The beam of my flashlight illuminates a large room with rough-hewn walls and a wood plank floor. High ceilings transected by beams as thick as a man’s waist. A rush of adrenaline burns through me when I spot the girl. On instinct, I bring up my weapon. At first glance she appears to be standing with her arms stretched over her head. Then I realize her wrists are bound and tied to an overhead beam.

For a second, I’m so shocked I can’t speak or move or even think. Then my cop’s mind switches on and the horrific details of what I’m seeing slam into my brain. The victim is young and female. Nude except for a kapp, she hangs limply from the overhead beam. Her head lolls forward so that her chin rests on her chest. I see dried blood, where it ran between her breasts and down her abdomen. Her knees have buckled, but the rope holds her upright.

“My God,” I hear myself say.

I shift my light, scan the rest of the room. I hear myself gasp when my beam illuminates a second victim. A female, slightly older. Also nude, but for her kapp. Like the other victim, she hangs suspended from an overhead beam.

In the course of my law enforcement career, I’ve seen death more times than I care to think about. I’ve seen terrible traffic accidents. Death from natural causes, heart attacks and strokes. A drowning occurred just two months ago out on Miller’s Pond. I’ve seen murder in all its execrable forms. But I will never get used to it.

My hands tremble as I reach for my lapel mike. “Skid . . . I got two more.”

“Where are you?”

“Tack room. Just down the aisle.”

“I’m on my way.”

I train my flashlight beam on the nearest victim. I can smell the blood now. Dark and metallic with the sickening undertone of methane gas. I’m not unduly squeamish, but my stomach quivers uneasily as I draw close. I can’t imagine what happened here. I sure as hell don’t want to think about the horrors these girls must have endured.

“Aw, man.”

I nearly drop my Maglite at the sound of Skid’s voice. I turn to see him standing in the doorway. He holds his revolver in his right hand, his flashlight in his left. His eyes are fastened on the two bodies.

“Jesus Christ, Chief.” He steps into the room, his voice little more than a whisper. “What the hell happened?”

Skid is usually pretty laid-back. He’s cocky with a dry sense of humor, a quick wit, and has never been overly sensitive to some of the things cops are forced to deal with. As he takes in the carnage before us, his brash façade falls away. His expression relays the same horror and disbelief I feel burgeoning in my chest.

He moves closer to me.