They stepped cautiously onto the porch and began sifting through the splintered beams and bricks and roof shingles with the toes of their boots or their gun barrels. Stiles did not do so at random; he moved through the ruined house with a purpose. He stopped every few steps, stiffened, and swiveled his head like a hunting dog catching the scent. He picked at a pile of debris, first brushing aside the bricks and pulling at the fallen beams, then digging intensely, until Charlie joined in. They soon unearthed the fallen cellar door and, hidden beneath it, the partially caved-in staircase leading down into darkness. Stiles holstered one of the shotguns, drew a flashlight from his belt, and shined it down into the hole. From what they could see, the cellar was still intact.

“Is he down there?”

The soldier didn’t answer. “Stay close,” was all he would say as he started down the fragile-looking steps.

“Now wait a minute,” Bean complained, “I never said I was going down there. . . .” But Stiles was already disappearing into the darkness. The deputy looked around him and frowned. “‘You’re an asshole, chum, I hope you know that.” He racked the pump on the Mossberg, took out his own flashlight, and followed close behind.

His first impression was the chill. It was at least fifteen degrees colder down there, like a butcher’s freezer. Bean’s breath hung in front of his face like an arctic cloud, limiting what visibility he had. He was happy to reach the bottom and just be off the rickety stairs. He found Stiles already weaving a path through the decades of debris gathered there.

“Is he here?” Charlie whispered. “Do you feel him?”

“I don’t know. It’s faint, it’s . . .” The soldier looked around, puzzled. “It’s fading. But how? He couldn’t have gotten out of here.” He shined his light on the outside door to the cellar, found it still nailed shut and probably blocked by a ton of rubble as well. “He has to be here, Charlie,” Stiles muttered in frustration. But then, suddenly, he tensed. He turned to the nearest wall and the crooked old bank of shelves that stood there, and without warning he raised his shotgun and fired. Compact thunder rolled through the cellar as the blast splintered two shelves and left a melon-sized hole in the thick back panel. It was certainly large enough to see through—not to a brick wall beyond, but to the blackness of a hidden passageway.