Ninety seconds later, the truck eased into a deserted lot and jolted to a halt ten feet from a rusted Dumpster. Hunt looked at his watch. “Three minutes.”

“Why wait?” Yoakum asked.

Hunt ignored the question. “Three minutes.”

Fingers tightened and relaxed. Men stared at their shoes. Cross fingered the heavy sledgehammer. “Right on the lock,” Hunt said. “Then get out of my way.”

Cross nodded. Two minutes later, Yoakum nudged Hunt with an elbow. “Grunge, huh?”

“Not now, Yoakum.” Another minute passed. The first hint of train came like a tide, so thin it was transparent.

“You feel that?” Yoakum asked.

Hunt looked around the dark space. “Here we go.” He tapped the driver on the shoulder. “When I say.”

The driver nodded, and the night air began to swell. A rumble approached from the south, grew deeper, louder. The vibration climbed into an avalanche of sound, and when the whistle cried, one of the men twitched.

“You’re a freaking genius,” Yoakum said.

Hunt put a hand on the driver’s shoulder. “Now.”

The truck ran out of the lot, went left and left again, hit Huron street dead center and tore down its length as dogs lunged and howled and choked on stiff collars. Then they were there. Hunt saw a car in the driveway, one window with a light burning. The van rocked to a halt. The doors split wide and spilled cop all over the street. Yoakum and his men ran for the sides, weapons ready, black boots so lost against the dark earth that they almost seemed to float.

Thirty feet away, the train tore through the night, a thunderclap that shook the earth. Hunt gave the driver one second to catch up, then felt air tear his throat as he ran. Cross came up on his other side, and they took the yard in long strides, ate up the dirt and dead grass until the porch sagged under their weight. Hunt pointed at the space between the door handle and frame, then stepped back, flashlight in one hand, service weapon in the other. He nodded once and didn’t even hear the sledgehammer strike. It burst the door with a spray of desiccated wood and a flash of bright, tortured metal. The caboose flashed past, brought the suck of vacuum and a fading clatter; then Hunt was through.

Inside, a lamp burned above a chair with torn cushions; something fluorescent at the back spread white light near the end of the hall. Hunt checked right, then tracked the gun left. Gaps in the wall showed black rooms and humps of furniture. Something hissed to the left, static from a speaker, the thump of a needle at the end of a long, vinyl groove. Hunt stepped aside and Cross pushed in after him, then the driver. The room was hot and close. Shadows danced on tobacco-colored walls but nothing else moved.

Hunt smelled it first, an oily burn that filled his sinuses. Cross caught his eye as the driver convulsed twice and buried his nose in the crook of his arm. “Steady,” Hunt whispered, then pointed at the dark room to the left and sent the other cops that way. Hunt swung his light into the narrow hall, checked his stride at the door, then stepped into the rank gloom. The space was narrow and felt longer than it should be. Ahead, a sharp edge of white light cut a triangle on the carpet. Hunt called out: “Police. We have a warrant.”

Silent. Still. Hunt moved down the hall and came to a kitchen on his right. A long tube of white flickered over a sink filled with dishes. He checked the room, found an empty liquor bottle, and an open window with a torn screen. He turned his back, moved deeper into the gloom, and saw the smear of blood on Sheetrock. He stepped past an open door, swung his light into the room, and flies exploded from the bodies.

The woman was white, possibly in her thirties, possibly Ronda Jeffries. It was hard to tell because most of her face was gone. She wore filmy lingerie, crusted with blood. One breast hung out, the skin more gray than white. Her face was crushed, jaw broken in two or more places, left eye distended from a shattered orbit. Her torso stretched toward the hall, her legs near the bed. One arm angled above her head, and on that hand two fingers were clearly broken.

The black male was not so horribly disfigured. In life he must have been large; but not now. Now he was reduced. Trapped gas distended his stomach, making his arms and legs look unusually small. His head was staved in on the right side, giving his face a slack, unfinished appearance. He was nude, slumped in an overstuffed chair as if he’d simply decided to sit.

Hunt reached for the wall switch and flicked on the overhead light. It made everything look worse, the violence more complete. Hunt felt the other cops arrive behind him. “Nobody in,” Hunt said.

He knelt by the woman, careful of how he placed his feet. He studied the corpse from the bottom to the top. She had a pedicure, with acrylic beads set into the bright red polish. Calluses on the bottoms of her feet. Legs shaved to the knee. False nails, close to an inch long, made a spike of each finger. No visible scars or tattoos. Thirty-two seemed to be about the right age.

He did the same with the dead man, squatted by the chair and looked him over. Black. Forties. Strong. Maybe six foot two. He had old surgical scars on both knees. No jewelry. Gold fillings. He needed a shave.

Hunt stood. A glance showed work boots by the closet door, jeans, satin briefs the color of candied apples. He found the cinder block beside the bed. “Yoakum.” Hunt gestured and Yoakum crossed the room. Hunt pointed at the cinder block. One side of it was greased with coagulated blood. “I’m thinking that’s the murder weapon.”

“Looks like it.”

Hunt straightened. “Hang on.” He stepped around the dead man’s feet and over the female victim’s arm. The other cops pressed against the open door but Hunt ignored them. He knelt by the door, ran his fingers across the carpet where parallel indentations stretched the length of a cinder block. When he stood, he found Cross at the door.

“What can I do?” Cross asked.

“Tape off the yard and the street. Get Crime Scene and the medical examiner out here.” Hunt rubbed his face. “And find me a Diet Coke.” He caught Cross by the sleeve as he turned. “Not from the refrigerator in this house. And clear this hall.”

Hunt watched the hall empty, sensed Yoakum behind him and turned. Framed against the death and violence, his friend looked flushed and very alive. Hunt looked past him, and when he spoke, he kept his voice low. “It’s early, I know, but I don’t think this was premeditated.”

“Because?”

Hunt flicked a finger toward the base of the door. “Dents in the carpet. It looks like they were using the cinder block for a doorstop.” He shrugged. “Killers with a plan usually bring a weapon.”

“Maybe. Maybe he knew the cinder block would be there.”

“Too early,” Hunt agreed. “You’re right.”

“So what’s the plan?”

Hunt indicated the room with an open palm. “Seal this off until Crime Scene gets here. Canvass the street. Get a cadaver dog out here, just in case.” Hunt stopped speaking, turned into the hall. “Damn!” It came from the gut, an explosion. He slammed a fist into the wall, then stomped into the living room. When Yoakum stepped into the room, Hunt had both palms pressed against the frame of the front door. His forehead made a dull, thumping sound as he tapped it against the wood. “Damn it.” He hit his head harder.

“If you want to bleed,” Yoakum said. “There are better ways.”

Hunt turned, put his back against the splintered door. He knew that his face was naked. “This is not right.”

“Murder never is.”

“She was supposed to be here, John.” Hunt felt a sudden need for fresh air. He tore open the door, tossed words over his shoulder with something like hate. “It was supposed to end today.”

“Tiffany?”

“All of it. Everything.”