It was a small box, about six inches square. Not enough real estate to contain a human being, much less an international serial killer. But there it was, sitting in the center of Walter’s desk. Walter explained that the “facility” that performed the procedure offered a collection of decorative urns for sale, should the family choose to provide Gilbert with a luxurious final resting place that could possibly also match the décor of any modern home. Seven listened to the pitch and made more polite small talk while he and gran walked out of the hospital, Gilbert Andrews in tow.
Once in the safety of the truck Seven looked over at his grandmother. “What do ya say, Gran, you wanna take a look inside?” he asked.
“Not really, son, but you do what you want to,” she replied, knowing full well he wanted to see the contents of the cardboard box.
Seven peeled open the top flaps of the box and lifted them. It was just a clear plastic bag containing a gray powdery substance. That’s all that remained of the life of Gilbert Andrews: a two-pound sealed plastic bag of gray powder. Gran peered into the box and lifted her gaze to her grandson. “What are you gonna do with it?” she asked with a slight look of disgust on her face.
“I got a plan for him, but its gonna take a couple months to get it done; we’ll keep him out in the barn till then,” Seven replied.