“There might be somebody else in the house,” Virgil said. “Something’s moving, didn’t sound like a rat. Something bigger.”

“Oh, boy . . .”

“I wanted you to know. I’m gonna check . . . Talk to the cops coming out, tell them to take care.”

“Wait ’til they get there.”

“Ah . . . I’m too curious. I’m going to take a look.”

“Take your gun with you, Virgil.”

“Got it.”

—

Virgil rang off and walked back to the stoop, then up into the mudroom. He stopped to listen, heard nothing at all. He moved slowly through the kitchen, listening. The house had three floors, but the noise had felt closer, and not above him.

He was coming up to the dining room door when he heard it again, off to his right. Behind the basement door.

A chill ran up his spine, and he called out, “I’m going to open the door and I’ve got a gun . . . Don’t move.” He turned to his right, and said loud enough to be heard through the door, “Jim, line up on the door with your shotgun, but stay behind that wall. Be ready . . .”

He stepped quietly past the basement door, listened, heard nothing, reached way back, grabbed the doorknob, and yanked the door open.

No gunfire.

He peeked around the door, saw nothing but the empty landing in front of the exterior door.

He decided to wait for the deputies, but as he stepped back from the door, heard a whimper. Dog? Kid?

Whatever it was, it sounded hurt rather than dangerous. He swallowed, pushed the Glock out in front of him, hit the basement light switch, and stepped slowly down to the landing. Two more steps down was another landing, at the top of the stairway that led down into the basement. He listened, then stepped down and peeked around the corner into the basement.

From where he stood, he could smell dog poop, even through the Vicks and the background odor of decomposition. At the bottom of the stairs, he saw a shredded yellow sack and, beyond that, a dog. A big dog, lying on his stomach. The dog lifted his head and whimpered.

“Easy, there,” Virgil said.

He eased down the stairs, into the stench of the poop. The basement was damp but not wet. At the bottom of the stairs, in the glare of the bare lightbulb, he saw that the shredded bag had once contained twenty pounds of dry dog food. The food was gone, and part of the bag had been chewed off by the dog.

The dog, a yellow-and-white collie, was watching him but not moving. Virgil stepped past him and looked around: the dog had had food, but he saw no water, though there must have been some if the animal had been locked in the basement for two weeks.