I made the turn. After a short distance, we were in front of another gate. She reached into her bag and pressed a remote control button that caused this gate to open, pushed it again once we were through. We drove down a dark, tree-lined lane that gave way to a long, curving driveway that sloped up to the mansion. There was a Jaguar in the driveway.

“Looks like Ben is home,” I said.

But she was concentrating on the house, a puzzled look on her face. “The lights are out.”

It took me a moment to register what she was saying, because there were plenty of lights on-but then I realized that they were all exterior lights. The house itself was dark.

“Maybe he’s gone to bed,” I said, but she was shaking her head.

I barely noticed her denial, because at that moment, what I at first took to be a berserk, woolly bear came bounding toward the car. As it drew closer, it started barking, and I realized it was not ursine but canine-the biggest dog I have ever seen in my life.

“Don’t jump, Finn!” she called out. Apparently he heard her, or saw the censure on her face. He scrambled to a halt and plopped his rear down just outside the passenger door-close enough to her window to steam it with his breath. Sitting, he was nearly as tall as the car. He started whining. “He’s an Irish wolfhound,” she said, anticipating my question. “Back up, silly,” she said to him with affection. “I can’t get out.”

His response was to lift a paw as big as a saucer and smack it against her window. When he set it down again, Claire drew in a sharp breath.

There was blood on the window.

HE’S HURT!” Claire cried, but even as we hurriedly opened our car doors, I wondered how he had managed to lope across the lawn if he was badly injured.

Finn wasn’t waiting for sympathy. He ran away from us, barking his deep-throated bark. We were both wearing heels, so we couldn’t follow very fast. He turned, came partway back, ran from us again.

“Finn, stay!” Claire called. He seemed to consider this option for a moment, gave a big “woof” of dissent, and took off once again.

I kicked off my shoes and closed some of the distance. He rounded the corner of the house and headed for the backyard.

There weren’t any exterior lights here, so it was dark along that side of the house, causing me to slow a little. The ground was cold and uneven beneath my stockinged feet. I stumbled once, but didn’t fall, and glanced back to see Claire taking off her shoes.

I wondered if we should change tactics. Maybe it wasn’t blood on his paws. Maybe he was just making mischief, playing a game of chase. He came back into view, his tousled fur backlighted as he stood in silhouette at the far corner of the house. The bark changed to a baying sound. I ran faster.

A large patio came into view, and as I rounded the corner I saw a swimming pool; I stopped cold when I saw a series of crazy-eight patterns of red paw prints along its deck. The dog’s baying put me in motion again. He stood outside what appeared to be a cabana; it was small compared to the house, but I guessed it to be about as large as my first apartment. It was white. One of a pair of French doors facing the pool was open. A light was on inside the building, spilling out through the open door. As I came closer, Finn quit baying and started watching me intently. It made me slow to a walk, then stop-about twenty feet away from him.

I heard Claire coming up behind me. I reached out and motioned for her to wait next to me.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Call the dog, Claire,” I said. “Just let me go in while you hold him.”

For a moment I thought she would protest, but her face went pale as she looked down and noticed the bloody prints on the deck.

“Come here, Finn,” she said in a shaky voice.

He twisted his head to one side in canine concern, but stayed put.

She took a deep breath and said in a commanding tone, “Finn!” He trotted over and sat prettily in front of her.

“Check to see if his feet are hurt,” I said. “I’m going to take a look in the cabana.”

I walked toward it before she could object.

“Ben?” I called from the open door. There was no answer.

I stepped inside and found myself in a small sitting room decorated in soft hues of rose and gray. A small white refrigerator hummed in one corner. To either side of the sitting room, there were changing rooms, two on each side; their open doors showed them to be empty. A short hallway led to another door, also open. Over the gray tiles which led to it, I saw a trail of bloody paw prints.

“Ben?” I called again.

Nothing but the hum of the refrigerator.

With wide, awkward strides, as if stepping on stones across a stream, I crept along, careful to avoid the blood on the cold tiles.

“Ben?” I said, a little louder.

Nothing.

But there was a smell, I realized, a smell that grew much stronger as I neared the door.

My palms started sweating, my heart drumming. I wanted nothing so much as to turn around and run out of that hallway, out to where there might be sweet, cold air-big gulps of air-air that didn’t reek of blood.

I braced my palms on either side of the doorjamb and made myself peer around the corner, look inside the room. It was a bathroom. The shower stall door had been pushed open. On the floor, lying half out of the shower stall, was a man, fully clothed. Ben Watterson. He held a gun. The back of his head was missing. It might have been in the big mess in the shower. I didn’t stick around to find out.

As I came running out of the cabana, I saw Claire, staring at me.

“Don’t go in there,” I said.

She immediately let go of the dog and started to do what I just told her not to do. She had a wild look on her face. I grabbed on to her. “Claire, don’t-”

The dog barked at me, scared me enough to make me let go of her. I don’t know if she heard me or if she heard the dog, but she didn’t move.

Finn barked at me again.

“What-?” She left it at that. I don’t think she wanted to ask the question. I might answer it.

“Let’s go into the house,” I said.

She looked at the cabana again, didn’t budge.

“It’s Ben,” I said. “I’m sorry, Claire.”

“No.”

I waited.

She just shook her head. “No. Not Ben. Not Ben. No, you’re wrong. It’s not Ben.”

“Yes, it is.”

She bit her lip, then said, “Let me see him. He might need help.”

“Claire-it’s too late. I’m sorry.”

“You weren’t in there very long. You don’t know that he’s-you don’t know! I want to see him.” She hurried toward the cabana.

“No!” I shouted. “For Godsakes, Claire, don’t-”

She stopped moving, turned toward me.

“Please don’t,” I said. “Please, please don’t go in there.”

She hesitated a moment longer, then came stumbling back to me.

“We need to go into the house,” I said, trying hard to keep my voice steady. “We need to call the police.”

“No,” she said, but let me put an arm around her shoulders.

She leaned against me, and let me guide her away from the cabana. She just stared at me when I asked for the key to the house. I finally took her purse from her, found the keys, then tried a couple until I found one that would unlock the back door, which led into the kitchen. She stood nearby, petting the dog. “Good boy, Finn,” she said, at least half a dozen times.

As I opened the door and fumbled for a light switch, the air was suddenly pierced with an obnoxious whooping noise, quickly followed by horns and bells.

“You set off the alarm,” she said dully, and pushed past me to enter a code on a keypad. Blessed silence returned.

She turned on the kitchen lights and went to a wall phone, pushed an auto-dial button, and said, “This is Mrs. Watterson, that was a false alarm.” She gave them a code word, then hung up.