Then she saw the stain.
Dark, reddish, a pool of what she could only assume was blood had spread in the snow near a pine tree approximately twenty feet from the edge of the rickety porch.
Her heart nearly stopped. Silently, she caught Pescoli’s attention and pointed to the large stain and, upon closer inspection, more carmine-colored drips leading to the garage. Footprints in the snow, now buried and uneven, indicated one person, or possibly two, had walked to the blood pool. It was too dark to make out which direction they had been headed, but there was a definite drag mark, a deep trough, where something had been hauled away.
A body?
Had Verdago gotten rid of Carnie? Had she become a liability? Or was the dead person the missing Vincent Samuels, owner of the property? Or someone else? Someone on his hit list?
Her heart was pounding hard, her mouth dry. Something definitely was going down here and she no longer expected the capture to go quietly.
Noiselessly, she walked onto the porch, and while Pescoli took a spot on one side of the door, she flattened herself to the wall on the other, hard enough that she felt the shingles pressing against her back through her jacket.
When the time came, Pescoli would knock and announce that the police were here and then hopefully the confrontation wouldn’t end in gunfire.
But that was unlikely.
Her cell phone clicked softly.
The five minutes were up.
It was on.
Pescoli’s gaze met hers and with a nod, ordered Alvarez to call for backup. Alvarez pressed another button on her cell phone, silently alerting the two backup units that they were needed.
STAT!
Alvarez braced herself.
Pescoli banged hard on the door, the sound echoing through the hills. Before it was answered, she quickly stepped away from the entrance and pressed her body into the siding again, just in case Verdago came out guns blazing.
Nothing happened.
Silence reigned.
No frantic footsteps ran wildly through the house.
No panicked shouts were yelled.
No movement could be felt in the old timbers.
And definitely no door was opening.
Pescoli waited, her weapon aimed squarely at the door, just as Alvarez’s was.
“Maurice Verdago?” she yelled again, disturbing the stillness. “Open up! This is the Pinewood County Sheriff’s Department! Come out with your hands over your head.”
Silence, and then something . . . footsteps.
Alvarez set her jaw. Adrenaline poured through her blood, the hand on her weapon was steady.
A second later, the door swung inward.
Standing in the doorway, unarmed, was Vincent friggin’ Samuels.
His eyes, behind his glasses, were round, and as he focused on Pescoli with her weapon pointed at him, his mouth dropped open and he looked as if he might pee himself right then and there.
“What the hell is this?” he said and his hands shot skyward. “Don’t shoot! For the love of God! Don’t fucking shoot!” Looking as if he might actually faint, he cried, “For the love of Christ, it’s only an elk!”