Holy Ghost (Virgil Flowers #11)(16)

Virgil, watching every footstep, moved into the dining room. Andorra’s face was a combination of dark gray and purple skin, hanging loose. His eyelids, thankfully, hung down over whatever was left of his eyes, which Virgil didn’t want to think about.

Virgil decided that the death was not a natural one, the chief indicator being the large-caliber bullet hole at the side of Andorra’s head. An older-looking 1911 .45 semiautomatic pistol lay on the floor by the side of the chair.

The Vicks was doing its job, but Virgil gagged and stepped away, into the kitchen, got himself together again breathing through his mouth. If he blew his guts all over the place, the crime scene crew would be distinctly unhappy.

As he stood there, head down, he heard movement, and all the hair on the back of his neck stood straight up. He backed away into the mudroom, then jumped off the stoop and jogged to his truck, got his Glock out of the gun safe.

The sound he’d heard had been quiet but distinct, with the feeling of some weight. But despite a mildly superstitious nature, he didn’t believe that Andorra was about to lurch out of the dining room. There was somebody else here.

He called Zimmer.

“I’m in my car, on the way,” Zimmer said.

“There might be somebody else in the house,” Virgil said. “Something’s moving, didn’t sound like a rat. Something bigger.”

“Oh, boy . . .”

“I wanted you to know. I’m gonna check . . . Talk to the cops coming out, tell them to take care.”

“Wait ’til they get there.”

“Ah . . . I’m too curious. I’m going to take a look.”

“Take your gun with you, Virgil.”

“Got it.”



* * *



—

Virgil rang off and walked back to the stoop, then up into the mudroom. He stopped to listen, heard nothing at all. He moved slowly through the kitchen, listening. The house had three floors, but the noise had felt closer, and not above him.

He was coming up to the dining room door when he heard it again, off to his right. Behind the basement door.

A chill ran up his spine, and he called out, “I’m going to open the door and I’ve got a gun . . . Don’t move.” He turned to his right, and said loud enough to be heard through the door, “Jim, line up on the door with your shotgun, but stay behind that wall. Be ready . . .”

He stepped quietly past the basement door, listened, heard nothing, reached way back, grabbed the doorknob, and yanked the door open.

No gunfire.

He peeked around the door, saw nothing but the empty landing in front of the exterior door.

He decided to wait for the deputies, but as he stepped back from the door, heard a whimper. Dog? Kid?

Whatever it was, it sounded hurt rather than dangerous. He swallowed, pushed the Glock out in front of him, hit the basement light switch, and stepped slowly down to the landing. Two more steps down was another landing, at the top of the stairway that led down into the basement. He listened, then stepped down and peeked around the corner into the basement.

From where he stood, he could smell dog poop, even through the Vicks and the background odor of decomposition. At the bottom of the stairs, he saw a shredded yellow sack and, beyond that, a dog. A big dog, lying on his stomach. The dog lifted his head and whimpered.

“Easy, there,” Virgil said.

He eased down the stairs, into the stench of the poop. The basement was damp but not wet. At the bottom of the stairs, in the glare of the bare lightbulb, he saw that the shredded bag had once contained twenty pounds of dry dog food. The food was gone, and part of the bag had been chewed off by the dog.

The dog, a yellow-and-white collie, was watching him but not moving. Virgil stepped past him and looked around: the dog had had food, but he saw no water, though there must have been some if the animal had been locked in the basement for two weeks.

He moved slowly through the basement. The dog whimpered again, and Virgil saw a hole next to a wall going down through the concrete floor: a sump.

The sump was damp, but with no standing water. Normally, there’d be a little water in it, but the dog must have drunk it, which answered that question. Virgil remembered . . . a bowl? Up on the landing?

He went back to the stairs, saw a stainless steel bowl that he’d ignored on his way down the basement. He picked it up, ran back down the stairs, went to a laundry sink, filled the bowl with cold water, and carried it to the dog.

The dog whimpered again and edged toward the bowl and drank. And drank. And drank. And then edged away from the bowl and lay down again, his head stretched out in front of him between his paws, his eyes rolling up to Virgil.



* * *



—

A man shouted, and Virgil almost jumped out of his skin.

“Virgil! Virgil Flowers!”

Virgil shouted back, “Down in the basement.”

“Holy cow, it stinks in here . . .”

A deputy appeared on the landing, one hand pinching his nose. “What’s that?”

“Collie,” Virgil said. “He’s alive, but not by much. I got him some water.”

“Ah, man . . . I gotta get out of here.”

“Go back out through the mudroom,” Virgil said. He touched the collie on the head: his hair was matted and felt almost like plastic broom bristles. “We’ll be back, boy,” he said.