The driver licked his lips. “Roy Wiley is the smartest man I ever met. He was a Minneapolis cop for years, and he still knows cops in a dozen states. He’s mean as a snake, he does not forgive, and he does not forget. I don’t know what’s the deal with you and that girl, and I don’t want to know. I guess I can’t blame you, she is one sexy piece. But if I was you, I’d save myself. Walk my ass away right now and get as far from here as I possibly can.”

Peter shook his head. “But I’m not like you, remember?” He held up the wet wadded flap of jacket. “Open up.”

33

He left the doors unlocked and the keys on the seat, then slung the chrome-plated carbine across his chest and set off for the road at a run, wondering what kind of person put chrome plating on an assault rifle. He’d found a spare magazine for it in the car’s center console and tucked it in his off-side jacket pocket beside the extra pistol mag. They swung and bounced with every step.

He was tempted to double-time it all the way to the dead end, then turn down the driveway. It was the fastest way in, but it was also the first place someone would put a camera or lethal self-defense measure. Instead, he slipped past the crosses and into the trees, ears wide open for the sound of a vehicle.

If they’re coming, he thought, they’ll be here soon. If they aren’t here already.

The branches grabbed at his clothes and poked at his eyes, as if the forest itself was against him. He picked his way deliberately, heel and toe, bent low with the rifle up and ready, silent as the night. Eyes bright for trip wires and motion sensors and cameras. From Peter’s limited experience of Roy, the husband, he expected cameras at a minimum. Homemade black-powder IEDs were a distinct possibility.

Before long, the brush and evergreens thinned and the trees changed to mature hardwoods. Past their thick trunks, he saw the bright rectangles of windows lit from within. The relief streamed through him. At least there’s a damn house here, he thought.

He’d covered half the remaining ground when his scanning eye caught on something pale in the growing window light. Several somethings, jutting up from leaf litter. Knobby, irregular, familiar.

Bones.

He looked left and right. They were all around him. Some were scattered and clean as medical specimens spilled from a box. Others were newer, still held together by cartilage and tendon and gobbets of meat. The unmistakable stench of death filled his nose, cloying and sweet.