It had been a very long time since Alex had seen the man in the photo in person, and even then it had been across the Walmart parking lot. Mama had gasped, and he’d glanced around, said, “What?” been ignored, and followed the direction of her gaze. The man had been younger, then, still growing into his tall frame, lanky and long-limbed, his hair shorter, shaggy over the tops of his ears – but still raven’s-wing black, still heavy as fine silk, just as his father’s had been. He’d looked like Remy, then, and the resemblance in the current photo was so striking it put a cramp in Alex’s belly. He’d turned out pretty, for all of his size, though that wasn’t the first thing a casual observer would have noticed. In the photo, he wore a shirt with the sleeves cut out of it, so his thick, densely-muscled, tattooed biceps gleamed in the sunlight, glazed with sweat. His hair was long, tied back in a high tail, a bandana knotted around his head to collect the sweat that gathered on his brow. He was grinning at someone off-screen, cigarette clamped between his white teeth, toweling the mechanical grease off his hands with a shop towel.
Alex glanced at Dandridge, and saw that his face had gone the color of curdled milk.
“That’s our man,” Boyle said, thumping the photo with a blunt fingertip. “That’s our Grendel. Felix Remy Lécuyer.”
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