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conclusion: they would handle that when they had to.   She could kick and scream all she wanted, there was no way in hell they were leaving her there.
    As Feral Park came into view Shannon asked again, “Who are you, and who gave you my daughter’s locket?”
    Grudgingly, as if giving up a guarded secret, she said, “I’m Charity.   The man who’s after me doesn’t have a name; he’s the Bogey Man.   The Bogey Man killed your daughter.”   She looked away from Shannon and bit at her lower lip.   “He said I needed new clothes, my others were falling apart.”   She looked up at Shannon again, apologetically.   “He killed my mom and took me away.   I think he wants to marry me,” she added shyly.
    Jared almost laughed aloud at the last statement, so innocent of statement and yet obscene at the same time.   It was a wonder that she had retained whatever innocence she still possessed in the custody of the killer she called The Bogey Man .
    Shannon barely heard it.   One phrase stuck in her mind like a fishbone in her throat.
    The Bogey Man killed your daughter .
    She knew Alicia was dead, had known since her bastard ex-father-in-law called her three months ago, but now it had been articulated and she couldn’t deny it.   The dark corner of her mind where that last grain of hope for Alicia lived had been upturned, uncovered.
    And despite the absurdity of it, Shannon believed her.   The Bogey Man had come in the night and taken her daughter away.
    Because that is what the Bogey Man did.

Chapter 9
    Â 
    I t was just past noon when Gordon and Charles entered Riverside.   The sky was flat blue, cloudless.   Charles drove his old Caddy, big and gun-barrel gray.
    Gordon followed in his less impressive Mazda.   His windows were down, the air conditioner having given out long ago.   He listened to Paul Harvey’s “The Rest of the Story,” wiped sweat from his forehead with one arm.   It was only June and he guessed the days were topping out at just less than one hundred degrees.   This was going be a bitch of a summer.
    He followed Charles’ practiced route through the industrial area, through downtown, to the motel where he stayed.   It wasn’t quite a dump, but would never earn a five-star rating.   It was called The Riverside; aptly named since it was in Riverside, and happened to look out over the Snake River.   The view from Charles’ room was nice if you ignored the littered gravel alley and parking lot, the dull landscape overgrown with thistle and weeds, and the crust of flotsam gathering at the river’s stony shore.
    The room was clean, but completely utilitarian—small, with a single bed, green shag carpet that may have been installed sometime in the late seventies, and a bathroom that was just large enough to turn around in.   There was a TV, but no cable.   Only a handful of local channels came in with any clarity.
    It was what Gordon expected from Charles, a man whose philosophy was “If I’m too comfortable it’s that much harder to leave when I have to work.”
    Still, it was better than the car.
    Gordon grabbed a change of clothes and toiletries from his old suitcase and hit the shower.   Fifteen minutes later he stepped out of the bathroom, showered, shaven, and changed.   He looked like a new man, but felt like a dead one.   He was bone weary, and the freshly made single bed looked like a gift from God.   He dropped into it like a lump.
    Charles sat at a small writing desk, cleaning his gun, a daily ritual.   He finished with the gun a few minutes later, reloaded it, and slipped it into his ankle holster.
    â€œI gotta go pay another week or the desk man will move us out the second we leave.   You stay put for a while and rest your bones, okay?”
    Gordon grunted a response, and by the time Charles shut the door he was