As one, we lowered our windows.

And heard nothing. No birdsong. No barking. No WKKT Kat Country music twanging from a radio.

I sorted smells.

Damp leaves. Moist earth. An organic pungence that suggested garbage rotting in plastic.

Galimore spoke first. “You stay here. I’ll see if anyone’s home.”

Before I could object, he was out of the car. Couldn’t say I was unhappy. My mind was conjuring images of Rottweilers and Dobermans.

Galimore took two steps, then paused.

No slathering canines came charging forth.

Looking left and then right, Galimore headed across the ten feet of open space between the road and the trailer. A backward crooking of his right elbow told me he was armed.

Striding with purpose, he went directly to the trailer’s only door. His voice broke the stillness. “Mr. Fries. Are you in there?”

No response.

Galimore called out again, louder. “Eugene Fries? We’d like to talk to you.”

Nothing.

“We’re not going away, Mr. Fries.” Pounding the metal door with the heel of his left hand. “Best you come out.”

Still, no one answered.

Galimore stepped back to recheck his surroundings. And made the same observation that I had. The only path in the clearing was the one leading to the outhouse.

I watched Galimore circle the boulder and hitch, then disappear behind the trailer.

Time passed.

I checked my watch. Three-twenty-seven.

How long had Galimore been gone?

My eyes roved the clearing. The edge of the woods. The trailer.

Three-thirty-one.

I drummed anxious fingers on the wheel. Where the hell was he?

Three-thirty-four.

A yellow jacket buzzed the windshield, tentative. Landed. Crawled, antennae testing.

The tiniest breeze rustled the leaves overhead.

Three-thirty-six.

Thinking Galimore might have called to tell me to join him, I dug out my mobile. Checked for messages. Found none. Verified that the ringer was turned on. It was.

Impatient, I leaned toward the passenger-side floor and snatched up my purse.

When I straightened, the cold steel of a muzzle kissed my left temple.

Chapter 18

ICY FEAR TRAVELED MY SPINE.

In the corner of my eye, I could see a dark figure standing outside the car. He or she held a shotgun tight to my skull.

Through the open window, I heard growling and thrashing. Terror froze me in place. I was in the middle of nowhere. Alone. At the wrong end of dogs and a gun.

Dear God, where was Galimore?

“State your business.”

The wheezy voice snapped me back. Low and deep. Male.

I swallowed. “Mr. Fries?”

“Who the hell’s asking?”

“Temperance Brennan.” Keep it simple. “I’m a friend of Wayne Gamble. Cindi’s brother.”

The growling gave way to snarling and scratching. The Mazda lurched.

“Down, goddammit!”

The earsplitting bellow sent a new wave of adrenaline flooding through me.

“Rocky! Rupert! Asses to the dirt!”

I heard the dull thud of a boot hitting flesh. A yelp.