Free Hard Cold Winter by Glen Erik Hamilton Page A

Kend or Elana or both already followed the penciled instructions, and broken into the place? If so, I had to assume there would be a police record of the burglary. But matching that to this diagram would be tough, without access to the same reports.
    I knew how I could get those police reports. Or who could get them for me.
    While the truck’s vents were laboring to defog the windows, I checked the faces in Kend’s and Elana’s snapshots against what I could find on their social media accounts. I got a handful of matches. Barrett Yorke was the elfin girl with honeyed hair, Trudy Dobbs her taller friend with the beauty mark. Barrett had a brother, Parson, who had been a looming presence in the background at a couple of the parties.
    No doubt they had heard of their friends’ deaths. Kend’s had been reported, with very careful wording, on last night’s news. The reporter had named father Maurice as one of the dozen wealthiest people in Seattle, according to Forbes . And a quick check on my phone showed me the socialverse was on fire with rumors. One gossip claimed Kend and Elana had been only two of dozens secretly killed in the forest that night.
    I sent a group text message to Barrett, Trudy, and Parson.
    My name is Van Shaw. I was a friend of Elana ’s. I was the one who found them at the cabin.
    And then a following message:
    Someone else was there, too.
    If that didn’t pique their interest, I’d have to get drastic. Maybe I’d start my own horrible rumor circulating. I had a doozy about a bear.

CHAPTER NINE
    T HE MORNING TRAFFIC JAM was making like an inchworm by the time I reached Belltown. I could have low-crawled the last four blocks in full battle rattle—body armor, weapons, and all—and still beat the pace I set in the Dodge.
    I stashed the truck in its usual spot at a garage three blocks from the bar. The morning’s rain hadn’t let up. I pulled my jacket tighter and strode down Western Ave, through people hurrying to work and Pike Place visitors seeking the shelter of the vendor stalls.
    Only the panhandlers stood in place, one staking a claim on every corner. I gave my last single to a woman with ratty scarves wrapped around her head, framing a face with more deep wrinkles than teeth. She held a cardboard sign saying 4KIDS . I didn’t know if that meant she had four kids or intended to use the money for her kids, or if the sign was bullshit and my charity would just fund the woman’s next bottle. A dollar wouldn’t go far in any case. A drop of malt liquor on a bonfire.
    The door to the Morgen was halfway down an alley off Lenora. It was bright green. Nothing on or around the door told you the bar’sname. When the bar opened at noon, Luce or one of her people would put out a sandwich board that directed customers to the right place.
    I knocked on the door. No answer. Luce was probably hustling around somewhere in the back, in that efficient frenzy she always had while working. I tugged on the brass handle, and was surprised when it opened.
    Most of the Morgen was a single room, long and wide, with thick ceiling beams and banged-up wooden tables and chairs. The overhead lights were turned off, making the interior murky. The walls were painted black, and so were the planks of the pine floor. Dust motes floated in the soft light coming through the high windows.
    A man was seated at the table farthest from the door, half in shadow. I could make out a wispy black beard, but the rest of his face was hidden by a fraying cotton hood. He wore a dark blue wool coat over the hoodie. On the table in front of him was a plate of what looked like half-eaten chicken wings from the bar’s kitchen. Luce wasn’t in the room.
    “Hey,” I said.
    The man didn’t answer. His hands were out of sight under the table. His face could have been Asian, but it was hard to tell from just his chin and mouth. On the floor next to his bench was a large backpack. It was stuffed near to bursting and stained and faded from