Hoot carefully steered the sedan off the highway, onto what he hoped was the driveway. It was indistinguishable under the deep snow.
“Which one’s his?” Begley asked.
“Number eight.” Hoot inclined his head in that direction. “The one nearest the lake.”
“And he’s still registered?”
“He was as of yesterday evening. But his Cherokee isn’t here,” Hoot observed with disappointment. Only one cabin had a vehicle parked in front of it, and it was partially buried in snow. There were no tire tracks. “Should we check in with the manager?”
“What for?” Begley asked. Hoot looked over at him. “I can see from here that the door to cabin number eight is standing ajar, Special Agent Wise. I bet if we knock on it, it’ll open right up,” he said with a disingenuous smile.
“But, sir, if this is our guy, we don’t want him to get off because his civil rights were violated.”
“If this is our guy, I’ll violate his head with a bullet before I let him get off on some procedural bullshit.”
Hoot parked in front of cabin number eight. When he got out of the car, it felt good to stand up and stretch, even though he sank to his ankles in snow. The wind sucked the breath out of his lungs, and his eyeballs seemed to freeze instantly, but getting to arch his back was worth these discomforts.
Begley seemed not to notice either the blinding snow or the bitterly cold wind. He plowed his way up the steps to the wraparound porch of the cabin. He tried the door, and when he found it locked, he nonchalantly slid a credit card into it. Seconds later, he and Hoot were inside.
It was warmer than outdoors but still cold enough for their breath to vaporize. The ashes in the fireplace were gray and cold. The kitchenette adjoining the main room was clean. No food had been left out. Dishes had been washed and left in the drainer. They’d been there long enough to dry.
Begley put his hands on his hips and pivoted slowly, taking in the details of the main room. “Doesn’t look like he’s been here for a while. He didn’t drive a Cherokee out of here this morning or we’d have seen some tracks even with the way that snow’s coming down. Do you have any thoughts on where Mr. Tierney spent the night, Hoot?”
“None, sir.”
“No girlfriend around here?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Relatives?”
“No. I’m sure of that. He was an only child. Parents are deceased.”
“Then where the hell did he pass the night?”
Hoot had no answer to that.
He followed Begley into the front bedroom. After taking a cursory look around, Begley pointed toward the double bed. “Mrs. Begley would consider that a sloppily made bed. She’d say that’s the way a man makes up a bed if he makes it up at all.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hoot was a man, but he never left a bed unmade, and he always checked to see that the bottom edges of the bedspread were even. Nor did he leave dishes in the drainer; he dried them himself and put them away in their proper places. He also alphabetized his CDs, according to recording artist, not title, and had his sock drawer arranged by color, from the lightest to the darkest, moving left to right.
But he would cut out his tongue before contradicting Mrs. Begley.
Unlike the cabin’s main room, the bedroom where Tierney slept looked lived in. A pair of muddy cowboy boots had been kicked into the corner. There was an open duffel bag in the center of the floor with articles of clothing spilling out. Magazines were scattered across the desk beneath the window. Hoot fought his compulsion to straighten them as he ran a quick survey of the glossy covers.
“Pornography?” Begley asked.
“Adventure, sports, outdoors, fitness. The kind he writes articles for.”
“Well, shit,” Begley said, sounding disappointed. “That room out there woul
d indicate that Tierney is a neat freak.”
“Which fits the profile of the unsub we’re looking for,” said Hoot, realizing as he did that he was indicting his own obsessive-compulsive tendencies.
“Right. But this. Goddammit,” Begley said. “This looks like my oldest boy’s bedroom. So which is Tierney? A fucking psycho, or just exactly what he looks like? A normal guy who likes the outdoors and doesn’t use fiddle books to get his rocks off?”