“A hunter, maybe?” Joe asked.
“It’s possible. But why didn’t he call or knock on the door?”
“Good question. Hold tight.”
* * *
—
Her heart was still beating fast when Joe reappeared, this time with his gun belt fastened around his bathrobe and slippers on his feet. He’d also clamped on his hat. She’d seen this getup before and he still looked ridiculous. But she appreciated his concern.
The door banged after him as he went outside.
She stood and moved to the window. Joe was walking briskly across the frozen lawn toward the trees in the direction of the road. His right hand was on the grip of his Glock semiautomatic. Puffs of condensation floated back over the shoulder of his robe.
He went into the trees and she couldn’t see him anymore. She didn’t want him to go that far out of her sight.
Marybeth held her breath, hoping she wouldn’t hear cries or gunshots.
But there was silence.
* * *
—
She was standing on the front porch hugging herself against the cold when Joe walked back out of the timber.
When he got close, he said, “Yup, someone was here. I followed his tracks in the frost all the way from the window toward the county road. Then I heard a vehicle start up and speed away.”
“Did you see him at all?”
“Nope. He was gone when I got to the road.”
“Should we call the sheriff?”
Joe gave her a look. “And tell him what? Besides, he has enough on his plate right now.”
“I’m sorry I screamed.”
“Don’t be.”
They went inside and Joe unbuckled his belt and placed it in a coil on top of the refrigerator. He rubbed his hands together quickly for warmth.
“The turkey smells great,” he said.
“Happy Thanksgiving, my hero,” she replied with a smile that was only a little bit forced.
“You say he looked like a gargoyle?” Joe asked.
“A big gargoyle. He had big ears and a shaved head and kind of grotesque features. I’ve never seen him around here before, and believe me—I’d remember that face.”
Joe narrowed his eyes. “I might have seen the guy you describe last night out on the county road. He was with another guy in a Nissan Pathfinder with Colorado plates. He claimed he was lost and trying to figure out how to get to Winchester.”
“It could have been him,” she said. “Why would he come back?”
“I don’t know. But he’s gone now.”
She shivered involuntarily, recalling his face at the window.
“I took down his license plate,” Joe said. “I’ve got it out in my truck. Let me go call it in.”
“Do that,” she said. Then she nodded toward her laptop on the table. “I’ll wait until you come back in to show you what I’ve learned.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Razor City
Viktór was pacing the floor and kneading his fingers together behind his back in the shabby little motel room an hour and a half away from Saddlestring in Gillette, when he heard the crunch of gravel outside the curtained window. A car had arrived outside. He picked up the rifle from the table and held it to the side as he parted the curtains to see László park the Nissan just in front of the door.
It was a strange little motel, very American and car-centric. It was built in a squared-off horseshoe design with outfacing doors and no interior hallway. The lobby, which also served as a residence for the owner/operator, was at the end of one of the wings closest to the street. Although there had been ten or more vehicles at the motel when they arrived, only two remained. All of the vehicles in the lot the night before had been dirty utility pickup trucks from energy companies. This town called Gillette was obviously a workingman’s town. He’d seen a sign welcoming visitors to “The Razor City,” but he didn’t understand the significance of that. This place they were staying at was a workingman’s motel. László had paid cash for the room.
There was a small television bolted to the wall and the cups in the bathroom were made of thin plastic. Even the art on the walls—faded prints of cowboys and geysers spouting in Yellowstone Park—were screwed to the paneling so they couldn’t be easily removed.
Viktór heard his brother swipe a keycard in the outside lock. A rush of cold air came into the room with him, along with grit blowing in from the dirt parking lot.
László entered holding up a bulging white paper bag as if offering a gift. He had to use the weight of his big butt to close the door against the wind.