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

their tiny green Toyota Prius. “Tree huggers.”
    Callie looked puzzled. “What?”
    I pointed at the Prius. “I haven’t seen a lot of those around here. What kind of people in a farm town drive a Prius?”
    “People who like small cars?” Callie said, rolling her eyes. “Or maybe they’re concerned about the cost of gas. The Chevy must burn ten times as much gas as that thing.”
    I snorted. It was true, though. After I had inherited Jack’s estate, I found that while the engine was original to the truck, anything that could be replaced had been replaced with high-performance aftermarket parts that I felt every time I hit the pedal.
    Like everything Jack had owned, the truck was hard, powerful, and functional.
    We made our way up the front steps. Gene Rexford opened the door before Callie could ring the doorbell. I almost missed how his eyes flickered across my face, taking note of the scratches and scrapes, before glancing away.
    He knows something.
    “Please,” Gene said. “Come in.”
    I turned to Callie and raised an eyebrow. The smell of pine emanating from the door wreath was so thick I could almost taste it. I bit back the taste. Callie’s nose twitched, but she shrugged and followed Gene inside the house, down the hall, and into the dining room, where Jodie Rexford waited.
    They were dressed much like the night before, except in lighter colors. Both wore a lot of tan, and Jodie’s blouse was a print of green and brown leaves. She cradled a cup of coffee in her hands, nervously wiping the lip with her thumb. “Father Mosley said you needed to speak with us,” she said. Her voice was neutral, but her thumb wiped faster.
    “Yes,” I said. Callie and I took the seats across from them, and again I noticed the ceramic figurines of boys and girls lining the shelves.
    She must have a fortune tied up in those stupid things.
    There was an uncomfortable silence until Gene cleared his throat. “Would you like some coffee?”
    “No, thanks,” I said.
    Callie turned to look at me, clearly confused by my silence. I let Gene and Jodie stew a few more seconds until I said, “We don’t have any new information about your sister, but we did have an interesting development last night.”
    “Oh?” Gene said. A fine bead of sweat ran down his forehead. “What kind of development?”
    “The kind where we were attacked,” I said.
    “Attacked?” Jodie said. Her eyes widened and she sat up straight in her chair. “That couldn’t have anything to do with Dorothy.” She took a drink from her cup, unable to meet my gaze. “Are you okay?”
    I glanced over to Callie. “We’re fine,” I said pleasantly. “That’s funny. You didn’t ask how we were attacked.”
    Jodie’s mouth opened, her jaw working, until she finally stammered out, “You—you’re right. How rude of me. How were you attacked?”
    I thought about playing along, not giving them anything too specific. Perhaps I could get more information from them, but after Marshalltown, I wasn’t in the mood. “A magic stick man tried to kill us.”
    Jodie grabbed her husband’s hand and squeezed it tightly. “I don’t understand.”
    Gene shook his head. “Mr. Harlan? We don’t know what that means.”
    “I think you do,” I said. “I think you know exactly what it means.”
    Jodie chewed at her lip and then said curtly, “We really don’t.”
    I saw Callie frowning, and my anger came rushing back. I slammed my fist against the dining room table, cracking the oak from side to side.
    The sound was as loud as a gunshot, and the figurines on the shelves around the room came to life, gasping at the sound and shrinking back against the wall while covering their mouths in shock.
    There was a tickle against the back of my neck, the feeling of something brushing against the fine hairs.
    Magic.
    My hand moved before I could think, darting under the trench coat. Jodie’s hands were moving as well, but the Kimber cleared the holster and time seemed to