If his abusers had left him alone he wouldn’t be in such a miserable mess. His mental condition was one he couldn’t help; it wasn’t his fault, and he raised his head and roared in frustration and anger, tears rolling down his face.

He wiped the tears on his sleeve, rolled to his feet, and went outside the hut. His rosebush still flourished, but somehow he didn’t care about the roses anymore. At least, not right now.

Stooping down, he howled at the plant and leaned back as if expecting a response. He glared at the uncaring flower and then stood and straightened his back, his fists clenched, his eyes flared. He gazed at his surroundings a moment—at the decaying plants and the steaming bog—before striding away from the hut, heading out of the swamp.

He knew exactly where he was going. He crossed the field, plodding over clods of dirt, wading through waist-high weeds, and skirting around tangled bushes. The end of the steel mill property lay not far away and he followed its fence line to the street.

To his left, two blocks away, he could make out the house he’d grown up in. He stood and gazed in its direction a moment and then headed the opposite way. He took his time, careful not to be seen, and slipped around behind a plaza. The narrow lane was lined with employee parking on one side, putrid dumpsters and stacks of empty skids on the other.

His destination lay dead ahead, just past a big blue bin. He crept around, opened a metal service door, and peered inside. Skids of groceries filled the large room, ready to replenish the supermarket shelves. He crept in carefully, looking up and down each aisle. No one was about. The lazy slob was probably on an extended break.

Adam moved to a small table near the wall and selected exactly what he knew was there—a box cutter, razor sharp and deadly. That would do the job nicely. He held the tool in one hand, ducked down behind a barrel, and waited.

He didn’t have to wait long. Paul Patton came through the swinging doors from the main area of the supermarket, whistling a stupid tune. The guy who had bullied him for so long at school, constantly making fun of his condition, would bully him no more. Even at work, when Adam had tried to do his best to keep the parking lot free of carts, the man tortured him. Adam figured Paul had gotten the job here for that one purpose—to continue his constant harassment.

Adam licked his lips and waited until Paul turned his back, fiddling with something on a skid, and then he crept from his hiding place. He gripped the box cutter, holding it behind his back.

“Paul,” he said.

Paul grunted and turned around, his eyes narrowing at the sight of Adam. “What’re you doing here, you lazy slob? Shouldn’t you be out there pushing buggies around?”

“I’ll never push a shopping cart again,” Adam said, bringing the knife from behind his back. He held it up and leered at the bully.

Paul stared back, never expecting the box cutter would slash across his face the way it did. Never expecting the second swing of Adam’s arm would slit his throat.

The victim’s eyes bulged as he stared at his murderer, blood soaking his shirt, and then he slowly slumped to the floor with a gurgling sound.

Adam chuckled, expertly tossed the knife onto the bench ten feet away, and then knelt beside the dying man. He watched Paul frantically gasp for air, the victim’s hands at his own throat in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding. The bully’s eyes glazed over and he took his last breath.

In a few seconds, it was all over. It was too easy—for Paul. After all the years of mental anguish the bully had inflicted, Adam wished he could’ve made him suffer a little longer. But he didn’t have time. However unlikely, there was the danger someone might come into the back room. It didn’t matter all that much if he was seen. He was a wanted man anyway, and one more victim didn’t make any difference. But he might as well play it safe.

He stood and turned to go and then stopped; he had to do what was right. It wasn’t proper to leave Paul lying there. He stooped over the fresh corpse, grabbed it by the shirt with both hands, and dragged it to the door. He rolled it outside, then went back in and mopped up the blood with paper towels. He found an industrial-sized garbage bag on a shelf by the door, smiled, and took it outside.

He tussled and tugged, and finally, got the body inside the bag and tied the end securely. Then he crouched down, heaved the bag onto his shoulder, lugged it to the dumpster, and dropped it inside. It rolled and landed on the bottom of the bin with a satisfying thump.

Yes, he’d done what was right. He’d given the bully exactly what he deserved, and in the morning, he would be given a proper burial when he was carried away with the rest of the stinking garbage and dumped with the filth and stench into a putrid landfill.

Paul Patton would be where he belonged, at home for the rest of eternity.

Chapter 29

Wednesday, 5:26 p.m.

ANNIE BOOTED HER computer and pulled in her chair. It occurred to her, in order to find Adam Thorburn, it would help if she understood a little more about what they were up against. Her knowledge of schizophrenia was severely lacking.

Some online research brought her vast amounts of information on the disabling brain disorder. About one per cent of people have the illness, and symptoms such as hallucinations and delusions usually start between ages sixteen and thirty. That might explain why Adam’s illness was worsening, and he could expect a severe increase in symptoms in the future.

Adam’s mother, as well as his doctor, had mentioned his withdrawal from others and his difficulty holding a job. On occasion, he heard voices talking to him about a variety of subjects, sometimes ordering him to do things he wouldn’t normally do. That fit right in with Annie’s research, and apparently, Adam had succumbed to the demands of the voices and killed without conscience.

Hallucinations, usually involving seeing people or objects that aren’t there, are common, as is paranoia. Adam’s doctor stated Adam also experienced delusions of persecution, believing others were trying to harm him.

The frightening disorder is usually controlled by drugs, but in Adam’s case, the drugs weren’t having the desired effect. And though schizophrenics are usually no more violent than the average person, Adam also displayed sociopathic tendencies. That’s what made his actions so terrifying and unpredictable, leading to the vicious murders.

She would have to expect the unexpected if she were to have any chance of narrowing in on Adam Thorburn.

Annie printed out some of the most informative web pages, stapled them together, and tucked them into a folder. She would go over them more thoroughly later, but for now, she had a pretty good picture of Adam Thorburn’s illness.

She pushed back her chair, went into the kitchen, and looked through the window above the sink. Jake was kicking around a soccer ball with Matty and Kyle. Jake dove for the ball and rolled to his back, missing an expert shot into the net.

Her cell phone rang and she picked it out of a basket on the counter. She didn’t recognize the phone number.

“Mrs. Lincoln? Annie Lincoln?” came from the phone after she answered the call.

“Yes. This is she.”

There was a long pause, only the sound of breathing on the line. “Who is this, please?” she asked.

Another short pause, then a low voice spoke. “This is Adam Thorburn.”

Annie held her breath, unsure what to say. Finally, she asked, “Adam, where are you?”

“I can’t tell you that, but I’m somewhere where you’ll never find me.”

“We want to help you,” Annie said. It wasn’t really a lie, only partially. Locking him up would certainly help Adam, and others as well.