The sensation of being observed was suddenly so strong he quickly straightened and swung his flashlight in a wide arc, cutting a circle through the darkness.

As the beam swept past the trunk of the maple tree, he spotted the second clump of fur, this one larger, the animal recognizable. He moved toward it, and his fear was suddenly back full force, tension screaming along every nerve. The steel collar studs reflected back at him, as did the gleam of white teeth protruding from the open and lifeless jaw. One of the pit bulls. Half of it, anyway. It had been wearing a collar which was still fastened to the chain. The animal had been unable to escape, unable to avoid slaughter.

He didn’t recall drawing his weapon; he knew only that it was suddenly in his hand, and that the fear was so thick it seemed to coat his throat. He swept the beam of his flashlight in a wider circle around the yard, and found the other half of the dog, and its intestines, lying in a bundle by the porch steps. He crossed to the bloody heap and forced himself to press a bare finger to the offal. The tissue was cold, but not yet frozen. Less than an hour old. Whatever had ripped apart this animal could still be lurking nearby.

The muffled explosion of breaking glass made him wheel around, his heart slamming against his chest. The sound had come from inside the house. He glanced up at the dark windows. There were five people living in there, one of them a fourteen-year-old girl. What had happened to them?

He climbed the porch steps to the front door. It was unlocked- another disturbing detail. He gave the knob a twist and nudged the door open. A quick sweep of his flashlight revealed a threadbare carpet and several pairs of shoes cluttering the front hail. Nothing alarming. He reached up and flicked the light switch. No lights. Had the power been shut off?

For a moment he hesitated near the front door, debating the wisdom of announcing his presence. He knew Jack Reid owned a shotgun, and the man would not hesitate to use it if he thought a prowler was in his house. Lincoln drew a breath, preparing to call out:

“Police!” when his gaze froze on something that instantly killed his voice.

There was a bloody handprint on the wall.

The gun suddenly felt slick in his hand. He moved toward the print. A closer look revealed it was indeed blood, and that there was more of it smeared along the wall, leading toward the kitchen.

Five people, live in this house. Where are they?

Stepping into the kitchen, he found the first member of the family. Jack Reid lay sprawled on the floor, his throat cut ear to ear. The arterial spray of his blood had splattered all four walls of the room. He was still clutching his shotgun.

Something clattered, rolled across the floor. At once, Lincoln’s weapon was up, his pulse roaring in his ears. The noise had come from below. From the cellar.

His lungs were like bellows, air rushing in and out in quick breaths. He eased toward the cellar door, paused for a one-two-three count, his heart accelerating, his sweating fingers clamped like a vise around his weapon. He took a breath, and with a burst of force, kicked the door.

It flew open, slamming into the opposite wall.

A set of steps dropped away into blackness. Someone was down there. The darkness seemed charged with an alien energy. He could almost smell the other presence, lurking at the bottom of those stairs. He aimed his flashlight downward, the beam quickly sweeping the cellar. He caught only the flash of movement, a shadow slipping toward cover under the stairs.

“Police!” yelled Lincoln. “Come out where I can see you!” He kept the beam steady, his weapon aimed at the bottom of the stairs. “Come on, come on. Do it now!”

Slowly the darkness congealed into a solid shape. A single arm, materializing in the beam’s circle. Then a face inched into view, peering out with terrified eyes from beneath the stairs. A boy.

“My mom,” whimpered Eddie Reid. “Please, help me get my mom out of here.”

Now a woman’s voice whispered from beneath the stairs. “Help us. God in heaven, help us!”

Lincoln descended the stairs and shone his light directly at the woman. Grace Reid stared back at him, her face white as a corpse, her expression almost catatonic with terror.

“No light,” she pleaded. “Turn off the lights or he’ll find us!” She backed away. Behind her, the circuit breaker box hung open. She had flipped off the switches, cutting all power to the house.

Eddie tugged his mother toward the stairs. “Mom, it’s okay now. We gotta get out of here. Please, please move?’

Grace shook her head in almost violent protest. “No, he’s waiting for us.” She pulled away, refusing to budge. “J.D.’s up there.”

Again Eddie grabbed his mother’s arm and dragged her toward the steps. “Now, Mom!”

“Wait,” cut in Lincoln. “What about Amelia? Mrs. Reid, where’s Amelia?”

Grace looked at him with wide eyes. “Amelia?” she murmured, as though she’d suddenly remembered her own daughter. “In her room.”

“Let’s get your mom out of the house,” Lincoln said to Eddie. “My cruiser’s parked right outside.”

“But what about-”

“I’ll find your sister. First, I’ll get you both into the car and I’ll radio for help. Now let’s go. Stay right behind me.” He turned and started slowly up the stairs. He could hear Grace and Eddie following behind him, Grace’s breath coming out in frantic whimpers, Eddie murmuring words of encouragement.

J.D. They were both terrified of J.D.

Lincoln reached the top of the stairs. There was no way around it; he’d have to lead them through the blood-splattered kitchen, right past Jack Reid’s body. If Grace was going to collapse in hysterics, it would be here.

Thank god for Eddie. The boy draped his arm around his stepmother, hugging her face against his chest. “Go, Chief Kelly,” he whispered urgently. “Please, just get us out of here.”

Lincoln led them through the kitchen, into the hallway. There he halted, every nerve suddenly giving off panic alarms. By the beam of his flashlight, he saw that the front door hung open. Did I close it when I came in the house?

He whispered, “Wait here,” and he inched toward the front door. Glancing outside, he saw moonlit-silvered snow. The cruiser was parked about thirty feet away. Everything lay still, as silent as air trapped in a bell jar.

Something is wrong. We are being watched. We are being stalked.

He turned to Eddie and Grace and whispered: “Run to the car. Now!”

But Grace didn’t run. Instead she backed away, and as she stumbled past a moonlit window, Lincoln saw her face was gazing upward. Toward the stairs.

He pivoted, just as the shadow came hurtling down at him. He was slammed backwards so hard the breath whooshed from his lungs. Pain sliced across his cheek. He staggered sideways, just as the knife blade came down again, stabbing deep into the wall near his head. His weapon had fallen, knocked from his grasp by that first tackle. Now he scrabbled frantically on the floor, trying to locate the gun in the dark.

He heard the squeak of the knife being pried free from the wood, and spun around to see the shadow rushing at him. He brought his left arm up just as the knife came stabbing down. The blade struck bone, and he heard his own gasp of pain like a distant, foreign sound.

Somehow he grasped the boy’s wrist in his right hand and twisted the knife free.

It thudded to the floor. The boy wrenched away, stumbling backwards.

Lincoln dropped down and grabbed the knife. His sense of triumph lasted only for an instant.

The boy had risen to his feet as well, his silhouette framed by the window. He was holding Lincoln’s gun. He swung it around, aiming the barrel straight at Lincoln.

The explosion was so loud it shattered the window. Glass blew out in a hail of shards, raining down onto the porch.