He leaned against a cabinet, striving to wring from himself a shrinking, anxious fear that anticipated imminent evil. He was in no danger. He had been overwhelmed by the claustrophobic nature of the cellar and by his ability to empathize with the women who’d suffered in those depths. He inhaled deeply through his nose, exhaled through his mouth, and used rhythmic breathing to restore a sense that the world was an orderly place and that he could hold chaos at bay.

According to his wristwatch, he’d been in the basement thirty-five minutes. He remained in the kitchen for ten, until he was calm enough to leave the house and speak with Stuart Ulrich.

He descended the front porch steps and started across the yard toward the driveway but halted and looked back when the crows on the peak of the roof traded silence for raucous cries. They didn’t fly from their perch but shrieked at him with seven times the mocking hatred of Poe’s one raven, and though they didn’t form the word, he knew that their message was the same as the raven’s: Nevermore.

Stuart Ulrich saw him coming and got out of the Ford pickup. “I thought you’d be a lot longer.”

“Enough’s enough. It’s a wretched, vicious place. You should pour gasoline down there and torch it all.”

Ulrich worked his lantern jaw as if David’s suggestion struck him as so outrageous that he could find no words to respond. Then: “Easy to say when it wasn’t you sank his savin’s in the property.”

“You got it for nothing but back taxes.”

“It wasn’t nothin’ to me, like maybe it would be to them like you that got all they’ll ever need.”

David didn’t want to argue. He said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Ulrich. It just disturbed me more than I expected.” But then he couldn’t resist pressing an issue that would probably offend the man, even though he didn’t make his inquiry in an accusative tone. “You said the doors of the cells sold for good money. If that’s the case, why didn’t you sell the door to the last room, the one where he kept the mummified women?”

The morning sun found green flecks in Ulrich’s gray eyes, and his lips looked bloodless when he skinned them back from yellowing teeth. The virulence of Ulrich’s response suggested a man with a short temper—or with something to hide. “What is it to you whether I sell a damn door or don’t sell a damn door?”

Against his better judgment, David said, “Seems if you could find five sickos to buy five doors, you could find a sixth.”