I turned off Dr. Laura in midsentence as she told a weeping young woman to stop crying and take charge of her life. She could have been talking to me.

Ames and I got out of the car and I was soaked deep as I hurried to the front door of the house. Ames, yellow slicker protecting him, walked cradling the shotgun, right hand at the trigger. Lightning crackled and struck somewhere on the other side of the nearby Manatee River.

I knocked. Thunder above. The noise of pelting rain. My feet were getting soaked through my shoes. I knocked louder. No answer. I didn’t expect one. I tried the doorknob. Since the rain was knocking at the door too, I didn’t think any fingerprints remained on the knob. I was breaking the law. I should have called the police hours ago, but the police were not happy with me at the moment.

The door wasn’t locked.

I started in but Ames put out a long, lean arm to hold me back so he could enter first. This was the home-well, the house-of a dangerous man, a man who had… Later, I’ll talk about it later. Now, I followed Ames inside. There were no lights on, but it was still day and in spite of the storm, there was enough light so that I could see faintly.

The rain pounded on the roof demanding to be let in, demanding to carry away this concrete hell.

A sofa and unmatched cushioned chair and a metal folding chair were covered with dirty clothes, full ashtrays and empty Dr Pepper cans and amber beer bottles.

Maybe he hadn’t been here when the knock had come, even though his truck was. Maybe he was away somewhere. A friend, if he had one, had picked him up and they were out looking for trouble or for me.

“Here,” said Ames in his raspy voice as he stepped over the debris and through an open door.

I followed him into a kitchen that smelled like a Port-o-Let at a county fair. Dishes, food in the sink, an overflowing bag of garbage and a body on the floor.