Free The Killing Season by Mason Cross Page A

been done twenty or thirty years before, and on a tight budget. The farmhouse itself was ramshackle, with a roof that buckled in places. White paint peeled from every wall. There was an extension on the south end that wasn’t in much better shape: a one-story timber structure that tapered off to a covered deck area. The dog was tied by a length of chain to one of the posts supporting the roof over the deck.
    It was a big German shepherd, virtually wolflike in proportions. It had been pacing from side to side, but angled itself toward the interlopers as they opened the car doors. The barking increased in intensity, and the chain stretched tight as the animal strained to get at them.
    “He’s starving,” Paxon said, a lilt of sympathy in her voice.
    Banner was focused on the spot where the chain had rubbed against the wooden post, noticing that it had worn down an inch deep or more. “Why do I get the feeling he’s visualizing a couple of roast chickens in office wear?” She was glad she had the Glock in her hand. “Come on.”
    They headed for the front door, giving the dog a wide berth. Banner kept a wary eye on it as Paxon rapped on the door. She wasn’t a dog person at the best of times—her ­parents had told her that, when she was a toddler, some ­idiot’s rottweiler had gotten off the leash in the middle of the street and had tried to get to her in her stroller. Thankfully, her father had beaten the dog off before it could savage her, receiving a couple of nasty bites for his trouble. Banner had no memory of the incident, but she didn’t doubt it was the reason behind her aversion to canines.
    Paxon knocked again, harder. They waited another thirty seconds. Banner shrugged and reached for the handle. It twisted down and the door swung open.
    “Unlocked,” Paxon said.
    “No,” Banner said slowly. “It was ajar. Right?”
    “Of course. My mistake.” Paxon drew her own gun, and they stepped through the doorway and into a hallway. It was warmer than outside, but not by much. There was a stillness, a silence that spoke of uninhabitation. The only sound was the muted barking from outside, which suddenly sounded much farther away than it was.
    The hall was narrow, with two closed doors on the right-hand side, a steep flight of stairs to the left, and a glass-­paneled door at the far end that looked like it would lead to a kitchen. A light was burning in the room beyond, visible through the frosted pane.
    “ FBI agents,” Banner called out. “Be advised we are armed.”
    There was no response. They advanced down the hall, and Banner noticed there was a slight incline, probably indicative of the house settling. A breeze from the top floor whispered past them, and Banner looked up the flight of stairs to where it ended in a half landing. She was considering ascending the stairs when they heard it.
    It was a low, intermittent scratching sound. Quiet and tentative. It was coming from the kitchen.
    “What the hell was that?” Paxon whispered.
    Banner didn’t answer. She changed direction and moved to the far end of the hall. The carpet was so old and so cheap that she could feel the lines of the floorboards through the soles of her shoes. One of the boards creaked loudly as her hand touched the kitchen door handle, and the scratching stopped. They exchanged a glance, and Paxon raised her gun to cover the door.
    Banner let out a tiny breath and pulled the handle.
    A dark shape flashed out of the kitchen, glancing off Paxon’s calf. She let out a restrained yelp, and they both turned to see the German shepherd puppy as it scampered the length of the hall and out into the yard.
    Paxon let out a nervous laugh and put her free hand over her heart. “Jesus.”
    “Look,” Banner said, indicating Paxon’s leg. There was a smear of blood on her right thigh, just below the hem of her skirt.
    Paxon looked down, confused. She touched a hand to the crimson stain and withdrew it as though she’d touched something