not throw balls.

 

He turned and looked at the window in the middle of the rear of the house. That

was his parents’ bathroom.

 

That was where the face was. His mother’s.

 

He squinted because he was facing east and the sun was coming up.

 

In the crevice of his eyes he could see her smiling at him. The towel wrapped

around her head. The contented look on her face.

 

But was she content?

 

Where had she gone that night? When she believed her husband would not be home?

 

The answer hit him like a Ka-Bar in the gut. Another man?

 

He took pictures of everything he was looking at.

 

He heard the voice as soon as he snapped the last frame. “Hello?” Puller turned

to see a man staring at him from the corner of the yard. He didn’t like it that

someone could get that close to him and he not be aware of it.

 

The man was about five-ten. He looked to be in his late seventies and his upper