“Then you stay here and cover me.”

Before Max could disagree, Lyle slipped over the tree trunk. Staying low, he moved toward the cabin.

“Damn it,” Max whispered to himself.

Max held his aim on the larger of the two windows and scanned the area for movement.

Lyle crept up to the bigger window, slid his back up the wall until he was standing. Then he gave a peek inside. He looked again, this time keeping his face against the window and putting a hand up to block the sun’s interference. He moved to the smaller window and did the same thing, then waved Max in.

Max stayed low, but Lyle had shed his vigilance, standing squarely in front of the window, the muzzle of the shotgun sagging toward the ground. When Max got there, Lyle shook his head and whispered, “It looks empty.”

Max peeked in through the smaller window and saw a kitchen and beyond that a living area. “You want the front door or the back?”

“Front,” Lyle whispered.

Pine needles cushioned Max’s steps as he ducked beneath the windows, skirting around the dilapidated old cabin. He scanned the woods as he moved, keeping an eye out for the possibility that Reed and Peter lay in wait.

The back storm door had been painted green and had a small stoop. Max gave a quick peek inside. Nothing. The back door led into the living room. Beyond that lay the kitchen and the front door, where Lyle looked in.

Max opened the door slowly, the creaking of the hinge announcing his presence. He aimed the twenty-two at the interior doors, bedrooms most likely, in case Peter or Reed popped out. He listened but heard no sound. He slipped inside at the same time that Lyle slid through the front door.

Max went to one of the bedroom doors, Lyle to the other. They threw the doors open and stepped back. The cabin remained eerily quiet. Each man entered a bedroom, rifles at the ready.

The room Max was in held two twin beds. On one of the beds lay a pillow with a dinosaur pillowcase. Next to that lay an open coloring book and a box of crayons. He went to the closet. Where were the mounds of clothing that Sandy was supposed to have taken when she disappeared? Of course the clothes weren’t there, because Sandy hadn’t run away. The empty room, Peter’s car in front, confirmed what Max already knew—an inescapable conclusion that Lyle had to have known as well. Sandy had been killed and Pip kidnapped.

“Clear,” Max said.

“Clear,” came Lyle’s reply.

Lyle entered the room behind him. “Oh, Christ.” He rushed to the bed and picked up the pillow. “Oh, sweet Jesus.” He pulled the pillow to his face and smelled it. “It’s Pip’s.”

“You sure?”

“It was his security blanket.”

Lyle dropped to one knee, grabbing the edge of the bed to keep from falling over. His chest heaved as he clutched the pillow. Max put a hand on Lyle’s shoulder.