I couldn’t wait any longer. I grabbed my pistol from under the seat, tucked it into my belt, and crossed the road quickly on foot. The motel office was dark, and no one moved anywhere on the property. I checked out the snowplow before I stepped to the door. It was bolted to the truck’s chassis and about four feet wide. It looked like it was used to clear small roads or trails. I was trying to think: What kind of trails needed to be cleared around here? The roads were all handled by commercial snowplows, and even though I’d seen a few of these around over the years, none were as expensive and elaborate as this. Usually they were homemade jobs on the front of beat-up pickup trucks that would clear driveways for ten bucks. This was something else.

I moved to the room. There were no lights, and I felt no movement inside when I placed my hand on the door. The moist air made me shiver. At least I think it was the air. I was in uncharted territory professionally. This was nothing like finding out who’d hacked a Facebook account or looking for a husband who had had a few too many drinks.

I couldn’t waste any more time. I rapped on the door. In a reasonable fashion at first, then a bit louder. My right hand rested on the butt of the pistol underneath my untucked shirt.

There was no answer, and none of the other customers opened their doors, either.

I looked down at my watch and realized time had gotten away from me. I had to race back to Marlboro to get my papers ready to deliver. But I’d be back to have a talk with the guy at the Red Letter Inn.

Chapter 18

Chapter 18

It was one of the worst mornings I could ever remember. I’ve seen heavier snowfall, but not this early, when no one was ready for it. Bart had no interest in leaving the comfortable confines of our little house. His flat face looked out the window as I trudged through the snow that had accumulated on my front walk in just a few hours. And the snow was still falling.