HE’D WATCHED FABIAN RISK’S wife and daughter leave the house at thirteen minutes past ten that night via the wireless camera in the rental car. They were each carrying a suitcase, and jumped into the waiting taxi. Now it was just past midnight, and the lights were still on in the son’s room. Regardless of where the others were going, he had chosen to stay at home.
He had not inteded to go into the Risks’ house after the son went to bed, but he couldn’t wait much longer. He had a long night of preparations ahead of him, and it was important that nothing went wrong. The time had come to shift into high gear. He wanted to increase the pace and the level of confusion, above all.
He planned to throw out some bait — two delicious little morsels for those media hyenas to sink their teeth into, and which would indirectly assist in elevating his actions from a national matter to one of worldwide importance.
He walked around the block and turned down the small gravel path that led to the back of the row houses. He climbed over the Risks’ fence and passed the trampoline, which took up more than its fair share of the small yard. There was no need for him to conceal himself or sneak up: Risk’s son was the only person home, and it was clear that he was practically glued to the computer in his bedroom, which faced the street.
He peered into the kitchen window from the deck. It was dark, except for the light on the stove. The back door was locked, as expected, but it was no match for his picklock. Thirty seconds later he was inside. He didn’t have to worry about making noise because death metal, or whatever you would call that blasting sound, was thundering down from the second floor. He could just about make out a man’s voice yelling about being an animal and not himself.
He took out the video camera and started filming. He wanted to capture every detail because he didn’t know exactly what he was looking for yet. The only thing he knew for sure was that this was the final piece of the puzzle, the Kryptonite that would put Risk exactly where he wanted him.
When he was done in the kitchen he moved to the living room, which still contained several boxes that hadn’t been unpacked. He opened a few of them, filming their contents, and walked up the stairs to the second floor with his camera still on. The further he went up the stairs, the louder the distorted guitars and rumbling percussion became.
The lyrics were clearer now. Something about the victim being the one who put the stick in his hand.
The door to the master bedroom was ajar. He opened it with his foot and turned on the bare ceiling light with his elbow. He noticed an unmade bed, a few open and half-empty boxes along one wall, and clothes tossed here and there. The chaos made him want to vomit.
The daughter’s room, however, was more orderly. The bed was made with red heart-shaped pillows on top, and there were a few drawings on the desk, which depicted the same scene in different ways. A burning man shooting another man. He picked out the one he liked best, turned on the desk light, and took a picture.
He returned to the hallway, where he had two doors left to explore: one led to the bathroom and the other to the son’s room — it was open slightly. The music spilled out of the crack, thundering about raping the raper and hating the hater. He approached the door and opened it all the way.
The son was leaning over his desk at the window, his back toward him. The speakers stood on the floor; their size explained the volume. This teen had obviously spent his entire allowance on the sound system. He took a step into the room and looked around. Although they’d moved in just a week ago, the room was so messy it looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in years. The walls were plastered with posters of Metallica, Slipknot, and Marilyn Manson. The bed was unmade and functioned as a general dumping ground for everything from dirty laundry to dumb-bells and scraps of pizza. His parents were clearly quite lax about the rules. It looked like he hadn’t been under the watchful eye of an adult for a while — until now.
Satisfaction washed over his body like a wave. He felt high. The last piece of the puzzle had just fallen into place.
He walked toward the son, who was singing along, full of feeling, as he frantically wrote something in a book. He was writing as if it were a race against time before someone would come and rip the pen from his hand.
The song reached its crescendo with a chain of expletives.
The pen stopped moving and the ink spread out into a fat spot. Theodor had stopped singing along. He looked up from the book, straight into the pitch-black window, where he saw the reflection of a shadow that was coming up behind him. Someone was in his room.
He whirled around.