Chapter One
As usual, Henry Pollard made sure that he was so gentle that he could’ve been cleaning dust off a dragonfly’s wing as he sponged the soap suds from his wife’s ruined body. He tried not to think about how much Sheila had physically deteriorated, but at times he’d let his guard down and his thoughts would absently drift to the subject, and it would stun him. The accident happened five years ago, back when his wife was only thirty-three. A robust woman brimming with strength and good health, and at five feet six inches and one hundred and forty-five pounds, she certainly wasn’t overweight, more buxom and full-figured. To Henry, she had been breathtakingly beautiful.
The accident had left Sheila paralyzed on her right side, with her body twisted in an unnatural way. It had also left her with a weakened heart and a damaged liver. Four months ago, she had shriveled down to just seventy-four pounds, but it was better now that she was voluntarily eating again and he no longer had to force-feed her. When he last weighed her three days ago, she was back up to eighty-three pounds. It was still an unhealthy weight for her, but at least it was better.
Once Henry finished rinsing the soap off of her, he wrapped a freshly laundered plush Egyptian cotton towel around her body and patted her dry. He grimaced as he studied her hair. It looked grimy to him. Felt so too. Before the accident her hair was a source of pride to both of them. Thick, long, and curly, and with a golden luster that so perfectly accentuated her round, apple-cheeked face. He had grown to hate washing her hair. Not because it forced him to accept how brittle and gray her once luxurious hair had become, but because every time he did so long strands of it fell out. Of course, she no longer had a round, apple-cheeked face either. Now her cheeks were sunken, the flesh badly desiccated.
He decided washing her hair could be put off for another day or two, and instead wetted a comb and ran it through her hair, untangling several stubborn knots. Sheila’s left eye winced as he did this, but otherwise she sat stoically without uttering a sound. When Henry was done, he grimaced as he saw that the comb had pulled out many more long strands of his wife’s hair. He turned his back to her so he could block her view and keep her from seeing all the hair she’d lost. After he had the comb cleaned out, he lifted her from her seat in the bathtub and carried her to the bedroom so he could dress her. Henry might’ve looked squat and doughy, almost like a badly formed lump of clay, but he had immensely powerful hands and arms, and he could’ve easily lifted Sheila even if she had weighed three times what she did. After he had clothed her in a yellow summer dress that was the same color her hair had once been, he put her in her wheelchair and rolled her to the kitchen.
“I’ve got a lot to do today, so I’m not cooking you up a breakfast,” he said. “A smoothie will have to suffice.”
Even with the paralysis on her right side, Sheila could talk, although with great difficulty, but she didn’t bother saying anything. Only stared at him with a woodenness that made her look like some sort of gnarled gnomelike carving. Henry could tell, given her mood, that she wasn’t going to be saying a word to him regardless, and so ignored whatever emotion lurked behind her glasslike eyes.
He poured a glass of orange juice into the blender, then added a banana, half a container of yogurt, strawberries, a spoonful of honey, and a mix of vitamin and protein powder, and blended it all together. He took a swipe of it with his finger to make sure it tasted okay, then poured it into a plastic glass, stuck a straw in it, and placed it in a cup holder so Sheila could drink it. He then left his wife so he could gather what he was going to need for the day.
The chisel and hammer were new. He’d bought those two months ago at a hardware store in San Marcos, outside of San Diego, and, given the dark sunglasses he wore and the fake beard and mustache he had disguised himself with, it was doubtful the clerk would be able to provide an accurate description of him, assuming she even remembered him. That in itself was doubtful since she’d been in her early twenties, and Henry was mostly invisible to women of that age. He put the tools in a backpack that he’d had forever, wrapping them in rags and placing them on a change of clothing that he packed earlier, then threw in a roll of duct tape that had been lying around the house and a nine-inch long piece of iron pipe that he’d found near a construction site. The only other things he needed were his iPhone and a pocket knife, both of which were in his pants pocket, and a stand that he needed for his iPhone. He couldn’t believe that he almost forgot the stand. That would’ve been disastrous. He found it in the guest bedroom closet and added it to the backpack, then left the backpack by the door leading to the garage. With all that done, he went back to the kitchen to check on his wife.
Sheila had barely made a dent in her smoothie. It would be a while before she’d finish it. Henry checked his watch. He had about twenty minutes before he had to leave, and grabbed an apple and settled down at the kitchen table. He took out his iPhone so he could look over his notes and the photos he had taken. In his mind, he played out what was going to be happening, and got so absorbed in his thoughts that he forgot about Sheila until she made a slurping noise indicating that she had finished her smoothie. Henry put his iPhone back in his pocket and wetted a paper towel so he could clean the remnants of the drink off her lips and chin.
“It’s going to be a long time before I’m back,” he said. “Probably not until nighttime. Should I put you back to bed or sit you in front of the TV?”
As he expected, she didn’t answer him. Henry rolled her into the living room and placed her in front of the TV. He didn’t bother asking her what she’d like to watch, and instead put on the History channel. Let her learn something.
Henry felt a tinge of guilt over how long he was going to be leaving her alone, but what else could he do? He certainly didn’t want to arrange for an attendant. Better for the world to think that he had spent the day with her. Still, he was going to be worrying about her until he returned.
A stony resolve hardened Henry’s face. Without giving Sheila as much as another glance, he grabbed his backpack and hurried into the garage. It was going to be a long day all right. After five long years, the Skull Cracker Killer was going to be making a reappearance. With a vengeance.