Stevens and Windermere crept through the trees, their guns drawn. The night was quiet around them, and very still. Save the dim light ahead, the grove was pitch-dark.
Except there was a noise, too, Stevens realized, a muffled, erratic throb. It wasn’t music—there was no discernible rhythm—but it wasn’t natural, either. Stevens gripped his pistol tighter and kept moving.
As they approached the light, Stevens could see it was coming from inside a small cabin, saggy and mossy and old. The windows were streaky and grime-stained, the light hardly much better. Stevens crouched beside Windermere and studied the place. “You see anybody?” Windermere whispered.
Stevens shook his head. Then he looked again. “Wait.” A shadow moved on the wall, through one of the windows. After a moment, a man appeared, his back to the window. Stevens motioned toward him. “There.”
“Parkerson?” said Windermere.
Stevens squinted. “Can’t tell.”
Windermere looked around the grove of trees. There were two trucks parked alongside the house, an old Chevy pickup and—she stiffened. “That’s a Ford Explorer, Stevens.”
Stevens pointed at the window. “Yeah,” he said. “And that guy has a knife.”