The Vanishing Read Free Page A

didn’t like it that way. ‘‘You bastard!’’ she yelled, slapping him as she pulled away and headed to the bathroom, one hand cupped between her legs. He smiled. It helped him get off, doing things to women they didn’t like, and he supposed if he had a shrink that was one of the things they’d have to talk about. He felt good, happy, and he pulled up his pants, shouted good-bye and left before she came out, not really wanting to see her right now, not sure if he ever wanted to see her again.
    It was late, after midnight. Beverly Hills was a city that went to bed early, where the sidewalks were rolled up by eight and whatever happened after dark happened behind tall walls and security gates, and he sped up the winding road toward home, the only car on the street. To his surprise, the gates to his family’s house were wide open. He slowed down, in case one of his parents was on the way out, but the short drive was empty and both the Mercedes and the Jaguar were parked in front of the garage in their usual spots. Seemingly all the lights in the house were on because the windows were blazing. None of the shades or curtains had been drawn.
    That was odd.
    Victor pushed the button on his dashboard to close the gate and pulled to a stop next to the fountain.
    The door to the house was open.
    He cut the engine and got out of the car, looking around the upper drive, trying to see through the first-floor windows. He approached the entryway of the house and started up the porch steps, stopping at the top. He should have dialed 911 immediately, but he didn’t want to look like a complete candyass in front of the police if it turned out to be nothing, so he poked his head in the foyer. ‘‘Dad?’’ he called.
    ‘‘Back here, Vic!’’
    Alarm bells were going off in his head. The joyous, almost singsongy voice was nothing like his father’s usual rumbling stentorian tones, and he could not recall the old man ever calling him ‘‘Vic.’’
    He thought of this morning’s e-mail. The streaming video.
    Suddenly, he realized where he’d seen the dog before. And the bedroom. And the garage. It had been years since he’d seen them, but they belonged to the Jensons, their next-door neighbors.
    This is where it begins.
    ‘‘Vic!’’
    It was a game. It had to be. Or a trick. ‘‘What?’’ he called out.
    ‘‘Come here!’’
    Call 911, his brain was telling him. Dial 911.
    He walked through the foyer, through the living room, through the drawing room, down the east hall. All of the lights were on, and that was a red flag right there. His mom was a freak about conserving energy, and unless there were guests, she never left lights on in an empty room. Especially now, in the middle of the night, when both of his parents were usually fast asleep.
    Victor realized for the first time that the house was silent. With all of the lights on, Lizzie and Jonnie, his mom’s two Pomeranians, should be yapping up a storm.
    Maybe his mom had left and taken them with her.
    No. The Mercedes was still in the driveway.
    ‘‘Vic!’’
    His dad was in the music room, and Victor made his way down the hallway toward the door. He slowed as he approached, not wanting to go right in, thinking he should check it out first, just in case.
    Wise move.
    The room looked like an abattoir. Blood was splattered over furniture, floor, wall, even the ceiling, in random bursts that reminded him of the paintings in an art exhibition his parents had dragged him to when he was ten. The Pomeranians had been slaughtered and gutted, their entrails flattened and ground into the once-white rug, their little heads smashed open, pieces of their furry bodies strewn about the room. His mom, or what was left of her, was lying on the piano bench, her eviscerated form draped over the seat like an empty rag doll. Her face had been peeled away and placed on a potted palm.
    This is where it begins.
    There were other bodies in the room as well, but he had no idea who