Chapter 1

The atmosphere at the dinner table was a little off.

Dale Hoffman from next door tossed a freshly peeled jumbo shrimp straight into Gloria Carter's bowl, flecks of his spit still clinging to his chopsticks.

"Gloria, this shrimp's fresh. Eat up. You've gotten so thin lately." Dale's voice boomed, as if he were the man of the house.

In the seat at the head of the table, Frank Carter kept his head down, shoveling plain white rice from his bowl. In front of him sat a single plate of shredded pickles.

"Old Man Carter, go get that bottle of bourbon we've been saving for ten years. Dale's in a good mood today, so let him have a few sips." Gloria didn't even lift her eyes. She chewed her shrimp and gave the order in the tone of someone bossing around a hired hand.

Frank set down his chopsticks. His calloused hands rubbed once along the edge of the table. "That's for Greggy's wedding."

Smack!

Gloria slammed her chopsticks down on the table. "When I tell you to get it, you get it! Don't you know who runs this house? If Dale weren't helping us out, who could you support on that pathetic paycheck of yours? Go get it!"

Dale chuckled, picking his teeth as he looked at Frank. "Come on, Old Man Carter, listen to your wife. Quit being so stingy all the time. It's not very manly."

Frank said nothing. He stood and walked silently toward the storeroom, his back hunched like an old bow.

"Old Man Carter, is the water boiling yet? Dale wants his tea first thing, and the water has to be exactly 194 degrees."

At five-thirty in the morning, with the sky just turning gray, Gloria's shrill voice cut straight through the wooden door with its peeling paint.

Frank was splitting firewood in the yard. The ax came down with a sharp crack, and the log split clean in two. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and called back, "Almost ready."

That was Frank's place in this house.

He was less a husband than a live-in servant who didn't need to be paid.

In this village of fewer than a hundred households, Frank was famous. Not because he was capable, but because he could "take it."

Twenty-five years ago, Frank had been an honest, plain carpenter in the village, so quiet you couldn't pry a word out of him with a crowbar. Gloria had been the prettiest girl in the whole county, and she had her sights set high. She married Frank purely because the Carters offered the most wedding money.

But less than two years into the marriage, Dale next door made a fortune as a contractor and built himself a three-story house. From then on, Gloria's eyes never left the yard next door.

One thing led to another, and Dale became a regular at the Carter house.

At first he came to borrow salt. Later he came to help fix the lights. After that, it was as if Dale had grown roots in the Carter house.

Just then, the door to the main room opened. Dale stepped out in a loose tank top, shuffling along in a pair of slippers. They were the new slippers Frank had bought just last month.

"Old Man Carter, this firewood's a bit damp today. Too much smoke. It's making your wife cough." Dale stretched and yawned as he spoke.

Frank stacked the split wood in neat rows without looking up. "It rained last night. I'll set it out to dry later."

"Mm. Make it quick." Dale strolled a lap around the yard like a man inspecting his own property, then pointed to the chicken coop in the corner. "I don't think that old hen lays anymore. Kill her for soup at lunch. Gloria says she wants some chicken soup to build herself up."

Frank had raised that hen for three years. He'd been saving it to feed his grandson at Christmas.

Inside the main room, Gloria was doing her hair and makeup. She shouted through the window, "You hear that? If Dale says kill it, you kill it. What are you dawdling for? And save the blood. Dale loves blood sausage."

Frank stood and brushed the wood shavings off his pant legs. His face, burned dark from years under the sun, showed no expression at all. Only in his cloudy eyes did a faint, cold glint flicker now and then, almost impossible to catch.

"Fine. I'll kill it." Frank turned and walked toward the kitchen, holding the kitchen knife he had just sharpened to a razor's edge.

The big old oak at the edge of Millbrook was the village's intelligence center.

A few old men and women sat fanning themselves with paper fans, their eyes drifting now and then toward Frank as he passed by at the edge of the village.

"Look who's here. The cuckold." An old woman missing her front teeth lowered her voice, but only just enough that everyone around could still hear.

"Only Frank Carter could put up with it. It's been over twenty years. Old Man Hoffman might as well move his bedroll straight into his bed." Another old man cracked sunflower seeds between his teeth, his face full of contempt. "Last time I went to the Carters' to borrow a ladder, broad daylight, the door to the main room was shut tight, curtains drawn, and the noises coming from inside... tsk, tsk."

"Hey, you think Frank Carter can't get it up? Otherwise, what kind of man would put up with this?"

"Who knows. But look at his son, Greg. The more you look at him, the more he looks like Old Man Hoffman. Thick eyebrows, big eyes. Nothing like Frank's flat nose."

A burst of laughter went up.

Frank pushed a wheelbarrow piled high with cornstalks he'd brought in from the field. He kept his head down and his steps steady, as if his ears were stuffed with cotton and he couldn't hear a thing.

When he got home, a brand-new black sedan was parked in the yard.

It was the new car Dale had just picked up.

From the living room came the sound of a poker game, chips clattering without end.

"Full house! Read 'em and weep!" Dale's trademark booming voice was loud enough to shake dust from the rafters.

Frank unloaded the cornstalks against the wall and went inside for a glass of water.

The room was thick with cigarette smoke. Gloria sat right at Dale's elbow, her face powdered chalk-white and her lips painted bright red. She wore a floral blouse with a plunging neckline and was laughing so hard she shook all over, her hand resting on Dale's arm, half on purpose and half not.

"Oh my, Dale, you're so lucky tonight. Dinner's on you."

"On me! Absolutely on me! Order whatever you want, Gloria. We'll go to the big steakhouse in the county seat!" Dale said grandly. He pulled two hundred-dollar bills from the stack he'd won and tossed them onto the edge of the table. "Old Man Carter, go on, run to the corner store and buy two cartons of Marlboros. Keep the change for your trouble."

The two other neighbors at the card table exchanged a knowing look. Neither said a word. They were waiting for a show.

Frank stood in the doorway. Sweat ran down his cheeks and into his collar, itching.

He looked at the two bills, then at Gloria.

Gloria glared at him. "What are you standing there for? Dale's giving you a tip! Hurry up and take it! Normally you complain that a box of salt's too expensive, and now you're too good to take money?"

Frank walked over slowly and picked up the two hundred dollars.

The bills still carried the smell of Dale's sweaty palm and some kind of perfume that turned his stomach.

"Fine. I'll go buy them." Frank tucked the money into his pocket, turned, and walked out.

Gloria's voice followed him from behind. "Such a blockhead. You couldn't kick a word out of him. Just looking at him gets on my nerves."