The clean black rubber skidded to a halt, shooting pebbles against the wooden wall of a cabin. Walsh shut the engine off, removed his shades and glanced at his watch. It was just before 9am. Five minutes ago, he hadn’t even been sure where he was headed. But coming down Golden’s main street, he’d spotted the Purcell motel cowering away from the road, and something had clicked into place. Lewis’ message in the Globe had been explicit – Funeral Mass at Purcell 10th Avenue Church. This was the place. The motel had seen better days. The single-storey buildings were painted a sickly shade of brownish puce. They were featureless cabins, the windows shielded with dirty, torn nets, the doors damaged and chipped. The reception hut looked battered and uninviting. Walsh checked the weapon under his jacket and jumped out. He took a deep lungful of mountain air. It smelt heady, almost spicy. The parking lot held a couple of rusting, muddy pickups and an ancient blue Winnebago with no wheel trims.
