The weekend’s snowstorm had left inches of fresh snow on top of the ice, and as the sun slid down behind the tops of the trees, the snowmobile tracks left behind that day looked like deep scars, carved in shadow. “Where the hell are we going?” Baxter asked, glancing back at the small public lot in the lakeside park. There were four cars there, one of them an old Chevy Monte Carlo that Doug had been restoring and one an Audi that he figured Franco had borrowed without permission from an unsuspecting customer at Harpwell’s Garage. Doug had arrived first and waited in his car, chewing gum to fight the urge to smoke—a habit he’d given up two years before. He had been early on purpose and instantly regretted it, but he sat and watched the sun drift lower in the sky, people returning to their cars, couples and dog owners who’d been walking in the woods around the lake. Franco had shown up ten minutes late with Baxter in the passenger seat.
