At First Light(Dr. Evan Wilding #1)(67)

Hiding from the effects of meth and abject despair, more likely, Addie thought. But perversely, Patrick’s stubborn gloom cheered her. The edges of her mouth ticked up.

“Hangover?” she asked.

“Maybe a bit much of the devil’s mouthwash.” He squinted at her. “How’d you know?”

“I didn’t. But you went out with Evan last night. And today you’re terribly morose, even for a good Irishman. Trust me as one who knows—when it comes to the sauce, don’t try to keep up with the professor.”

Patrick groaned. “Don’t tell me a Brit who can’t reach high enough to sniff my hairy armpits can drink you under the table.”

“No one can drink me under the table,” Addie said. “But Evan gets as close as anyone.”

“Well. Truth is, I can’t entirely blame it on the lad. I might have cracked a few when I got home.”

“Ah.”

A stray bit of sunlight found its way through a chink in the clouds and flared off a chip in the windshield like the flash off a hurtling ax.

“Gonna rain soon, but this cursed sun,” Patrick muttered. “It will be the death of me. Where are my shades?”

While Patrick fumbled in the console for his sunglasses, she turned her attention back to Helskin’s house. It looked even more forlorn in the dull morning light. Gray boards showed where ancient blue paint had peeled away. Blank places on the roof marked missing shingles. The porch, with its ominous stack of bones, sagged along its length, punctured here and there by splintered holes where the wood had rotted and given way. The flag, and its emblem of Thor’s hammer, had faded in sun and weather, the edges tattered. Not even the gods, it seemed, got any respect here.

From outside came the sound of wheels rolling on gravel.

“There’s CACC.” Patrick pulled on his shades. “Finally. I’m glad they’re leading the charge.”

A white panel truck with red lettering on the side pulled up behind them, and two men got out. They opened the side door of their van, and one of the men leaned in. They carried stun guns and five-foot snare poles. They were also likely packing heat.

Although the judge had decided a pile of bones and a black cross flag weren’t probable cause for a warrant, even with the possible link between Talfour’s assault and Helskin, there was nothing to stop Addie and Patrick and the CACC officers from knocking on the door and asking a few questions. At the first sign that something more was going on—evidence of dogfighting, runes carved on wood, a high-pitched squeal that just might be someone crying for help—they’d have probable cause and could force their way in.

And if all they accomplished today was rescuing the dogs under Article 48-1, Chapter 720 of the Illinois Criminal Code, it would still be a victory. The fact that Helskin had apparently hotfooted it somewhere wouldn’t save him if he was putting dogs into fighting pits.

Addie retied her sneakers, double knotting the laces, and put her hand on the door.

“If there’s dogfighting,” Patrick said, as if he’d read her mind, “then there’s probably also drugs and gambling. Firearms. A criminal mindset. We need to be on our toes.”

She gave him the look he deserved, and his ruddy skin reddened further.

“I’d say the same to whoever was my partner,” he said.

“I know. So let’s go in and do our jobs. If we hurry, we can still be part of the search at Tommy Snow’s place. Did I tell you the sheriff got the warrant?”

Patrick turned up the collar of his trench coat as a few raindrops struck the car. “I think you might have mentioned it. Twice, but third time’s the charm.” He didn’t sound unhappy. “I just hope these guys know what they’re doing. Did I tell you I almost got attacked by a dog when I was a kid?”

“A hellhound?”

“God’s truth. Neighbor’s mutt. Big. Had me cornered against my own house. Nightmares for years.”

She started to let fly something about Irish ghost dogs and the Irish imagination when she caught sight of Patrick’s expression. “Most dogs who’ve been trained to fight aren’t aggressive toward humans,” she told him.

He rolled his eyes at her.

“CACC will cover the dogs, Paddy,” she said. “No worries.”

“Oh, right. None at all.”

Behind them, the CACC officer reemerged from the back of the van and headed toward them.

Addie and Patrick opened their doors and stepped out. Immediately, a sense of wrongness became palpable. Like a bad stench in the air. Addie glanced at Patrick—he felt it, too. His expression was grim, his mouth set in a thin line. He adjusted his coat and nervously picked at a loose thread on the collar.

“You don’t look any tougher with the sunglasses,” Addie said.

“Wife says I do.”

“Yes, but she loves you.”

She led the way down and across the street, Patrick one step behind while the CACC officers fanned out on either side. When they reached the broken sidewalk in front of Helskin’s house, they regrouped and sized up the place.

Nothing and no one stirred. The bones on the porch managed to look both menacing and ludicrous in the foggy light, like a lazy man’s altar to the gods of hate. A single carved pumpkin leered next to the door, a decaying nod to the holiday just passed. The smells of damp earth and damp dog and charred wood clotted the air. The dogs that Addie and Evan had spotted the night before hadn’t emerged from beneath the porch. Addie searched for the end of the chains, but the leashes had been coiled near the edge of the porch, and both ends disappeared below.