wally, the gentlest of her boys. The first time she’s heard him in months, and the soft sound of it relaxes the tension in her shoulders and has her smiling faintly as she rests her forehead against the wall next to the phone. His little eyes always make him look a little sleepy, and he usually sounds it, too. But not right now. Right now, he sounds cheerful and confident, which means his ride’s gone well so far. If he’d asked for Susan, that would mean he’s being followed. Samantha, and the seedling somehow escaped. The latter could mean a daytime delivery if he lost time to catch up with the little bitch, and daytime deliveries are a last resort.

“I’m sorry, did you say Sheryl?” Marjorie asks, doing her best to sound like a daffy old lady who isn’t quite sure who lives with her.

“That’s correct, ma’am. Sheryl Peterson. She gave me this number.”

Peterson. Another good sign. If he’d said Sheryl Murphy, that would mean his seedling had a hard outer shell and the Head Slayer hadn’t been able to crack it.

And if he’d asked for Sheryl Wilcox, that meant the seedling was already dead. Not their plan, but sometimes it happened. So long as there was proof afterward that her boys hadn’t simply gotten carried away and released their urges too soon, it was a forgivable mistake.

“Well, that’s odd—there’s no Sheryl here. Could you read me the number?”

“Sure.”

She grabs a pen that’s sitting by the phone and writes it down. Including the area code, the first three and last two digits are the same as her number. But the five in between have been changed to the seedling’s height and weight, as they’re listed on her driver’s license. 5ʹ6ʺ, 210. A big one, for sure. No doubt the woman’s mouthy to distract from the fact that she doesn’t take good care of herself. Well, good. It’s about time she learns her lesson, then.

“Sorry, son, but sounds like Sheryl gave you the wrong number.”

“Ah, well. Thanks for your patience, ma’am.”

“Sure thing. ’Night, now.”

When he hangs up, a burst of wind turns the wind chimes into piano keys. She feels as alert now as if she’d just guzzled a mug of coffee.

They’re coming. Her boys are coming.

Maybe she’s too cautious when it comes to the phone calls, but she knows right where the junction box for the landline comes onto her property, and she checks it regularly for anything that looks like a bug. They’ve been doing this for over a decade now, once a year. Even better, not a single one of their seedlings’ disappearances has been linked with any of the others. Just more women who vanished without a trace. But even her method for obtaining that information is defined by secrecy and compartmentalization; her boys can use the internet to keep tabs on the investigations into the disappearances of their brothers’ seedlings but not their own. So far, the whole thing’s been pretty damn foolproof, and it’s kept her boys coming back year after year.

Men like her boys aren’t brought down by the things they do in the moment; they’re brought down by the things they leave behind.

Every year her boys return, bearing gifts.

Every year they stay for a while, their urges purged, their true selves revealed and honored, and once again, she’s able to enjoy her family. Her real family. The one she built.

The wind dies, the chimes going silent, and in the sudden quiet, she hears a sound she shouldn’t. A sound that would seem ordinary in town but way out here on her property is as out of place as a subway announcement.

A car door closing.

Could it possibly be one of her boys?

No way. For starters, they wouldn’t just show up without calling, and they’ve never arrived in a plain old car.

Without turning on any of the lights around her, Marjorie Payne picks up her shotgun and steps out into the night.

21

Seiling, Oklahoma

They’ve stopped somewhere along the road to hell. Maybe so he can relieve himself; Zoey’s got no idea. She wouldn’t be surprised if the monster pissed fire. The visual makes it easier somehow. Not as effective a coping skill as imagining herself Paris bound with her sister in some softly lit airplane cabin. But ironically, imagining her captor wreathed in supernatural abilities puts a kind of soft focus on the awful nightmare he’s managed to assemble with basic, everyday implements.

He’s gone now, outside the truck, she’s sure. But she can’t be sure, really, because a divider separates her from the rest of the cargo container, and the straps keep her from turning her head.

She can just see that tiny camera mounted on the wall that probably allows him to watch her while he drives.

She’s in silence again.

Someday, someone may learn of the horrors that were visited upon her this night. On the TV specials about her murder they will play music that’s more scary than sad while the camera pushes in on photos of her from happier times. But by then she’ll be a name, a statistic, a face in a collage, because surely this predator has killed others. Over drinks after work, groups of women across the country will talk in serious tones about what happened to her and the other faces in the collage. But what they’ll really be talking about is him, the killer, the monster. They’ll try to find just the smallest ways in which she was to blame for her own abduction. Did she let her guard down too far? Did she trust a suspicious stranger? She can already hear the narrator for 20/20 or Dateline or 48 Hours describing in vaguely disapproving tones how she left the deck door open so her beloved cat could reach the litter box and that’s how the monster got in. But deep down, the world will only remember her to the extent that they can convince themselves they’ll never end up like her. They will say her name only as long as it takes to convince themselves they can outsmart or outwit her fate should the monster ever come for them.