He tried to open his eyes, to see for himself the horror unsettling his son, but his left eye showed only cosmic darkness and his right was glutinous with blood. He was desperate to attend to his son’s distress, but was clearly in no position to intervene. It never occurred to him, even as the pain began to recede and his awareness slowly returned, that the source of Billy’s terror might be Hopewell himself, lying voiceless and broken on the kitchen floor.

He worked his eye again, a concentrated effort this time, and finally felt it flick open. His vision was blurry, frustrated by dried blood and the inconstant light, but he could just make out two indistinct shapes at the bottom of the hall, moving through the front door to a waiting truck. One of them was Billy, screaming the house down; the other had the slender body shape of his wife, Kate.

He tried moving his arm again and this time felt sharp needles prodding it back to life. His body was beginning to ache all over as he labored to animate it and he felt a dull pressure behind his left eye, as though the cavity, even with the optic nerve severed, had discovered a way to compensate for the loss. His head also throbbed, like it had taken a whack or two from a mallet, and he pictured the silver steak tenderizer Kate’s sister had bought them as an engagement present eight years ago, his cortex spasming to life and showing him a memory of his wife earlier in the night, mid-swing, plowing it into the side of his head. Christ, how her sister would have been proud of her for that…

He let the boy’s screams drag him away from the pain and the dead memories and let the outrage they provoked guide him back to some semblance of life. He managed to maneuver himself onto his hands and knees, fighting back the threat of unconsciousness, slipped once in his own blood, and then pushed himself awkwardly to his feet.

He looked for his son and saw that Billy was staring at him, still screaming, from what looked like the end of a long tunnel. His mother was lowering him into a familiar-looking truck. It looked like Jasper McCray’s, Hopewell thought. He was not surprised. That useless old cunt and his interfering wife were always offering Kate advice. It had probably been their idea to steal away his son in the middle of the night. He closed his eyes as the pain and the fury coalesced.

“Billy!” he screamed. “Billy!”

He peered down the tunnel and started to move. He would not give up his family until every last drop of blood in his body had been shed. He hobbled down the hallway, feeling suddenly calm. The empty space behind his left eye glowed and showed him the way.

* * *

Kate looked behind her, deafened by her son’s screams and driven useless by the sight of her husband ponderously negotiating the distance between them. She tried to squeeze Billy into the back of Jasper’s truck, but Hopewell was screaming Billy’s name. The boy was struggling in his mother’s arms, failing to understand why they were leaving Daddy behind. He wanted to see if his eye was better, if the dark hole had somehow gone away. He started pummelling his mother’s body with his tiny fists, thwarting her attempts to shove him into the truck.

“Jesus…” Jasper said, and Kate risked another glance over her shoulder. Hopewell was fifty yards away, trailing blood; he was gaining ground fast. “Sweet-talking time’s over, honey,” Jasper said. “Time to get that little fucker in the truck.”

She nodded and gritted her teeth. She thrust Billy into the revving vehicle and clambered after him. The truck took off even before she had time to close the door.

She looked behind her and saw her husband standing in the road. She started to weep as she realized what she’d done. Her husband’s empty eye, the one she had taken, watched her go.