As the group resumed its slow hunt, none of them realized that a few steps into the opposite trail would have brought them to the burned skeleton of a man. In the instance, it did not matter to either Reed Brockshaw or his friends that it would be days before his remains were discovered.

It took only minutes more, however, for the group to discover they were on a false trail. Whatever purpose the trench had once served, it now ran into a dead end at a great boulder. The men dug far enough around to see that the trail went nowhere.

Elizabeth spoke with sudden spirit. “Peter, I remember a deep kettle hole somewhere out this way. They might be nesting there!”

Elias Johnson’s head came around hopefully. “Liz, I think you have got an idea!”

Amos Tarbell’s vexed face uncreased. “I remember that one, Liz! My father had it boarded over when I nearly fell in myself!” The sheriff grabbed his shovel and started away.

Elizabeth stopped him. “Not that way, Amos! The hole I mean is out behind the Cannon place.”

Tarbell accepted the correction, and the dogged procession resumed. In minutes, the Cannon house was visible in its clearing through the fire-­denuded trees. To Peter Hubbard, seeing the mansion for the first time, the building was stern-­looking. Its windows were small—harking back to glass taxes in the colonies?—and seemed to be disapproving the strangely-­costumed parade emerging out of the trees.

Elizabeth went directly to a small mound of earth. No one needed to be told to be quiet. Breaths were held as the sheriff tiptoed behind the woman. They both kneeled carefully. And both nodded.

Elizabeth whispered excitedly to Peter Hubbard as he came up to her. “We’ve got it!”

Hubbard looked around with sharp eyes. There were moulted cockroach shells in the grass. His heart raced, and he motioned the others back. His own whisper carried in the air. “If the roaches are down here, this is going to be extremely dangerous. I want just Amos with me!”

The others moved cautiously to the Cannon house, stepping as lightly as possible. Everyone understood. Beneath the earth-­covered old planks might be the crucible of the Yarkie horror. They knew its power, the speed with which it could strike, the implacability of its deadliness. Hubbard was whispering to the sheriff, “We just want enough of a crack for a fast look down.” He signaled Craig Soaras to join them. “Craig, you cover both of us with the dry ice. Use it fast if you see anything!”

“Don’t worry about that . . .” The dark Portuguese face was iron.

On his knees, the sheriff was quietly pressing against a thick board, now visible under his gloved hand. “Just the way I remembered!” he murmured to Hubbard.