The sound of the crackling radio drifted off into the background as Sawyer began to move slowly forward. “No windows…” he murmured.

“What was that?” Ilse asked.

Sawyer glanced at her. The tall, lanky man almost looked like a scarecrow in his flannel and jeans standing amidst scattered hay and dust.

“No windows,” he repeated, a bit more loudly this time. “Your client said she’d watch an old red truck through a window. She said she was kept in the shack.”

Ilse blinked, momentarily impressed at the agent’s memory. “So we’re at the wrong place.”

Sawyer clicked off the radio and it went eerily silent. “Or there’s a basement. And the window has been blocked off.”

“Basement?”

But Sawyer was already approaching the old rider mower. He frowned at it for a moment, but then, avoiding as many cobwebs as possible—while Ilse shivered, trying not to think of all the creepy crawlies with fangs likely hidden around—he pushed against the upraised, plastic seat. The grimy, dusty surface pressed against his fingers.

Sawyer grunted in exertion, but at the same time, the mower began to move. All four of its wheels were clearly flat. It took a second, as he shoved, and Ilse moved over to help. But before she reached him, the mower lifted over two wooden blocks, and then trundled forward, carried by its own momentum, past Ilse, and bumping gently against the door.

“Thing looks like it’s been in here for years,” Ilse murmured, staring at the rider mower.

“Yes,” Sawyer said, softly, eyes narrowed shrewdly. “Look at the wheels, though.”

Ilse did, and then murmured, “No dust.”

He nodded. “Flat, everything else caked in grime. But no dust on top of the wheels. Means it’s been moved.”

Now, Sawyer clicked his flashlight back on, shining it toward the floor.

Ilse felt her heart jolt. Sawyer whistled softly, muttering up a quiet prayer. He crossed himself with his free hand.

A hatch centered the floorboards.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Ilse stared at the hatch, her heart hammering.

“Doc, you should get back to the car,” Sawyer said, softly, his hand glued to his holster.

“No,” she said quickly. “That’s just as dangerous. Better I’m here with you. Besides,” she swallowed, her voice laden, “she’s my client.”

Sawyer gave her a long look, but then shrugged. He moved toward the hatch, and Ilse followed a second later, swallowing her fear.

Ilse and Sawyer pulled the hatch together, both of them grunting in exertion. No dust, though—the hinges didn’t even creak. It had been used recently, then.

Ilse felt another shiver down her spine, breathing heavily as she settled the hatch against the floor and found herself staring at a set of concrete steps leading down into darkness. Sawyer’s flashlight illuminated the steps.

“Is that blood?” Ilse said, suddenly, pointing.

“Grease,” Sawyer replied. “From the mower.” He gave her a long look. “You okay?”

“Fine.” Though she wished her voice hadn’t sounded so high-pitched. It seemed to convince Sawyer, though, and he stepped onto the top step of the basement. Then the next, his gun back in his hand. His boot scraped the grease stain. She stared at where it smeared; it certainly looked even more like blood now.