Free The Men Upstairs by Tim Waggoner Page A

first time since these bastards came into my life, I’m getting some measure of control back, and it feels damned good.
    But things don’t work out the way I hope. Evidently, they are fully supplied for the rest of the day because they don’t stop at any more businesses. Instead, they head to a park. I know it well because I used to bring my daughter here when she was a little girl, but I haven’t been back here in years. Thinking of Emily makes me wonder how she’s doing. I haven’t called her since Liana moved in, and I used to call her every couple days. She hasn’t tried calling me, but she’s young, and her classes keep her busy. I try to imagine introducing Liana to my daughter, but my mind balks when I try to picture the scene. Liana isn’t all that much older than Emily, and she’s not…typical, to put it mildly. Emily will probably think I’ve gone nuts. When I think of everything that’s happened since I met Liana—and what I’m doing right now—I can’t help but wonder if Emily would be right.
    The van enters the park, but I go on past. I circle the block before pulling in. I can see the men are parked by the playground, so I drive deeper into the park and stop by the small fish pond. I park, grab my camera, get out of my car, and start walking toward the playground. There’s a group of trees between the pond and the playground, and I use the cover to my advantage as I make my approach. It’s chilly out, but my black hoodie keeps me warm enough. But I have to step carefully because the ground is covered with leaves. Luckily, it’s rained over the last couple days, and the leaves are more wet and limp than crunchy. When I reach the edge of the treeline, I take up a position behind the trunk of a large oak tree and lean around just enough to watch the Spinklekin through my camera’s display screen.
    At first is seems as if all they’re doing is inspecting the equipment. Gray-Hair is checking out the swingset, which has metal busts of the Scarecrow, Tin Woodsman, and Cowardly Lion attached to the top. My daughter always found them to be kind of creepy, and so did I. Mr. Mustache is standing in front of a green-painted metal object that resembles a large spider: eight legs, two cartoon eyes painted on to give it the suggestion of a face. The spider’s about the size of a table, and it’s designed for kids to climb on. My daughter used to sit on its back and pretend the spider was giving her a ride. Metal-Face is over by the slide. It’s an odd sort of thing, with a series of metal rollers instead of a smooth surface, so when kids come down, it’s like they’re rolling along a factory conveyer belt.
    I wonder if the men are actually going to do anything but stand there. Maybe they’ve come here simply to check the place out as a possible hunting ground. They’ve abused Liana, and while she’s an adult, that doesn’t mean they won’t prey on children, too. Maybe they’ve given up on getting Liana back and are hoping to find a replacement. Someone young enough to train. The thought nauseates me, and I take a few pictures to document their presence here. I don’t know what evidence the police will be most interested in, so better to gather too much than not enough.
    While I’m taking pictures, the men go to work. Gray-Hair steps forward and places his hand on one of the swingset’s metal supports. Even with my lens at full magnification, it’s hard for me to make out fine detail from my position behind the oak, but I think I see a brownish stain spreading outward from Gray-Hair’s hands across the metal. It keeps spreading until it covers the entire swingset.
    Mr. Mustache presses his palm onto the back of the spider-climber—on the exact spot where my daughter once sat—and a similar brown stain spreads across its surface. In addition, two of the spider’s eight legs snap, causing the whole thing to list to the side. Metal-Face runs his hands down the roller slide, and the rollers