She cut a deep gash into her own arm with a steel screw, loosing drops of her own blood onto the floorboards. Books; an inexplicable hunger to be satisfied. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. Both McCloskeys disappeared on the same night, without a single trace. To vault over the pews was the work of a moment; and having gained the entry leading to the Red Room he passed through the first door; his progress being only impeded by the pile of broken stones, which he himself had raised. "There's Sharples," cried Quilt.
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