“Yeah, but I can help.”
He removed a key fob from his pocket. “Actually, Jim Clegg said he wanted to talk to you. He should be down in a few minutes.”
“Did he say what it’s about?”
“Not to me,” he said.
I returned to my truck and used a towel to wipe up the urine. I tried letting Shadow out to see if he needed to shit, and sure enough, he did. It was the biggest pile I had ever seen come out of a canine.
How to get him back inside the truck now? I found a box of protein bars I kept in the glove compartment, ate one, and fed the rest to Shadow, who chomped them to pieces, Cookie Monster–style. In my Internet research, I had read something about wild wolves eating twenty pounds of meat a day.
I had no clue how to care for this animal. Maybe I should find a motel room for the night, then swing back to Fenris Unchained in the morning. Hopefully, Dale Probert would forgive my change of heart.
Every time headlights appeared, cutting a hazy arc through the darkness, I figured it must be Clegg, but I was always disappointed. I watched the first ambulance return to begin transporting the bodies to the medical examiner’s office in Augusta. It was followed by a second and a third.
Another vehicle approached from the direction of Route 16, a Ford Explorer Interceptor. I recognized it at once by its midnight blue paint job. I scrambled out of my pickup and stepped into the road.
Russo rolled down his window. I got a whiff of the peppermint gum he had been chewing. “I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said.
“I could say the same thing.”
“Thought I’d come over after my shift was done and see how I could help.” Russo’s bland face reminded me of someone who’d been injected with Botox, so that every muscle was paralyzed.
“I don’t suppose you’ve seen Logan Dyer today,” I said.
“No, I haven’t. In fact, that’s one of the reasons I’m here. Logan’s been calling in sick a lot. He’s been convinced he has a brain tumor.”
“Yeah, you told me.”
“This morning, he didn’t even bother to call.”
“Really?”
“I’m worried about him. There was no answer at his door just now when I knocked.”
“Did Dyer’s dogs start baying when you knocked at his door?”
Russo turned his head away from me to face the hill. “You know, they did, and I thought it was strange. Logan never goes anywhere without his Plotts.”
His face began to glow, and I realized it was from the lights of another vehicle coming down the hill, its beams shining inside his SUV. I turned to see who it was, and it was Clegg. Instead of moving his Explorer aside, Russo unbuckled his lap belt and stepped down into the snow beside me.
Detective Clegg kept his engine running as he emerged from his cruiser. He walked toward us with his hands deep in the pockets of his brown uniform parka. His nose and cheeks were rosy from a long day spent outdoors. His chalk white hair was standing up, as if he’d just removed a hat.
“Lieutenant,” said Russo, greeting Clegg by his official rank.
“Russo. Who’s that with you?”
“Mike Bowditch,” I said.
“Just the man I was looking for.”
“Why is that?” asked Russo, as if it was any of his business.
“I spoke with Amber Langstrom yesterday and she mentioned that you came to her apartment.”
“I apologize. I’d been meaning to talk with you about it.”
Clegg shrugged. “Doesn’t matter now. But she told me you found a box of her son’s guns there.”
“That’s right,” I said. “He took a Glock with him. His mom sensed he was afraid of someone in particular and wanted it for self-defense. Did you find any nine-millimeter shells up there?”
“Not yet.” He removed his bare hands from his pockets and rubbed them together for warmth. “Is it possible Langstrom also had an AR-15 rifle?”
“Possible, I guess. I found a Ruger American in a .30-06 and a Winchester 76 in .30-30. Both with boxes of ammo. I didn’t see signs of an AR-15, and Amber didn’t mention his having any other rifles.”
Clegg raised his face to the falling snow. I could tell he was trying to work through a puzzle in his head.
“I heard that you found .300 Blackout rounds up there,” I said.
Clegg lowered his eyes. “That’s right.”
“Nothing else?”
“Nothing except some casings from Foss’s revolver.”
I got a look at Russo in my peripheral vision. He was standing stock-still. “Detective, I’d like to talk with you about Logan Dyer,” I said.
“We don’t know where he is,” said Clegg.
“Dyer didn’t show up at work today,” interjected Russo. “Usually he calls if he’s sick, but he didn’t this morning. I just knocked at his door, and his dogs are inside. That’s very unusual for Logan, to leave his dogs alone.”