His entire existence. For nothing. And the relief he felt from that kill earlier today, like it somehow gave his life purpose? Bunk and hypocrisy. The only thing preventing his separation from humanity waited in that cabin. His instinct for danger went off the charts, nearly blinding him. Fifty yards before cresting the top of the mountain, he stomped the brakes and parked the Nova. Leaving the door open, he disappeared into the woods and slunk his way to the cabin. With the sun down, the darkness allowed him to get within twenty feet of the front door. A dark Chrysler Imperial hissed and popped in front of the closed cabin door. Where the living room window had been, now jagged pieces of broken glass jutted up from the sill. Voices and thuds from within the cabin iced Barnaby’s blood. Jane. As he crouched and sidled to the window, the voices confirmed his worst fears. “Why are you doing this, Thompson?” Her voice, thin in the night air, drove Barnaby to a protective madness. When he peered through the ruined window, light from the bedroom cast two men in shadows.
