If she was alive and nearby she wasn’t answering—maybe because she was wounded or unconscious. But Nick knew that was unlikely; whoever the perpetrator was, he didn’t come all the way up here just to wound her and leave her to identify him later. Though the thought made him sick to his stomach, his mind told him that Alena was most likely dead—but how would he ever know for sure?

He looked across the clearing at the kennels.

He raced back into the trailer, through the living room and into the first bedroom, and pulled the cotton pillowcase from the bed pillow. He held it by one corner and hurried it back out to the kennels.

As he approached the first kennel, he spotted another form lying dead and still on the concrete pad, and his heart skipped a beat—for a split second he thought it might be Alena. But the form was too small— it was another of Alena’s precious dogs. The other dogs in the kennel were seated in a circle around it, as if they were keeping vigil.

He draped the pillowcase over a post and moved from kennel to kennel, searching through the dogs for one in particular; he found her in kennel number three. She was a mottled gray mongrel with only three legs; she was a drab and forsaken-looking beast; she was a deformed and damaged animal—but she also happened to be the finest cadaver dog Nick had ever seen. Trygg knew every inch of these woods; she had spent years wandering over them every night in search of Alena’s father.

But tonight was different—tonight she had to find Alena.

Nick opened the kennel gate a few inches and pointed at Trygg. “Come!” he commanded, but the dog didn’t respond.

“Come on, girl! Let’s go! Come on! Come to me!”

The dog just stared.

Nick tried to imagine what Alena would do. He remembered her operant command, the one that always preceded the actual instruction. He snapped his fingers once—but he had no idea what to do next. What gesture or motion commanded the dog to “come”? He snapped his fingers and wiggled one finger—nothing. He snapped his fingers and pointed to the ground at his feet—nothing. He snapped his fingers and backed up, waving both arms like a man parking a 747—the dog sat down.

He was starting to get angry. This was one of the most talented dogs on the planet, but it couldn’t understand a simple spoken command— a command that even a moron like Bosco could probably comprehend. Nick felt like a stupid tourist in a foreign country who didn’t know a single word of the language; all he could do was shout in English and hope that his listener would somehow figure it out.