He pictured the basement: the floor joists above it blooming with green and black mold; the wood already turning fibrous with the onset of dry rot, which had probably spread upward into the walls of the main level.

“Twenty-four hours and I’ll know.”

“Give me a shout,” Caine said. He turned and crossed to his car, and a moment later he was gone, winding away down the switchbacks.

Dryden stayed where he was, taking in the house and the grounds. As a project, it dwarfed anything he’d tackled so far. A lot of work. A lot of unpredictability.

Christ, though. The house. Even now he didn’t want to take his eyes off it.

From behind him came the low rumble of an engine, and tires crunching onto the pavers of the motorcourt. Maybe Caine had forgotten something inside.

Dryden turned. It wasn’t Caine.

The worn-out car he’d seen on the switchback coasted to a stop beside his Explorer. He could still make out little detail through the glare on the windshield.

Then the driver’s door opened, and a long-haired man with a pistol stepped out.

CHAPTER THREE

There was no move to make against the guy; he stood fifteen feet from Dryden. No possibility at all of rushing him, at that distance. He had the gun already leveled; he could pull the trigger half a dozen times in the seconds it would take to reach him.

The man was forty or so. Lean, almost gaunt. Dark hair, pallid features. His free hand held his car keys; he pressed a button on the fob, and his trunk latch disengaged with a metallic thud. The lid rose halfway up on spring hinges.

The guy pocketed the keys, reached back in through the driver’s door and withdrew a set of zip-tie handcuffs.

“Turn your pockets out,” he said. “Do it slowly. Then raise your shirt and show me your waistband.”

Dryden made no move to comply.

“I can bring you in dead if I need to,” the man said. “It wouldn’t get me in trouble.”

“Bring me in to who?”

“Turn your pockets out and show me your waistband. Now.”

Dryden stared.

No move to make. Not against the guy, anyway.

The man said, “I’m not going to—”

Dryden didn’t hear the rest of it. He pivoted and threw himself back and to the side, over the low stone wall.

He expected to hear the gun go off behind him, but all he heard was a shouted curse.

The drop was ten feet, but he fell farther than that; he hit the slope another five feet downhill from the base of the wall, the shrubs and sandy ground only doing a little to cushion the impact. His training helped with the rest: he let his legs take some of the shock, then let his body take what was left, tucking and rolling to dissipate the momentum.