He examined the artist’s sink which was bone dry, and kicked the mattress lying on the floor. A tangle of metal was piled behind the easel. The windows were so dirty no one could see out or in, and from the tiny droppings in the corner, the only residents appeared to bemice.
There was, however, a sour smell, as if vagrants had sought shelter inside. But who would pass through this remote ranch out in the middle ofnowhere?
Grady walked by a covered trash container right outside the doorway. He opened it and recoiled at the sight of charred bones among a pile ofashes.
Human oranimal?
SalemPryde?
But no, it couldn’t be. No one had found her remains. These could be a rack of ribs for all heknew.
He let the lid slam over the trash container, then using his sleeve, he wiped his prints off thehandle.
“This is stupid. Probably a barbecue dinner. Someone had a picnic here,” he muttered to himself as Sam sniffed the container. “Come on, let’s go. Linx isn’there.”
He dragged Sam’s collar and walked as fast as he could away from the artist’s cabin. Maybe he was creeped out by the bones, or it was the dank breeze wrapping itself around him, but Grady’s spine tingled as if someone were watchinghim.
As they stepped back onto the trail, Sam emitted a low growl, raising his hackles. Grady stumbled and stubbed histoe.
His jaw dropped and his heart pounded. He’d tripped over a row of rusted railroad spikes welded together in the shape ofcrosses.
