The Face of Death by Cody McFadyen Page A

then to describe the smell of blood.
    “It’s like having a mouthful of pennies that you can’t get rid of.”
    I smell it now, that cloying copper tang. It excites me at some level.
    A killer was here. I hunt killers.
    I keep walking. The entryway floor is red hardwood over concrete, quiet, polished, squeak-free. To my right is a spacious living room with medium-thick beige carpet, a fireplace, and vaulted ceilings. A two-section matching beige couch is arranged in an L-shape facing the fireplace. Large double-paned windows look out onto the lawn. Everything I can see is clean and nice but unimaginative. The owners were trying to impress by blending in, not by standing out.
    The living room continues on the right toward the back of the house, meeting the dining room seamlessly. The beige carpet follows. A honey-colored wooden dining table sits under a light hanging from a long black chain attached to the high ceiling. A single white French door beyond the table leads into the kitchen. Again, all very unsurprising. Pleasing, not passionate.
    Ahead of me is a stairway, zigging right to a landing, then zagging left to take you to its destination, the second floor. It’s covered with the same beige carpet. The walls on the way up the stairs are filled with framed photographs. I see a man and a woman standing together, smiling and young. The same man and woman, a little older now, holding a baby. The baby, I assume, grown into a teenage boy, handsome. Dark hair on all of them. I scan the photos and note no pictures of a girl.
    To the left of the stairs is what I assume to be a family room. I can see thick sliding glass doors leading from that room into the now-shadowy backyard.
    I smell blood, blood, and more blood. Even with every light in the house blazing the atmosphere is heavy and jagged. Harm happened here. Terror filled the air here. People died violently here, and the feel of it all is stifling. My heart rate continues to rat-a-tat-tat. The fear is still there, sharp and strong. The euphoria too.
    “Sarah?” I call out.
    No answer.
    I move forward, toward the stairs. The smell of blood gets stronger. Now that I can see into the family room, I understand why. This room also has a couch, which faces a large-screen television. The carpet is
soaked
in crimson. Blood came out here by the pints, more than the pile or fabric could absorb. I can see puddles of it, dark, thick, and congealing. Whoever bled that much there, died there.
    No bodies, though.
    Means they were moved, I think.
    I look, but I don’t see any blood trails, any evidence of bodies being dragged. All the blood is pooled, self-contained, except for the large, jagged patch nearest to me.
    Maybe they were picked up.
    That would mean someone strong. A human adult body, at dead-weight, is a formidable thing to lift, much less carry. Any fireman or paramedic will tell you this. Without the leverage a helpful and conscious person provides, carrying a grown man’s body can be like carrying a six-foot bag of bowling balls.
    Unless the blood came from a child, in which case the lift and carry would not have been as difficult. Wonderful thought.
    “Sarah?” I call out. “I’m coming up the stairs.” My voice sounds overloud to me, cautious.
    I’m still sweating. Air-conditioning is off, I realize. Why? I’m noting a thousand things at once. Fear and euphoria, euphoria and fear.
    I grip my gun with both hands and start to move up the stairs. I reach the first landing, and turn left. The smell of blood is even stronger now. I smell new scents. Familiar odors. Urine and feces. Other,
wetter
things. Guts, they have an aroma all their own.
    I can hear something now. A faint sound. I cock my head and strain my ears.
    Sarah is singing.
    The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. My stomach does a single loop-de-loop as the adrenaline overwhelms the endorphins and fills me with the clangy-jitters.
    Because this is not a happy sound. It’s a horror sound. It’s