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The Smith house filled the binoculars of Clear River’s SWAT commander.

Lacey’s Cadillac was out front. Broken tree limbs and leaf-laden branches were strewn about the driveway and yard.

The binoculars then found a Ford F-150 near the house, indicating, as the undercover scouting van had reported earlier, that Clay appeared to have returned from Baton Rouge.

Out of sight were SWAT members of the first squad, concealed in positions tight to the house. The focus followed along the narrow paved roadway, twisting through the pine woods, where a few small trees had snapped, finding the garage and exterior carport.

The binoculars swept back to the house.

The subject—who many knew personally—possessed firearms and was to be considered dangerous. The commander made a final round of radio checks before green-lighting the first squad to move on the house, executing a forced rapid entry.

In seconds, team members slammed through the front, back and side entrances, weapons at the ready, moving tactically from room to room. Closets and storage spaces were checked; so were ceilings and walls, for body mass.

“Nothing here,” the squad sergeant radioed the commander, who turned to Luke and Vern. “House is clear. We’ll hit the outbuildings now.”

At that moment, the second squad’s sergeant issued a dispatch on the radio.

“We have movement.”

***

Clay Smith exited his garage.

Leaving all the doors open, he stepped around fallen limbs to examine the cars he kept in the exterior carport for possible damage. The storm had tossed branches up on the vehicles.

In a heartbeat, heavily armed SWAT members materialized, putting Clay face down on the ground at gunpoint.

“Hey! Hey! What the f—!”

Clay was handcuffed, patted for weapons and read his rights.

“Is this a joke?”

Mallory and Cobb emerged, along with a surge of deputies and officers, who began a search. A drone was launched to examine the property from the air. Clay, hands secured behind his back, spotted Ellerd, Luke and Vern among those gathering at the scene.

“Bob, what is this? Some kinda drill? What the hell?”

“Look at me,” Mallory said. “Do you know the whereabouts of Carrie Conway and Joyce-Anne Gemsen?”

“Why would I know that?”

“We spoke to Lacey. This isn’t the time to obstruct us—you should cooperate.”

“Cooperate with what?”

“Account for your whereabouts in the last twenty-four hours?”

“I was in Louisiana. I just got home from a swap meet in Baton Rouge.”

It wasn’t long before the investigators had obtained keys to all the vehicles on the property. Clay glanced around at deputies searching the cars in the carport, then the Nomad in the garage. Craning his neck and squinting, he saw others searching Lacey’s Cadillac and his pickup parked at the house. Through the pine trees, Clay saw them search around his pool. Others were combing the woods.

“You got warrants?”

“What do you think? You want to cooperate?”

“Go for it. I got nothing to hide.” Clay then stared at Luke, and his eyes narrowed. “I’ll tell you this: if there’s anyone you should be looking at, it’s him.” Clay stuck his chin out toward Luke. “Ask him why his car’s damaged.”

“Where’s Carrie?” Luke said.

Clay shook his head, eyeballing the others. “You believe this guy?” Then to Luke, “Didn’t you kill someone in LA? Then your daddy-in-law gets you hired on here, where you act like you got something to hide.”

Luke swallowed.

“I’ve been watching you ever since you got here, Luke.”

As radios crackled with updates, a deputy stepped from the garage, where Clay’s prized Chevy Nomad had been searched.

“Nothing so far.”

Clay’s smirk faded when the dog team, Candida Stowe and Caesar, came forward. Earlier, Luke had given them Carrie’s shirt for a scent. Caesar went directly to the garage.

Tail wagging, snout poking here and there, Caesar circled the Chevy Nomad, then yipped. Stowe turned to the investigators: “Can we move this car?”

The car was moved from the pristine garage, revealing two floor plates, each about the size of a coffin lid.

Caesar barked, sniffing the plates. Stowe hefted them open to a grease pit, like those in auto shops. It was a narrow trench over which a car is driven to be serviced. Caesar moved down the stairs, his yelping echoing as Stowe followed, disappearing from view.

A few seconds passed. Then there was the sound of clunking, a squeak and thudding, then Stowe saying, “We’ve got something here!”

The others started for the pit before Ellerd stopped them.

“We don’t want to contaminate anything further.” Then he yelled to Stowe. “Take a video!”

“Carrie!” Luke cried out.

There was no response.

Stowe surfaced with Caesar, phone in hand, investigators huddling around her with somber expressions as they viewed two cell-like cubicles, each containing a mattress, bucket and food.

Otherwise, the rooms were empty.