sweet.
My olfactory lobe scanned its database. Church.
Church?
The lobe separated into components. Flowers. Incense.
The front door opened directly into a parlor that spanned the entire width of the house. Slowly, I swept my light from right to left. I could make out sofas, armchairs, and occasional tables, grouped in clusters and draped with sheets. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves covered two sides.
A stone fireplace filled the room's northern wall, an ornate mirror decorated its southern. In the dim glass I could see my beam slide among the shrouded shapes, our own two images creeping with it.
We progressed slowly, taking the house a room at a time. Dust motes swirled in the pale yellow shaft, and an occasional moth fluttered across like a startled animal in headlights on a two-lane black-top. Behind us, the deputy held his shotgun raised. Crowe clutched her gun double-handed, close to her cheek.
The parlor opened onto a narrow hallway. Staircase on the right, dining room on the left, kitchen straight ahead.
The dining room was furnished with nothing but a highly polished rectangular table and matching chairs. I counted. Eight at each side, one at each end. Eighteen.
The kitchen was in back, its door standing wide open.
Porcelain sink. Pump. Stove and refrigerator that had seen more birthdays than I had. I pointed to the appliances.
“Must be a generator.”
“Probably downstairs.”
I heard the sound of voices below, and knew her deputies were in the basement.
Upstairs, a hallway led straight down the middle of the house. Four small bedrooms radiated from the central artery, each with two sets of homemade bunks. A small spiral staircase led from the end of the hall to a third-floor attic. Tucked under the eaves were two more cots.
“Jesus,” said Crowe. “Looks like Spin and Marty at the Triple R.”
It reminded me of the Heaven's Gate cult in San Diego. I held my tongue.
We were circling back down when either George or Bobby appeared on the main staircase at the far end of the hall. The man was flushed and perspiring heavily.
“Sheriff, you gotta see the basement.”
“What is it, Bobby?”
A bead of sweat broke from his hairline and rolled down the side of his face. He backhanded it with a jerky gesture.
“I'll be goddamned if I know.”
A SET OF WOODEN STAIRS SHOT STRAIGHT FROM THE KITCHEN down to an underground cellar. The sheriff ordered Deputy Nameless to remain topside while the rest of us went down.
Bobby led, I followed, Crowe brought up the rear. George waited at the bottom, flashlight darting like a klieg on opening night.
As we descended, the air went from cool to refrigerator cold, and murky dimness gave way to pitch-black. I heard a click behind me, saw Crowe's beam at my feet.
We gathered at the bottom, listening.
No scurrying feet. No whirring wings. I aimed my light into the darkness.
We were in a large windowless room with a plank ceiling and cement floor. Three sides were plaster, the fourth formed by the escarpment at the back of the house. Centered in the cliff-side wall was a heavy wooden door.
When I stepped backward, my arm brushed fabric. I spun and my beam swung down a row of pegs, each holding an identical red garment. Handing my flashlight to George, I unhooked and held one up. It was a hooded robe, the type worn by monks.
“Holy mother of Jesus.” I heard Bobby wipe his face. Or cross himself.
I retrieved my flash, and Crowe and I probed the room, spotlighted by George and Bobby.
A full sweep produced nothing indigenous to a basement. No worktable. No Peg-Board hung with tools. No gardening equipment. No laundry tub. No cobwebs, mouse droppings, or dead crickets.
“Pretty damn clean down here.” My voice echoed off cement and stone.
“Look at this.” George angled his beam to where plaster met ceiling.
A bearlike monster leered from the darkness, its body covered with gaping, bloody mouths. Below the animal was one word:
“Francis Bacon?” I asked, more to myself than to my companions.
“Bacon painted people and snarling dogs, but never anything like this.” Crowe's voice was hushed.
