But with certain cases, the emotional fire wal is harder to maintain. With certain cases, my mind loops back to the pure horror of it, no matter what rationalizations I make.

As I watched Slidel and Rinaldi walk toward the house, a tiny voice sounded in my head.

Be careful, it whispered. This may be one of the rough ones.

The wind kicked up, agitating the dried magnolia leaves and blossoms at our feet and whipping the kudzu into undulating green waves.

Boyd danced around my legs, looking from me to the house, then back again.

“What?”

The dog whined.

“You wimp.”

Boyd’l take on a rottweiler without batting an eye, but storms scare him sil y.

“We going in?” Ryan asked.

“We’re going in!” I replied in a Walter Mitty contralto.

I bolted for the house. Ryan fol owed. Boyd overtook us.

As I bounded onto the porch, the screen door opened and Slidel ’s face appeared in the gap. He’d abandoned the cigarette and was now chewing on a wooden toothpick. Before speaking, he rol ed the toothpick with his thumb and index finger.

“You’re gonna shit your Calvin Klein’s when you see what’s in here.”

12

THE TEMPERATURE IN THE HOUSE WAS WELL OVER A HUNDRED.The air was stale and moldy, with that no-one’s-lived-here-in-a-long-time smel .

“Upstairs,” said Slidel . He and Rinaldi disappeared through a double doorway straight ahead, then I heard boots moving around overhead.

The porch overhang, kudzu, dirt-crusted screens and windows, and the impending storm limited the interior light to subterranean levels.

I found it hard to breathe, hard to see. From nowhere, a cloud of foreboding engulfed me, and something menacing tapped at the back of my thoughts.

I sucked in my breath.

Ryan’s hand brushed my shoulder. I reached up, but already it was gone.

Slowly, my eyes adjusted. I appraised my surroundings.

We were in a living room.

Red shag carpet with navy flecks. Faux-pine paneling. Early American couch and chair. Wooden arms and legs. Red-and-blue-plaid upholstery. Cushions littered with candy wrappers, cotton stuffing, mouse droppings.

Above the sofa, a flea market print of Paris in springtime,Le Tour Eiffelal out of proportion to the street below. Carved wal shelf overflowing with glass animals. More figurines parading across a wooden cornice above the windows.

Col apsible TV trays, the kind with plastic tops and metal legs. Soft drink and beer cans. More cans on the carpet. Cheetos and corn chip bags. A Pringles canister.

I enlarged my scan.

Dining room dead ahead through a double doorway. Round maple table with four captain’s chairs. Red-and-blue ruffled seat pads. Upended basket of plastic flowers. Junk food packaging. Empty cans and bottles. Stairs rising steeply off to the right.

Beyond the dining room table was a swinging door identical to one that had separated my grandmother’s dining room from her kitchen. Beveled wood.

Clear plastic panel at hand level.