It was a cold, dry, nearly weightless snow, beyond the ability of the snowcats to shape. Skiers zoomed along the trail beside the lodge—momentary flashes of color—and then were swallowed up again by the silent storm. The powder came off my truck with the faintest push of my gloved hand. I didn’t bother getting out the scraper. I started the engine and watched my breath, my life, unfurl into the cold before my eyes. Had Officer Russo deliberately tried to bully me away from Widowmaker—or was he just another ham-fisted rent-a-cop? Did the Night Watchmen really suspect I had a secret relationship with the Langstroms that threatened them somehow—or were they just the drunken old busybodies they admitted themselves to be? The phone buzzed in my pocket. When I saw that it was Stacey’s number, I felt my pulse begin to ease. The calmness lasted all of two seconds. “You asshole!” she said. “You lying son of a bitch! Did you think I wouldn’t hear what really happened, Mike? You had a ‘scuffle with a tweaker’?
