Part of the interior wall swung open, the rectangle beyond deep with shadows. She studied paw prints in the dirt and dust that led to and from the open panel. "Apparently they know what's behind that wall."
The dogs' bodies tensed. Both started barking.
Her attention returned to the animals. "They need to go."
Their guns remained aimed, the dogs holding their ground, guarding their meal, so Davis shifted to the other side of the doorway.
One of the dogs lunged forward, then abruptly stopped.
"I'm going to fire," he said.
He leveled his gun and sent a bullet into the floor between the animals. Both shrieked, then rushed around in confusion. He fired again and they bolted through the doorway into the hall. They stopped a few feet away, realizing that they'd forgotten their food. She fired into the floorboards and they turned and ran, disappearing out the front door.
She let out a breath.
Davis entered the room and knelt beside the severed hand. "We need to see what's down there."
She didn't necessarily agree-what was the point?-but knewDavis needed to see. She stepped to the doorway. Narrow wooden steps led below, thendog-legged right into pitchdarkness. "Probably anold cellar."
She started the descent. He followed. At the landing she hesitated. Slivers of darkness evaporated as her pupils adjusted and the ambient light revealed a room about ten feet square, its curtain wall hacked from the ground rock, the floor a powdery dirt. Thick wooden beams spanned the ceiling. The frigid air was unmolested by ventilation.
"At least no more dogs," Davis said.
Then she saw it.
A body, wearing an overcoat, lying prone, one arm a stump. She instantly recognized the face, though a bullet had obliterated the nose and one eye.
Langford Ramsey.
"The debt is paid," she said.
Davis bypassed her and approached the corpse. "I only wish I could have done it."
"It's better this way."
There was a sound overhead. Footsteps. Her gaze shot to the wood floor above.
"That's not a dog," Davis whispered.