Milo walked around looking for asurveillance camera.
“None I can see, but who knows…”
Returning to the shelter lid, he squatted, lifted the handle a few moreinches. Hiss hiss. He let it fall back into place.
“Air lock,” I said. “Keep nuclear fallout at bay.”
“Play canasta while the bombs drop.” Stretching prone, he pressed his ear tosteel. “You hear the cries of a damsel in distress like I do?”
Off in the distance, a puny breeze barely ruffled the meadow. The trillingbird had gone mute. If clouds made noise, the silence might’ve relented.
I said, “Loud and clear. Grounds to search.”
He lifted the handle halfway. Peered in. Had to stand and put his weightinto completing the arc. The hatch gave way with a final whisper and he steppedback. Waited. Inched over to the opening. Looked down again.
Snaking through a tube of corrugated steel was a spiral staircase, metaltreads stripped with friction pads. Bolts secured the flight to the undersideof the rim.
“The big question remains,” he said.
“Is he down there.”
“None of those cars have been driven recently, but that could just mean he’sbunked down for a while.” Removing his desert boots, he unsnapped his holsterbut left the gun nestled. Sitting at the edge of the opening, he swung his legsin. “Something happens, you can have my Bert the Turtle lunch box.”
He descended. I took off my shoes and followed.
“Stay up there, Alex.”
“And be here alone if he shows up?”
He started to argue. Stopped himself. Not because he’d changed his mind.
Staring at something.
At the bottom of the stairs was a door, same gray steel as the hatch. Ashiny brass coat hook was screwed to the metal.
From the hook, a white nylon cord hung taut. Its ends were looped around apair of ears.
Waxy-white ears.
The head they connected to was lean, well-formed, crowned by thick, darkhair.
Well-formed face, but hideous. Dermis more paperlike than corporeal. Lumpsdistorted the cheekbones where stuffing had settled. Nearly invisible suturesheld the mouth shut and pried the eyes open. Blue eyes, wide with surprise.
Glass.
The thing that had once been Dylan Meserve was as lifelike as a milliner’smold.
Milo crawled out. His gullet throbbed. Hepaced.
I got closer to the opening, smelled the formaldehyde. Saw writing on thedoor, an inch below the thing’s chin.
Shimmied down low enough, I read.
Neat printing, black marker.
PROJECT COMPLETED.
Below that, a date and a time. Two a.m. Four days ago.
 
--- oOo ---
 
Milo walked around for a while, searchingfor evidence of burial, returned shaking his head, looked into the maw of thebomb shelter. “Lord only knows what else is down there. The moral dilemma is…”
“Is there someone down there who can be saved,” I said. “If there is, willattempting it make matters worse. You could try calling him, if he’s downthere, maybe we can hear the ring.”
“If we can hear it, he’s probably heard us already.”
“At least he’s not going anywhere.” I eyed the dangling head. “Talk aboutprobable cause.”
He took out his cell and tried Brad Dowd’s number.
No sound from below.
His eyes widened. “Mr. Dowd? Lieutenant Sturgis…no, nothing huge but Ithought maybe we could chat about Reynold Peaty…just tying up loose ends…I washoping more like tonight, where are you? We stopped by there earlier…yeah, wemust’ve…listen, sir, no, no prob coming back to your house, we’re not far. Camarillo…actually it isrelated, but I’m not at liberty to say…sorry…so can we—you’re sure? Today wouldbe a lot easier, Mr. Dowd…okay, I understand, sure. Tomorrow it is.”
Click.
He said, “Hard day out in Pasadena,plumbing leaks, blah blah blah. Mr. Cool and Charming until I mentioned Camarillo. Got thislittle catch in his voice. Happy to cooperate, Lieutenant, but I just can’ttoday.”
“You shook him up, he needs to regroup. Maybe he’ll revert to what calmedhim down when he was a kid.”
“What’s that?”
“Arts and crafts.”
 
Milo went down in the hole again, poundedthe door while keeping his distance from the thing on the coat hook.
Sidled away from it and found a spot on the door where he could press hisear without touching dead flesh. He knocked on the metal door, then pounded.
Climbing back out, he brushed away nonexistent dirt. “If anyone’s in there,I can’t hear it and the door’s bolted solid.”
Lowering the hatch, he wiped it clean, scuffed out the footsteps we’d leftin the dirt halo.
We put our shoes on and retraced our steps back to the car, worked hard atobscuring our tracks.
I drove off the property and repeated the climb I’d taken when I’d overshot.When we found nowhere to hide the Sevillewithin walking distance, I turned around and descended.
A mailbox two properties down from Billy Dowd’s land was lettered with goldstick-ons: The Osgoods. A sagging plank-and-chicken-wire fence blocked a graveldrive.
Flag up on the box. Milo got out andchecked. “Least a week’s worth, let’s trespass.”
Unlatching the gate, he stood back as I drove through, swung it closed,hopped back in.
 
The Osgoods owned a much smaller spread than Billy Dowd. Same oak-sycamorecombo, a flat brown lawn in place of a meadow. In the center, a pale greenfifties ranch house with a white-pebble roof squatted behind an empty corral.No animals, no animal smell. Half a dozen empty trash cans stood against oneside. A cheap prefab swing set tilted nearby and a child’s plastic trikeblocked the front door.
The sky had started to darken. No light spat from any windows.
Milo reached over the tricycle and knockedon............