Free Sam Harlan (Book 3): Damned Cold by Kevin Lee Swaim

years.”
    “Are you willing to bet your life on it?” I asked. “Are you willing to bet Dorothy Hamm’s life on it?”
    “But why attack you?” Mosley continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “You only expressed concern for Dorothy. There’s no reason—”
    “Maybe they weren’t as close as they seemed,” I said. “Or maybe they don’t want anyone looking into her disappearance. Or maybe it’s not them.” I turned to Callie. “I won’t have a repeat of Marshalltown. I’m going to speak to the Rexfords and I’ll get answers.” The anger boiled over inside and my lips pulled back in a snarl. “One way or another.”
    * * *
    Mosley hung up the phone and shoved it across his desk. “I told them you urgently need to speak with them about Dorothy. They agreed to meet.”
    I stopped speaking to Callie and turned my attention to the young priest. “When?”
    Mosley checked his watch. “They said they would be available after eight thirty, so twenty minutes from now.”
    “Good,” I said.
    “Samuel,” Jameson said, his voice full of apprehension. “What do you plan on saying to them?”
    “I’m going to push them a little,” I conceded. “I tried beating around the bush a few months ago. It didn’t go well.”
    Callie winced. “He has a point, Father. I know he sounds gruff…”
    Jameson sighed heavily. “They’re just people. Not monsters. You can’t beat them into submission.”
    The hell I can’t. “I’ll be careful, Father. Don’t worry.” I pointed at Callie. “Besides, I’ll have my babysitter with me.”
    Mosley watched our exchange with alarm. “Please, Mr. Harlan, these people—”
    “They lied to me,” I growled. “I can feel it.” I stood and headed for the door. “Coming, Sister?”
    I left before anyone could speak and made my way to the truck, rummaging through the toolbox in the back until I found what I was looking for, then climbed into the front and started the engine. Callie exited the church. The sun hadn’t warmed the earth yet, and the temperature was well below freezing. She hugged her jacket against her for warmth and joined me in the truck.
    I held up my hand before she could speak. “Take this,” I said, offering her a snub-nosed revolver. It was loaded with silver ammunition, and Callie had been practicing with it regularly.
    She frowned, then took the Smith and Wesson .38 and stuffed it in her jacket pocket.
    I waited for her to speak, but she remained silent. Finally, I asked, “Not going to argue?”
    “No,” Callie said.
    “Going to give me grief?”
    “No.”
    I grunted. “Going to say more than one syllable?”
    She turned and frowned at me. “You’re right. We can’t make the kind of mistakes we made with Santiago.”
    I snorted. “I’m starting to understand how Jack got to be such a hard-ass.”
    That brought a smile to Callie’s lips. “Please be nice to the Rexfords. It won’t cost anything to give them the benefit of the doubt.”
    “I can’t guarantee anything, but I’ll try. Scout’s honor,” I said, holding up two fingers. I turned the key and the truck’s engine roared to life. I let it run for thirty seconds, not daring to look at Callie, then threw the truck in reverse.
    Bement is a small town, and it was only a couple of minutes before we were heading east on Bodman street. In the daylight, the grain elevators weren’t a menacing presence but a cheerful wall of white concrete that stretched to the sky. We passed them and I realized I’d been holding my breath.
    What a weird town.
    Like the grain elevators, the Rexfords’ house looked different in the daylight. It was warm and festive, and the paint appeared fresh. The lawn was well groomed and not a single dead leaf from the oak and maple trees disturbed that sense of order. A vine-covered gazebo sat next to the house, looking like something out of a Rockwell painting.
    If Marshalltown had taught me anything, it was that looks could be deceiving.
    I parked behind