Red pushed his way into the house, barking furiously at Carver.

“What the hell?” Carver yelled furiously. “I’m going to have this animal put to sleep—and you!” He stopped, staring at Ragnar. “What the hell?” he repeated. “I said you could come into the foyer, and now, you’re in my house! Get the hell out!”

“I heard someone screaming,” Ragnar said.

“What? You didn’t hear anyone screaming!” Carver said. “You—you’re cops—”

“Sorry, there goes my dog,” Mark said.

The dog raced through the kitchen, and Mark hurried after him, followed by Ragnar and Carver with Carver threatening them with lawsuits with every step.

The door to the basement was closed.

“I told you. I heard someone screaming,” Ragnar said. “There’s more screaming!”

“No one is screaming!” Carver protested.

“The dog hears it. He’s going crazy,” Mark agreed.

“You people! This is illegal! This is my residence—”

“Taken under a pseudonym. Reasonable cause for entry, then again, you did let me in. And now? Someone is screaming. We can hear it!” Ragnar said.

“You do not hear screaming!” Carver protested. “And a pseudonym! What the hell? I will have my day in court!”

“Oh, yes, you will,” Mark agreed. He stared at the man. “What? You don’t think we hear screams? Is your victim dead already?”

Carver backed away, staring at him.

The basement door was locked. Ragnar and Mark looked at one another and thudded their shoulders against the door simultaneously. Mark barely regained his balance; steps led down to the basement below and a fall could have been serious—even deadly.

Red barked furiously again, weaving through their legs and tearing down the steps.

Carver realized he’d been made; he turned to take off running, grabbing a Smith & Wesson pistol off the table as he did.

Mark didn’t know for sure if Carver was the man who was now the scourge of a dozen police agencies and the FBI.

“The Embracer” as he had been termed in the press.

But Carver had been holding Sally Smithson. Red was never wrong.

“Drop it!” Mark thundered, drawing his own weapon from beneath his jacket.

Carver fired wildly. Mark fired a warning shot.

“Drop it!”

Carver started running.

“I’ve got him,” Ragnar said to Mark. “And the 911.”

Mark nodded and followed the dog down the stairs. And there, on a cot, lay the woman they had been seeking. Sally Smithson. Her eyes were closed; she was pale as ash. A bucket for a toilet lay at the foot of the cot.

The basement also held some lumber and some tools. No built boxes or coffins, just the usual supplies that a basement might contain. Nothing there proved that the man was the Embracer.