"
"Of course I know it!" Edward yelled, his voice booming in the hollow of
his great chest. "Look!" He handed Alan a small, desiccated lump, like a
black bean pierced with a paperclip wire.
"You showed me this yesterday --" Alan said.
"It's from a *different finger*!" Edward said, and he buried his face in
Alan's shoulder, sobbing uncontrollably.
"Have you looked for him?" Alan asked.
"I've been waiting for you to get up. I don't want to go out alone."
"We'll look together," Alan said. He got a pair of shorts and a T-shirt,
shoved his feet into Birkenstocks, and led Edward out the door.
The previous night's humidity had thickened to a gray cloudy soup, swift
thunderheads coming in from all sides. The foot traffic was reduced to
sparse, fast-moving umbrellas, people rushing for shelter before the
deluge. Ozone crackled in the air and thunder roiled seemingly up from
the ground, deep and sickening.
They started with a circuit of the house, looking for footprints, body
parts. He found a shred of torn gray thrift-store shirt, caught on a
rose bramble near the front of his walk. It smelled of the homey warmth
of Edward's innards, and had a few of Frederick's short, curly hairs
stuck to it. Alan showed it to Edward, then folded it into the change
pocket of his wallet.
They walked the length of the sidewalk, crossed Wales, and began to
slowly cross the little park.
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