Except there’s no food here.
There could be food close by, and the dog simply comes here for shelter. But this is the middle of nowhere. I certainly didn’t see any food here. Perhaps there are wild rabbits running around. That could make sense.
I sigh and walk toward the door. Outside the building, I find a patch of grass to wipe my boot on. After I get as much crap off as I can, I look around.
This time, I watch where I walk. Good thing, because I find more dog shit.
And then I wonder…
If a dog comes here for shelter, why would he relieve himself inside the building? Dogs don’t normally do that. You don’t shit where you live.
Interesting.
So perhaps someone was here. Someone with a dog—a dog who doesn’t live here. Because if a dog thinks of this place as his shelter, he wouldn’t be shitting inside. He’d be shitting out here.
I continue to search around the outside perimeter of the building, when something red catches my eye. I kneel to take a closer look. It’s a fingernail. A woman’s fake fingernail—the kind you glue over your own nails. It’s painted fire-engine red.
How old could this be? It’s probably made of plastic, and plastic is forever. Is this a fingernail that made the scratch marks on the inside of the building?
I doubt it. If it came off the nail it was on, it wouldn’t have been strong enough to make those scratches.
Then again, what the hell do I know about women’s fingernails? Not a lot.
I slide the fingernail into the pocket of my jeans and continue my search.
More dog shit. No more fingernails. But I can’t help but wonder, why was there even one fingernail? Who was here? I’ll assume it was a woman, but is that even a fair assumption? Someone could have just dropped a fake nail here to throw someone off.
Someone.
Someone who knows I’m coming here. Whoever put that information in the safe-deposit box with my name on it knew I would come here.
So I’m here for a reason. I just don’t know if that reason is good or bad.
We’re going to have to raze this building. Dig all the way around it, tunnel underneath it. Something is here. Something that someone wants me to find.
Or someone wants to throw me off the scent of something else.
“Fuck,” I say aloud.
“Fuck what?”
I turn toward my brother’s voice.
“I didn’t expect you guys until later,” I say.
“Didn’t you get my text?” Dale says.
“No.” I pull my phone out of my pocket. “I don’t have a text.”
“I sent one.” Dale shoves his phone at me. “See? It says delivered.”
“The service sucks around here. It’ll probably show up once we’re back in a better area.”
“Where’s Brock?”
“Back at the truck, gathering our equipment together. When I saw your old truck, I figured I’d better come find what you’re up to.”
“Not much. All I’ve found is a fake fingernail and a lot of dog shit.”