"That doesn't mean you go wandering onto their land," she had added.
Now Rascal's tracks disappeared through a hole in that very fence.
Eli considered going home for help. The problem was that he had already followed the dog for nearly half an hour, the light was falling quickly, and another bark came from somewhere near the back of the clubhouse. He told himself he would slip through the opening, take hold of the collar, and leave before anybody noticed. It was a foolish calculation, and he knew it. He made it anyway, because twelve-year-olds do not always arrange their priorities in a way that will satisfy them twenty years later.
He pushed through the torn wire, caught his jacket on a jagged edge, and entered the Iron Hollow property.
The clubhouse stood at the end of the gravel drive, half hidden among tall oaks. It had begun life as a commercial workshop in the early 1960s, and later owners had added corrugated metal to the timber walls, extended the covered porch, and installed heavy doors strong enough to survive decades of winters. Strings of plain bulbs hung beneath the roofline. Through the windows, Eli could see people carrying chairs and arranging food on long tables. The place looked less like the sinister fortress of schoolyard rumors and more like a weathered building being prepared for a family reunion. That did not make him feel welcome.
He kept to the dark side of the property, following the sound of another short bark. The wind came down from the ridge and struck him hard enough to make his eyes water. Rain had begun as a fine mist that collected on his hair and the shoulders of his jacket. His boots made sticky sounds whenever he lifted them from the mud, and he moved slowly because noise seemed more dangerous here than it would anywhere else.
Rascal was at the rear of the building, beside a low platform that extended from an old storage room. He had pressed himself against the foundation, tail tucked between his legs, his nose pointed toward a narrow opening beneath the decking. His ears lay flat, and he gave a small, uneasy whine when Eli approached.
"There you are," Eli whispered. "You ridiculous animal."
He crouched and reached for the collar. Rascal leaned against his hand but would not follow when Eli tugged. Instead, the dog turned his head toward the gap and whined again. Eli pulled more firmly, and Rascal braced all four paws against the ground. That was when Eli understood that the dog was not trying to escape him. He was afraid of something beneath the platform, and he would not turn his back on it.
"What is it?" Eli asked, more softly now.
There was no answer, of course. Only the wind, the quiet movement of wet branches, and the distant sound of voices from the front of the building. Eli put one hand against the weathered wooden platform to steady himself. As his fingers touched the planks, a dull sound rose from somewhere below them.
Three knocks. A pause. Then two more.