Frozen Stiff

without the clips. “It’s best if you’re going to carry a gun to have a secure holster for it, like one of these,” he says, handing me both of his. “Over time you’ll figure out what kind of holster works best for you.”

“You say that like you think I’m going to be carrying one of these on a regular basis,” I say. “That’s not going to happen.”

“You never know. And until we get this mess straightened out, I want you to have a gun with you.”

I frown, examining the holsters as I try to imagine myself packing.

“There are smaller guns, like little Derringers you could carry in your purse, though it’s illegal to carry concealed in the state of Wisconsin,” Hurley explains. “But that said, you’d be surprised how many people do it.”

He has me put on his shoulder holster and practice pulling his gun from it, but it feels awkward and my boobs keep getting in the way. The second holster comes with loops to run a belt or strap through, but given the girth of my hips, I’m not too keen on adding anything there.

“You can also get an ankle holster,” Hurley says.

I glance down at my feet, both of which are swollen—one because I sprained it when I was Tasered, and the other because of my broken toes and the Frankenstein shoe—and wonder if anyone makes a cankle holster.

“For now, just keep this one close at hand so you can grab it if you need to,” Hurley says, handing me the second gun.

A cold blast of wind blows against us and, as I take the gun, I pray it isn’t an omen.

“You hungry?” Hurley asks.

“Always.”

“Then let’s get some lunch. Shooting always gives me a ravenous appetite.”

Chapter 39

Since Hurley handled the breakfast duties, I decide it’s my turn to demonstrate my culinary talents by fixing us lunch. In honor of the upcoming holiday, I fix turkey sandwiches and top it off by ripping open a bag of chips and popping the lid on a soda. Ever wary of the spider contingent, I opt for a noncaffeinated beverage this time.

The weather outside has shifted, and dark, heavy clouds are rolling in, churning above us in an ominous meteorological dance. Once more I wonder if it’s an omen of some sort. I’m starting to feel twitchy and useless sitting here doing nothing.

Hurley must sense my restlessness because he heads over to one of the shelves and returns to the card table with a Scrabble game.

“I hope you don’t mind getting your ass kicked,” he says. “I’m pretty good at this. Callie and I used to play all the time and she was a serious contender. She even played in tournaments.”

“They have tournaments for Scrabble?” I say, thinking it sounds ridiculous.

“Go ahead and laugh,” Hurley says. “But the woman won hundreds of dollars at it. And not only is there a national tournament, there’s a world competition, too.”

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised given that the Trekkies of the world hold huge conventions all the time. It seems the nerds and geeks in our civilizations are quite adept at using their hobbies for networking and profitable gain.

We start out simply enough with mostly three- and four-letter words and a nearly tied score until Hurley plops down all seven of his tiles, hooking onto an R I just played and making the word ROUNDERS through a double word score.

“That’s good for seventy points,” he says, writing down his score. “Twenty for the play and a fifty-point bonus for using all my tiles.”

“Great,” I say, pouting and staring at a rack that includes the Q.

I study my letters for a moment and then plop them all down playing to his S. “Too bad proper nouns don’t count,” I say, looking at the word QUINTONS.

“Interesting,” he says with a smile, “but not acceptable.”

“I know, but it seemed so appropriate.” I take back the O and N, and play the word QUINTS instead, again using his S and landing the letter Q on a triple letter score. “Thirty-six points,” I say, jotting down my score and feeling pretty good about the fact that I managed to come up with just over half of what Hurley scored with his last play. If the scowl on Hurley’s face is any indication, I still have a chance.

“Hold on a sec,” he says.

I look at my play, wondering if I screwed something up. Then Hurley surprises me by reaching over and taking the other two tiles off my rack.

“Hey!” I protest. “What are you doing?”

He doesn’t answer me. Instead he reaches over and takes my last play off the board, setting all the tiles on the table beside him. Then he plucks several more tiles from the board and adds them to the collection.

“Hurley, what the hell are you doing?”

“Bear with me a second,” he says, and he starts shuffling the tiles around until he has them all in a line. “What’s that say?” he asks me.

“Quinton Dilles,” I answer, stating the obvious.

Hurley then rearranges the same letter tiles, forming a new name. When he’s done, he leans back in his chair and gives me a pointed look.

“Coincidence?” I say, staring at the new name.

Hurley shakes his head. “Nothing with that man is a coincidence.”

“But it can’t be him,” I say. “He’s in prison.”

“He may be in prison, but somehow or other he’s the one pulling the strings. It makes perfect sense. He’s a game player and this sort of thing is just his style. Trust me, it’s no coincidence that our car renter is named Leon Lindquist, a pseudonym that just happens to use all the same letters as Quinton Dilles.” He scrapes the letters up and dumps them back into the bag they came from. “Pack everything up,” he says, clearing the Scrabble board and folding it up. “We’re leaving.”

Less than an hour later we’re on the road, everything we brought with us—including my still-damp underwear and my sweaty, stinky gym clothes—loaded back into the car. Hurley is wearing his gun under his coat in his shoulder holster and the Glock is tucked beneath his seat.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“First we’re going to stop at the house of my friend who owns the cabin. Then I’m going to Connor Smith’s office.”

“Connor Smith? You mean Dilles’s lawyer?”

“Yes.”

“But it’s the day before Thanksgiving. What if he isn’t there?”

“I suspect he’ll be there. He’s working on a pretty big case right now. But if he isn’t, I’ll go to his house.”

When my mind registers his pronoun use, I say, “You mean we’ll go to his house, right?”

He shakes his head. “I’ve involved you too much already. I’m doing this alone.”

“Don’t be stupid, Hurley. I’m already in this about as far as I can be. And what if you need backup?”

He looks over at me with a tolerant smile. “Well, if I was going to meet with a dangerous and deadly tree that might be a valid argument.”

“Very funny,” I say, pouting. “Make fun of my shooting all you want. It’s not going to change my mind.”

“I’m serious, Mattie. You’re not coming with me.”

“Then where am I supposed to go? I can’t go back home yet. If I do, I’ll probably be arrested, killed, or kidnapped again.”