He stands at the room-length stainless steel counter down in the windowless cement basement. He’s n***d with only a blood-stained towel wrapped around his midsection. In his right hand, he holds a needle and a thread of light-test fishing line. He’s using the needle to suture the flesh wound that exists on his upper right forearm. A gift from Sam’s .45 caliber semi-automatic handgun. How the man was able to hit anything is a miracle. But then, Skinner doesn’t believe in miracles. He doesn’t believe in a heaven or a hell. He just believes in his hunger, his desire for Rebecca, for her child. For all her children. For their skin.
How easy it has been to invade their lives. To enter onto their properties, to play Sam’s drums — if only for a brief moment — to actually touch Rebecca’s soft sk
