Shame

neighbors had long been aware of her eccentricities but chose not to intervene, even when they became more pronounced. Winona began to see evil everywhere, except where it was truly rooted: in herself.
    To protect Gray, Winona took to tying him up. Gray raged against the treatment but was helpless against the bonds. On several occasions Winona had to revive her unconscious boy, her constraints all but strangling him. Occasionally Gray slipped out of the ropes and chains and reveled in his short time of freedom, but he always paid the price when his mother caught up with him. She was sure that the evil had tainted him and did her best to beat it out of him.
    Caleb suddenly realized his eyes were tearing. With his bound hands, he wiped harshly at his cheeks, then punched at the MP3 player, forwarding the narrative of his father’s life along. He took up the story as his father left behind Heidi Ehrlich, his third victim, in Chimayo.
    While driving away from the Santuario de Chimayo, Parker said, a change came over him. He decided that he would no longer try to fight his impulses. He said that a part of him recognized that he had degenerated into a monster, but a larger part of him only wondered why it had taken him so long to become that thing.
    His father’s epiphany chilled Caleb, touching his every insecurity. He replayed the passage over and over, each time getting more upset. For most of his life he’d been afraid that one day he would give in just as his father had.
    Caleb took a few deep breaths and tried to clear his mind. He needed to concentrate on the murder of Linda Harper, hisfather’s fourth victim, needed to be dispassionate while listening to his father kill. As her story unfolded, he tried to break the narrative down to its essentials: she was a freshman at the University of Texas, a pastor’s daughter experiencing her first taste of rebellion. A short-lived taste. Linda had attended a Theta Pi beer bash. A few of her friends had noticed her talking with a man, but their memories were hazy. Everyone had been drinking.
    Her body had been left in the brush near the fraternity house. She had been stripped and marked like the other victims, but Linda’s death signaled a new phase in his father’s predations: his murders became more hurried and opportunistic, less ritualistic.
    The monster had emerged.
    Caleb looked for parallels in the attack on Elizabeth but couldn’t find any. Physically Linda was nothing at all like Elizabeth. She was short and on the heavy side, with brown hair. It was possible, Caleb supposed, that the copycat had felt there was no need to imitate his father beyond the third murder. But it was also clear the attack on Elizabeth wasn’t some random act. There had to be some explanation or reason to attach to it.
    He listened to Linda Harper’s story a second time. Something was nagging at him. No, it was doing more than that. He felt sick, had a feeling of impending doom that weighed on his chest and made his breathing labored. He listened to the details of her life and death once more, but nothing came to him, and that only added to his frustration. He knew there was some connection he should be making and was certain it was important. In his mind’s eye Caleb charted the details, mentally marking the words in red.
    Preacher’s daughter.
    Too much drink.
    The stranger, his father.
    The fraternity.
    Pledge week.
    University of Texas.
    Her body left in the bushes near another fraternity house.
    Shame.
    Shame.
    Shame.
    Try as he might, the answer wouldn’t come. In frustration, Caleb strained against his bonds, pushing at them until his arms and legs shook with the effort. He wished he were wearing chains. At least he could have rattled those. Tied up, he couldn’t think. A sound escaped him—guttural, angry, like a gorilla’s bark. He sank his teeth into the duct tape and tried to shred the fabric, but when he pulled his mouth away, he could barely see the indentations of where he had bitten. His failure to wreak any damage frustrated him all the more, made him feel weak and helpless. For so long he’d tried to do everything right, to be above reproach. Growing up he’d tried to be perfect, thinking that would keep him from being like his father. His secret formula. But the only thing it had kept him from was being himself. Maybe Lola was right. Maybe he didn’t know who the hell he was.
    As his rage diminished, the writing in his mind began to fade, the emblazoned