Snaking through a tube of corrugated steel was a spiral staircase, metal treads stripped with friction pads. Bolts secured the flight to the underside of the rim.

“The big question remains,” he said.

“Is he down there.”

“None of those cars have been driven recently, but that could just mean he’s bunked down for a while.” Removing his desert boots, he unsnapped his holster but left the gun nestled. Sitting at the edge of the opening, he swung his legs in. “Something happens, you can have my Bert the Turtle lunch box.”

He descended. I took off my shoes and followed.

“Stay up there, Alex.”

“And be here alone if he shows up?”

He started to argue. Stopped himself. Not because he’d changed his mind.

Staring at something.

At the bottom of the stairs was a door, same gray steel as the hatch. A shiny brass coat hook was screwed to the metal.

From the hook, a white nylon cord hung taut. Its ends were looped around a pair of ears.

Waxy-white ears.

The head they connected to was lean, well-formed, crowned by thick, dark hair.

Well-formed face, but hideous. Dermis more paperlike than corporeal. Lumps distorted the cheekbones where stuffing had settled. Nearly invisible sutures held the mouth shut and pried the eyes open. Blue eyes, wide with surprise.

Glass.

The thing that had once been Dylan Meserve was as lifelike as a milliner’s mold.

Milo crawled out. His gullet throbbed. He paced.

I got closer to the opening, smelled the formaldehyde. Saw writing on the door, an inch below the thing’s chin.

Shimmied down low enough, I read.

Neat printing, black marker.

PROJECT COMPLETED.

Below that, a date and a time. Two a.m. Four days ago.

Milo walked around for a while, searching for evidence of burial, returned shaking his head, looked into the maw of the bomb shelter. “Lord only knows what else is down there. The moral dilemma is...”

“Is there someone down there who can be saved,” I said. “If there is, will attempting it make matters worse. You could try calling him, if he’s down there, maybe we can hear the ring.”

“If we can hear it, he’s probably heard us already.”

“At least he’s not going anywhere.” I eyed the dangling head. “Talk about probable cause.”

He took out his cell and tried Brad Dowd’s number.

No sound from below.

His eyes widened. “Mr. Dowd? Lieutenant Sturgis...no, nothing huge but I thought maybe we could chat about Reynold Peaty...just tying up loose ends...I was hoping more like tonight, where are you? We stopped by there earlier...yeah, we must’ve...listen, sir, no, no prob coming back to your house, we’re not far. Camarillo...actually it is related, but I’m not at liberty to say...sorry...so can we— you’re sure? Today would be a lot easier, Mr. Dowd...okay, I understand, sure. Tomorrow it is.”

Click.