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Was the front door open?

It was. He was a good hundred feet away, and it was a little hard to see, but it looked as if something covered in snow was blocking the door.

Fifteen below zero, and the front door was open.

John put the postal van in park. He reached into his bag and pulled out his Taser. Could be a burglar in there. Did Cheffie have a dog? John couldn’t remember. He had a schedule to keep, but he didn’t feel right ignoring an open door in weather like this. He cautiously approached the house.

“Cheffie?” he called. Out here you really didn’t want to approach a house quietly. People took gun rights seriously in northern Michigan. You made a lot of noise and let them know you were coming, so as not to be mistaken for a robber if the home owner was sober, or for a deer if he was exceedingly drunk.

The door was open about eight inches. Underneath a light coating of snow, something long and thin and black blocked the door. John walked up on the porch for a closer look.

It was a hand.

A black, skeletal hand.

Despite a thick layer of blue post-office winter wear, John Burkle sprinted back to the van in near-Olympic-qualifying time.

BETTY JEWELL’S FACE

Betty Jewell picked the worst possible time in the history of mankind to wake up.

Eyes still closed, she wondered how many flavors of pain there were. Baskin-Robbins didn’t have s.h.i.+t on her.

Stay still.

She didn’t know where those words came from. Not her ears. With her ears she heard the clinking of instruments and the m.u.f.fled voices of a man and a woman. Those voices were connected with one of the new flavors.

They were cutting into her face, for f.u.c.k’s sake. Agony, pure h.e.l.l, but was it any worse than the fire rippling through her entire body? s.h.i.+t, did it even matter which was worse? Either one was enough to make her put a gun in her mouth and pull the trigger if it meant the pain would stop.

Betty, you have to save your soul.

Her soul? Couldn’t she just save her face? You don’t need a soul for senior pictures.

Oh, gawd, did it hurt. So much pain.

Kill them, Betty. Kill the people who are hurting you. Then all your pain will go away.

That voice. So beautiful. Was it the voice of G.o.d? If not, how else could she hear it? But really, it didn’t matter who was speaking, because the voice promised her that the pain would stop.

For that, Betty would do anything.