It was a machine graveyard.
Tom fanned his light over a tractor, a manure spreader, and two Ford F-150s. Racks of farm implements and tackle lined the right wall. He even spotted a branding iron, which made him pause. Had those hogs been branded? He searched his memory. No, a farmer notched a pig’s ears. Some complicated system; he didn’t know what. Branding was for cattle and horses. So maybe the milkers or that bay. He just couldn’t remember.
A loaded Peg-Board was mounted above an elaborate tool bench with two vises. The cave-in had dumped snow over a large electric band saw with a circular blade that Tom thought was used for slicing through meat and bone. If so, that saw hadn’t seen action for a long time.
But the ax and that cleaver had.
Both rested on a freestanding workbench that reminded him of the butcher block his dad had used to hack beef ribs. The hand ax had a thin stainless-steel blade and leather grip: lightweight, easy to swing, well-balanced. The steel was clean but nicked in places, as if the ax had seen heavy use. Purple splotches stained the leather grip, and more blood had seeped into the cleaver’s handle, swelling and then cracking the wood. A slop bucket rested on the concrete next to the butcher block. Stiff rags stained with dark, oily splotches were draped over the rim, and smelled of old gore.
Alongside the workbench was a large white chest freezer. Of course, it wasn’t plugged in. The barn was colder than any meat locker. Rust-red tongues drooled from the freezer’s lip.
Nikki had served pork stew the first night. Wade had offered to feed hamburger to the dog.
No, that’s crazy. He felt his mind flinching away even as the suspicion formed. So the Kings did their own butchering. So what?
But would I know? Aiming the flashlight at the dried blood, he felt suddenly queasy. God, shouldn’t I be able to tell if it hadn’t been pork or beef … but a person?
Heart thumping, he levered open the freezer—and his breath left in a white rush.
Empty.
Then, across the barn and to the right, something scuffed.
Startled, he pivoted, raised his flashlight, expecting to see the bright coins of the cat’s eyes, or maybe a rat or raccoon. The light broke over a trio of what might once have been long-abandoned horse stalls, with doors on sliders. Something winked from the back corner. Stepping around the freezer, he aimed the light, caught the sparkle again—and frowned. A fourth stall, completely closed off, with a heavy, shiny, stainless-steel padlock dangling from a black ring latch as thick as his thumb.
Scuffling. Then, a low whine.
A puppy. That was his first thought. The Kings had locked up a dog, probably muzzled it. He thought back to that growl Raleigh had aimed toward the barn. No wonder Raleigh wouldn’t stay away; there was another dog locked up in here.
Maybe it was sick. That was possible. When he was a kid, his dad had rented Old Yeller. He remembered how after the wolf fight, when the dog went rabid, the boy had locked Old Yeller in the corncrib and then shot him. Tom must’ve cried for a week. Knowing Wade, Tom thought he’d have gotten rid of a rabid dog, but it would be perfectly in character for the Kings to simply sequester a sick puppy and maybe neglect it to death. Save on a bullet.
Poor thing. “Hey, boy,” he called, softly. The dog responded with another whimper as he crossed to the stall. He played the light over the lock, then the rest of the door and the adjacent wall, looking for a key. Two keys dangled on a thin wire ring from a nail just to the left of the door. He reached—and then paused. This was none of his business. He was leaving. The Kings had the right to run their farm however they wished.
The puppy whined again.
“Hey, boy.” Slipping the ring off the nail, he slotted one of the keys into the lock. “Hang—”
That last word never did leave his mouth.
He saw now that the door was oak, and sturdy but not completely solid. There was a large knothole about two-thirds of the way down, near the level of his right knee. It was dark, and he shouldn’t have been able to see a hole. By definition, no one ever did. A hole existed because of where it wasn’t.
But there was something here: grimy and very thin but completely recognizable.
A finger.
And then, it moved.