“That was my impression. Guess I'd better take a look.”
“I can be there by two.”
“I'll wait.”
By three, Boyd and I were in the backseat of a Jeep, Crowe at the wheel, a deputy riding shotgun. Two others were behind us in a second vehicle.
The chow was as pumped as I was, though for different reasons. He rode with his head out the window, nose twisting like a weather vane in a tropical storm. Now and then I'd push down on his haunches. He'd sit, rise immediately.
The radio sputtered as we raced along the county road. Passing the Alarka Fire Department, I noted that only one reefer truck and a few cars were parked in the lot. A Bryson City cruiser guarded the entrance, its driver bent over a magazine spread across the steering wheel.
Crowe took the blacktop to its end, then the Forest Service road, where I'd left my car three weeks earlier. Ignoring the cutoff to the crash site, she proceeded another three quarters of a mile and turned onto a different logging trail. After crawling upward for what seemed like miles, she stopped, studied the forest to either side, advanced, repeated the process, then took us off road. Our backup followed closely.
The Jeep bounced and pitched, branches scraping its top and sides. Boyd pulled in like a box turtle, and I yanked my arm from the window ledge. The dog whipped his head from right to left, spraying saliva on everyone. The deputy pulled a hanky from his pocket and wiped his neck but said nothing. I tried to remember his name. Was it Craig? Gregg?
Then the trees stepped back, yielding to a narrow dirt track. Ten minutes later, Crowe braked, alighted, and swung back what looked like an entire thicket. When we proceeded, I could see that what she'd moved was a gate, entirely overgrown with kudzu and ivy. Moments later the Arthur house came into view.
“I'll be goddamned,” said the deputy. “This place in the 911 book?”
“Listed as abandoned,” said Crowe. “I never knew it was here.”
Crowe pulled to the front of the house and honked twice. No one appeared.
“There's a courtyard around to the side.” Crowe nodded in that direction. “Tell George and Bobby to cover that entrance. We'll enter in front.”
They got out, simultaneously releasing the safety clips on their guns. As the deputy walked back to the second Jeep, Crowe turned to me.
“You stay here.” I wanted to argue, but her look told me no way.
“In the Jeep. Until I call you.”
I rolled my eyes but said nothing. My heart was hammering, and I shifted about more than Boyd.
Crowe sounded another long blast on the horn while scanning the upper windows of the house. The deputy rejoined her, a Winchester pump held diagonally across his chest. They crossed to the house and climbed the steps.
“Swain County Sheriff 's Department.” Her call sounded tinny in the thin air. “Police. Please respond.”
She banged on the door.
No one came forth.
Crowe said something. The deputy spread his feet and raised the shotgun, and the sheriff began hammering the door with her boot. There was no give.
Crowe spoke again. The deputy replied, keeping the barrel of his weapon trained on the door.
The sheriff walked back to the Jeep, sweat dampening the carrot frizz escaping her hat. She rummaged in back, returned to the porch with a crowbar.
Wiggling the tip between two shutters, she applied the full force of her body weight. A more earnest rendition of my own jimmying act.
Crowe repeated the movement, adding a Monica Seles grunt. A panel yielded slightly. Sliding the bar farther into the crack, she heaved again, and the shutter flew back, hitting the wall with a loud crash.
Crowe laid down the bar, braced herself, then smashed a foot through the window. Glass shattered, sparkled in the sun as it showered the porch with jagged shards. Crowe kicked again and again, enlarging the opening. Boyd urged her on with excited barks.
Crowe stood back and listened. Hearing no movement, she poked her head inside and called out again. Then the sheriff unholstered her gun and disappeared into darkness. The deputy followed.
Centuries later the front door opened, and Crowe stepped onto the porch. She waved a “come on” gesture.
I leashed Boyd with clumsy hands and wrapped the loop around my wrist. Then I dug a Maglite from my pack. Blood pounded hard below my throat.
“Easy!” I aimed a finger at his nose.
He practically dragged me out of the Jeep and up the steps.
“The place is empty.”
I tried to read Crowe's face, but it was registering nothing. No surprise, disgust, uneasiness. It was impossible to guess her reaction or emotion.
“Better leave the dog here.”
I tied Boyd to the porch railing. Clicking on the flashlight, I followed her inside.
The air that hit me was not as musty as I expected. It smelled of smoke and mildew and something
