PROLOGUE

Ken Foley”s feet slapped against the pavement as he traced the same route he did every morning. Another day, another soul-sucking slog. Pushing papers, crunching numbers, watching the clock tick down to quittin” time. Rinse and repeat, ad nauseum. The grind was enough to make a man want to eat his own shoes.

Even on this bright morning, the Missouri sunrise offered no comfort. Anemic light seeped across the sky like a blood stain as the streets of Dover stretched out before him in a maze of cracked concrete and shuttered storefronts. A few cars rumbled past, headlights mingling with the morning glow. The city was just starting to wake up, shaking off the cobwebs of the night.

Ken checked his watch. Six-thirty in the AM. Stupid o”clock, as his old man might say. He had half a mind to turn around, crawl back into bed, and tell the world to go screw itself.

But the bills weren”t going to pay themselves, and the rent was due next week. So here he was, trudging towards another day of corporate drudgery like a good little cog in the machine. It wasn’t much, but it was a life.

He came to a stop at the entrance of Chautauqua Park, where the wrought iron gates loomed like the jaws of some great beast. The place was a postcard picture of serenity - sprawling green lawns, towering pines, a glassy lake that reflected the sunrise like a mirror. Ken had walked past it a thousand times on his way to work, never giving it a second glance.

But today, something made him pause.

Maybe it was the way the light hit the water. Maybe it was the sweet scent of pine that wafted on the breeze, a break from the usual city stench of exhaust and stale coffee. Or maybe he was just so desperate for something, anything, to break up the monotony of his life that even a walk in the park seemed like an adventure.

‘Screw it,’ Ken muttered and veered off the sidewalk. He was a few minutes ahead of schedule. Time to live a little.

The park was quiet this early, just a handful of diehards and masochists out and about. A few joggers in neon spandex, pounding the pavement like their lives depended on it. A couple of old-timers out for their morning constitutional, shuffling along with their hands clasped behind their backs. And the obligatory gaggle of dog walkers, letting their mutts violate every tree in sight.

But compared to the usual crowds that swarmed the place on weekends, it was practically a ghost town. Ken liked it that way. He could almost pretend he had the place to himself. His private oasis in the middle of the urban jungle.

He walked along the edge of the lake, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his work trousers that were clearly one size too big, even to a fashion ignoramus like himself. The water was still as glass, broken only by the occasional ripple from a jumping fish or a diving bird. Ken watched a pair of mallards glide across the surface, feathers shimmering in the early morning light. For a guy who spent most of his time trapped in a stuffy office, this was as close to nature as he got.

He found a bench overlooking the water and settled onto it with a sigh. The wood was cool and damp against his backside, but he didn”t mind. It was a small price to pay for a moment of tranquillity before facing the daily grind. He tilted his head back, letting the first rays of sunlight warm his face. Maybe this little detour wasn”t such a bad idea after all.

But Ken”s peace was shattered by a shrill beeping. His eyes snapped open, darting around for the source of the noise. It took him a second to realize it was coming from his own damn wrist. His watch alarm, reminding him that he had exactly thirty minutes to haul ass across town and clock in.

He silenced it with a finger jab and heaved himself off the bench, knees popping like bubble wrap. So much for his moment of Zen. He gave the serene lake one last, wistful look before turning to go. That”s when something caught his eye.

A flash of movement in the trees, there and gone again in an instant.

Ken froze, his heart doing a funny little skip in his chest. He squinted into the shadows, trying to make out what he”d seen. A deer, maybe? Or just a trick of the light? He took a tentative step forward, then quickly decided this wasn’t an issue worth pursuing. He remembered the old saying about curiosity, and in a city like this, it was never truer.

Ken shook his head, chalking it up to an overactive imagination. Too many late-night horror flicks, not enough sleep.

He was about to turn away when he heard it again.

A rustle in the underbrush, followed by a muffled thump.

Ken”s mouth went dry. That was no deer. Something – or someone – was definitely moving around in those trees. A junkie looking for a secluded spot to shoot up? A pervert in a trench coat, waiting to flash some poor jogger?

Not his place to investigate, he reminded himself and continued en route.

But some stubborn, stupid part of him wanted to know what was out there. Needed to reassure himself that it was all in his head. Ken took another step towards the trees, his heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his molars.

That”s when the scream split the air like a bolt of lightning.

For a second, Ken thought he must have imagined it. A trick of the mind, a waking nightmare born of too much stress and not enough fiber in his diet.

But then he saw a jogger stumble to a halt. A pair of old timers frozen in their tracks. Even the dogs went still, ears perked and hackles raised.

It wasn’t his imagination.

Another scream rang out, and this time there was no mistaking it.

Ken”s gut clenched, his palms going clammy with sweat. He should call the cops, let the professionals handle it. He was just a regular schmo, an insurance drone with a beer gut and a receding hairline. He wasn”t cut out for any hero business.

But even as the thought crossed his mind, Ken knew he couldn”t just stand there with his thumb up his ass. If someone was in danger, if they needed help, he had to do something. He couldn”t live with himself otherwise.

And then Ken was moving, his feet pounding against the grass as he ran towards the sound of the screams.

He crashed through the trees, branches whipping at his face and snagging on his clothes. Every worst-case scenario flashed through his mind in a sickening kaleidoscope - a mugging gone wrong, a sex crime, a homicidal maniac on a rampage. Ken burst into a small clearing and skidded to a halt, chest heaving, sweat stinging his eyes.

What he saw there stopped him dead in his tracks.

For a second, Ken thought he”d stumbled onto the set of some twisted arthouse flick. A statement on the human condition or some pretentious crap. He half-expected a greasy director in a beret to pop out from behind a tree and yell cut.

But this was no movie.

Because smack dab in the middle of the bandstand – the same spot where the brass band performed once a month – was a young blonde woman.

Only she was locked in some kind of medieval stocks.

Hands and head bolted in place. Her ankles lashed to the base of the contraption with frayed rope that bit into her flesh. She hung there like a ragdoll, torso slack, toes scraping the floor. The tips of her straggly blonde hair caressed the ground. Ken saw her chipped blue nail polish, flimsy floral dress, stockings that were fashionably ripped.

Ken”s guts did a backflip, threatening to redecorate the grass with his morning coffee. He”d seen dead bodies before - you didn’t grow up in the inner city without seeing a stiff or two. But this? This was something else. It was all real, right in the middle of Chautauqua Park, with the sun shining and the birds singing and the smell of fresh-cut grass in the air. Ken spotted another witness, hands clasped to her mouth, no doubt the source of the piercing scream that had drawn him here.

More gawkers poured into the clearing, drawn by the screams like flies to roadkill. They clustered around the bandstand, jaws flapping, eyes bugging out of their skulls.

Ken knew he needed to do something, call the cops. But his feet were rooted to the spot, his hands hanging useless at his sides. He couldn”t move, couldn”t breathe. All he could do was stare at the carnage in front of him and try not to puke on his shoes.

What the hell had happened here?