The Last Second Read Free Page B

past the gulch where they hid. It stopped, the red dust settling as the officer got out, checked the chain on the gate, then stood there a moment, looking in their direction. Although they were hidden in the brush, Griffin felt Sydney tensing next to him. But then the officer turned away, got back into his vehicle, and drove off.
    They waited until the trail of dust was long gone before they got up, moved to the gate. Trish showed them where the dog had gotten through, a hole beneath the chain link. Griffin lifted it, allowing first Sydney, then Trish in, before sliding under it himself. Sydney and Trish climbed the hill toward the house to have a look around, while Griffin, using the shrubs for cover, worked his way to the end of the broken wall, where the dog rested.
    When he reached the break in the wall, the dog turned toward him, his sad eyes looking suddenly hopeful as he raised his head, then wagged his tail hesitantly. In that moment, had all the forces of Washington, D.C., ordered him off, Griffin knew without a doubt that he couldn’t walk away.
    “Hey, Max,” he said quietly, not wanting to scare the dog. “C’mere.”
    Max stood, but didn’t move, watching with a wary expression as Griffin neared. He looked thin, his coat dull from the dust.
    “Max.” Griffin took a few more steps, held out his hand, then clicked his tongue. “C’mere, boy. Come.”
    The dog remained steadfast.
    At least he wasn’t growling. Griffin took that as a good sign, talking softly, moving forward, slow, steady, until he was just two steps away.
    “Good dog.” He reached out, allowed the dog to smell the back of his hand. “Where’s Calvin?” The dog’s ears perked up. “Where’s Calvin? C’mon, boy. Show me.”
    Max gave a slight whine, then jumped down and started digging in the hard, sandy soil, right beneath the foremost rock.
    Griffin might still have doubts about Trish’s theory on the location of Calvin Walker’s body—­he saw no signs of a fresh grave, nor smelled the stench of decaying flesh that in this climate was a sure sign. But this dog was trying to tell him that something was beneath there.
    He crouched down next to the dog, looking at the rocks, and the dog pushed his nose against Griffin’s arm, as though urging him forward. Max jumped so that his forepaws were on the rock. He barked twice, and Griffin wondered if perhaps there was a murder weapon, or something that belonged to his master that would explain why the dog had steadfastly remained in this one spot of all places. He leaned forward to peer into the shadows cast by the bush growing right against the break in the wall.
    What he didn’t expect was to feel air moving against his face. Or a sound coming from beneath the rocks. Like the noise a seashell makes when you hold it to your ear.
    The rocks weren’t there to cover up a grave. They were there to cover up an old mining shaft.
    “Anyone down there?”
    No answer.
    Griffin pulled one of the rocks off and it rolled down the pile. Then another, until he partially exposed a metal grate covering the shaft. He cleared the remainder of the rocks from it and saw it was a little over a half meter in diameter. The bush growing next to it blocked the sunlight and he couldn’t see how deep it went. Someone certainly could have dropped a body down there, but after three days, there would have been some smell of decay—­unless it was too deep. “Calvin Walker? Are you there?”
    He couldn’t tell if what he heard was a raspy faint response or an echo of his last word. The dog, however, whined. That was proof enough for Griffin, and he started to lift the grille when Sydney called out to him. He looked up to see her and Trish on the porch.
    Sydney pointed toward the ser­vice road. “The patrol car’s coming back around.” Sure enough, there was a growing cloud of dust, which suddenly settled, indicating the car had stopped a ­couple of hundred yards out.
    Sydney turned her binoculars back