They found Cal Hawkins in the kind of place that Wes had described.
It was deep in the woods where a dirt road ended at a wall of solid rock two hundred feet high. Tucked beneath the face of the mountain, the windowless, single-story structure had all the architectural detail of a cracker box.
In the center of its flat facade was a dented metal door. A bare yellow lightbulb had been screwed into an electrical socket directly above it. There were three pickup trucks parked in front of the building. Judging from the depth of the sleet on the windshields, they’d been there awhile.
Dutch had finessed his Bronco over two miles of dark, narrow, treacherous road to get there, so he was in a truculent mood when he and Wes went inside. Lighting was dim. The room was foggy with smoke and stank like wet wool and b.o. They stepped over splats of tobacco juice on the floor as they made their way to the particle board bar along the far wall.
Without ceremony, Dutch said, “Cal Hawkins.”
The bartender nodded his head of stringy, greasy hair toward a corner. Hawkins was seated at one of the rickety tables, his head lying on it, his arms dangling lifelessly at his sides. He was snoring.
“Been that way ’bout an hour,” the bartender volunteered as he absently scratched his armpit through his dirty flannel shirt. “Whach’ y’all want him for?”
“What’s he been drinking?” Dutch asked.
“Somethin’ they brung in.”
He hitched a thumb in the direction of the only other occupied table, where a trio of sullen, bearded men was playing cards beneath the stuffed head of a snarling black bear mounted on the wall.
“The bear’s got the highest IQ of that lot,” Wes whispered to Dutch. “I hope your gun isn’t just for show. You can bet theirs aren’t.”
Dutch had already spied the shotguns propped against each chair. “Cover my back.”
“Three against one? Thanks for nothing.”
Dutch approached the table where Hawkins was sleeping it off. His slack lips had drooled a puddle of saliva onto the table. Dutch hauled back his foot and literally kicked the chair out from under the man.
Hawkins landed hard. “Fuckin’ hell!” He came off the floor with his hands balled into fists. But catching the glint of Dutch’s badge, he backed down and blinked at them in confusion. Then he grinned. “Hey, Dutch. When I was a kid, I used to watch you play ball.”
“I ought to throw your sorry ass in jail,” Dutch snarled. “But if you’re sober enough to be stupid, you’re sober enough to be working, and I need you.”
Hawkins wiped saliva off his chin with the back of his hand. “What for?”
“What do you think?” Dutch thrust his face closer, only to recoil from the other man’s breath. “You’ve got a contract with the city to sand roads during ice storms. Well, guess what, genius? We’re in the throes of one. And where are you? Out here in the middle of freaking nowhere, stinking drunk. I’ve wasted several hours I didn’t have tracking you down.”
He yanked what he assumed to be Hawkins’s coat off the back of a chair and threw it at him. Hawkins caught the coat against his chest. Dutch was glad to see that his reflexes weren’t completely pickled.
“You’re getting out of here right now. We’ll follow you to the garage, where your truck has already been loaded and is waiting for you. Have you got the keys?”
Hawkins dug into the pocket of his oily blue jeans and produced a set of keys, which he extended toward Dutch. “Why don’t you just take ’em and—”
“I would, except nobody else has experience with the truck’s mechanisms, and you’re the only one who’s insured to drive it. I don’t need the liability, and neither does the township of Cleary. You’re going, Hawkins. And don’t think you can lose me between here and town. I’m going to stay so close I could bite your butt through your tailpipe. Let’s go.”
“Won’t do no good,” Hawkins protested as Dutch gave him a hard shove towar
d the door. “I’ll go with you, Chief, but fast as this stuff is coming down, anything I put down tonight will be a waste of good sand. It’ll cost the town double, ’cause it’ll just have to be did again, soon’s the storm blows outta here.”
“That’s my problem. Your problem is to keep me from beating you senseless once you’ve done what I need you to do.”
• • •
Lilly had been anxiously watching for Tierney’s return and gave a glad cry when she saw him trudging out of the darkness. He was dragging something along behind him. When he got closer she saw it was a tarpaulin stacked with firewood.
He left it at the foot of the steps and stumbled up them. She opened the cabin door, caught him by the sleeve of his coat, and hauled him inside. He collapsed against the doorjamb and pushed back his makeshift hood. His eyebrows and eyelashes were again covered with frost. Instinctually she brushed it off them.
“Glass of water, please.”
She rushed into the kitchen and filled a glass from the pitcher. The trickle from the faucet had stopped, she noticed. They’d done well to fill the containers while they could.