His stomach lurched.
That weird metallic smell? That was blood. A lot of blood. No mistaking it for anything else.
As his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, Jason was able to scan the layout of the room. To his right was a hall leading to the rest of the cottage. From an open doorway on the right side of the hall, he could pick out a dim glow. That was likely the kitchen. On the left side of the hall were three more doors—two bedrooms and a bathroom, he was guessing—and at the end of the hall was another closed doorway. Probably the master bedroom.
Jason stuck close to the wall, moving slowly, cautiously toward the mouth of the hall.
When he reached the doorjamb, he threw a quick look around the opening, cornered his way around the door frame, and, gun at low ready, headed for the kitchen.
Same tactical maneuver. Hug the corner, slice the pie, enter the room, and make for the deep corner.
The deep corner turned out to be beside a large window. Jason listened to the rain picking at the glass, his gaze—and weapon—staying trained on the room.
Silence and shadows, nothing more.
The only points of light came from the clock on the microwave, the coffeemaker button indicating the machine was still heating…and the light from the refrigerator which stood wide open.
Jason’s heart stopped.
By the glow of the refrigerator light he could see the breakfast counter. On top of the counter sat a mousepad, mouse, coffee cup, and computer cable. What he did not see was a laptop.
He expelled a long breath and moved back toward the doorway, feeling for the wall light switch.
The light came on, cheery and bright, illuminating a scene of horror. Blood spray arced across the cupboards to the left of the refrigerator, spattered the interior of the refrigerator, and completed its arc on the cabinets to the right of the refrigerator. Jason looked upwards.
Beads of blood and other matter were dotted halfway across the ceiling.
He closed his eyes for a moment, then blinked a couple of times. Black spots danced before his eyes. There was a peculiar singing in his ears. He was not trained for this. No one was trained for this. Discovering the body of someone you knew?
But he had not found a body.
He looked down at the floor and saw the lake of blood shining at the base of the refrigerator. “Jesus Christ,” he whispered.
He should have found a body, because no one could survive that kind of blood loss.
He wiped his forehead, which was wet with sweat. It was like an oven in there. Despite the cold knot of horror in his gut, his shirt stuck to his underarms and back with perspiration.
A thick swath of smeared blood led from the pool of congealing blood toward the opposite doorway. The body of the victim had been dragged, probably bleeding out, from the kitchen and down the hallway toward the back of the cottage.
Jason followed the blood trail, weapon at ready.
Beyond the fan of light from the kitchen, the hallway was dark. A small boat-shaped night light illuminated the black streaks down the length of the hall.
Despite the gory path marker, Jason carefully and methodically checked and cleared the first bedroom and bathroom off the hall. All the while his brain was racing. Why try to hide the body? Given the amount of forensic evidence, what was the point of this?
The offender was long gone—taking Shipka’s laptop with him. That would have been his next-to-last move. The last move had been to turn the thermostat to Fahrenheit Hell.
Unless this was not what it seemed?
Now there was wishful thinking.
What did he imagine? That Shipka was faking his death to lend credence to his theory that the Havemeyer kid had been killed on this island?
Jason cleared the second bedroom.
Only the master bedroom to go.
His heart was thumping loudly in his ears. His hands were ice cold as he gripped his Glock.