Having circled the building, they reconvened between the door and the still-running car.

Sam nodded at Les as he approached the door, extracting a flashlight while she watched their perimeter.

The door was seamed with wide cracks, making whatever lay behind it visible. His caution quieting, Lester fit an eye to one of the broader openings, with his light just below it.

“What do you see?” Sam asked.

“A delivery-type van,” he reported. “That seems to be it. With Vermont plates.”

He returned to the car. Sammie stayed outside, ignoring the snow covering her head and shoulders.

Inside, Lester pulled over the mounted laptop to face him and typed in the numbers he’d memorized from the van. He then leaned over and ran down the window nearest her to say, “Bingo.”

“What?”

“It’s registered to Cheri Pratt.”

“No kidding. Small world. Is this where we put our new federal superpowers to work and get a warrant?”

He chuckled. “Let’s say it’s where we get to find out how well they work, if at all.” He set to work getting hold of Fred Houston.

Trevor Buttner was still in the Keene hospital, having segued from being a victim of gravity-defying antics to the target of a stubborn infection. The sterile setting and Buttner’s vulnerability suited Willy Kunkle fine.

He nodded to the deputy outside the door as he displayed his credentials. “He being a good boy?” he asked.

“He’s loving the painkillers, from what the nurses tell me, but none of them’re loving him. The last one called him a pig.”

“There’s a stunner,” Willy replied, adding, “Still no request for a lawyer?”

“Nope. Don’t know why not, but you’re good to go.”

The mention of painkillers was a good heads-up for Willy, and a potential stumbling block later if Buttner ever ended up in court following a confession. His lawyer could insist that his client was “under the influence,” and thus not lucid enough to have spoken at all.

Given Willy’s general attitude, this was not a deal breaker. He opened the door, ambled over to the foot of Trevor’s bed, and stood looking at him silently.

“Who’re you?” Buttner demanded.

Willy revealed the badge clipped to his belt. He took advantage of the gesture to also reach into his pocket, pull out a recorder, place it on the rolling table nearby, and turn it on. “Not someone you ever wanted to meet.”

Buttner looked away angrily, growling, “Fucking cops.”

“I’m also your best friend right now,” Willy told him.

“How do you figure?”

“You remember being read your rights?” Willy asked him.

“So?”

“You want me to answer, you can’t say later you wanted a lawyer.”

“I didn’t,” he protested.

“You still don’t?”

“Nah. They never done me any good before.”

Willy wasn’t sure whose fault that might have been. “Then that makes me the one to talk to,” he answered, “because if you cooperate with me, you might cut down on whatever federal time you’re facing now.” He then added his name, Buttner’s, and the date and time for the sake of the recorder.