![]() ![]() He didn’t see Marvin Phelps, the sixty-seven-year-old man who owned this run-down little 1950s tract house on the outskirts of the tiny town of Mount Pleasant, Virginia. The rest of the living room was dark, but he could clearly see the teacher, James Marple, tied to a chair, gagged, his head dropped forward. ![]() The window was dirty, the tattered draperies a vomit-brown, with only one lamp in the corner throwing off sixty watts. He dropped to his knees, raised his hand to stop the agents behind him, and carefully slid into position so he could see into the room. Dillon Savich was sweating in his Kevlar vest even though it was fifty degrees. There was no moon, no stars, just low-lying rain-bloated clouds, as black as the sky. ![]()
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