Free Storm Front by Robert Conroy

Señor Gomez? Wanna go back to the office and play cards?”
    “Not unless you have a better idea,” Joe said. Nor were they going anywhere at all anytime soon. Driving home had suddenly become out of the question. There was a six pack of Coors in the refrigerator and, since they obviously weren’t going to be doing any driving or operating heavy machinery for a while, it seemed a fine time to demolish it. There was a couch and a couple of folding cots that he’d put in so workers could catch naps if they had to, along with a small bathroom that included a toilet and a sink. Now it looked like they’d be using the cots to bunk down tonight. Maybe they’d catch a weather forecast on the television. Damn.
    * * *
    The main travel guides listed the Sheridan Motor Inn as either a three- or four-star motel. Given the fact that Sheridan was a bedroom community without any significant commercial base, and that it also lacked anything to bring in tourists, the motel and restaurant were surprisingly upscale, well appointed, and popular. One hundred and twenty rooms, restaurant, lounge, indoor pool, gym, and conference rooms made it a complete facility. Weekend getaway packages sold well and augmented income from weekday business travelers. A mini-water park brought in families and filled the pool with screaming kids on weekends.
    This Monday morning, the Inn was less than half full. Most of those who were departing had made it out, and those who had reservations for Monday weren’t going to keep them, at least not for a while.
    Billy Raines looked out the second-floor window onto an ocean of white that used to be a parking lot. This is not good, he thought. Their plans were to get out of this town and on the way south as quickly as possible. Staying too long in one place was a bad idea. They could not depend on the last body going undiscovered for any length of time. For all he knew, the cops around Traverse City had found the guy, identified him, and were on their way right now. Cops and computers were a bad thing. He hadn’t wanted to use the guy’s ATM card or his credit card, but they needed cash as well as a place to stay. He’d figured on leaving right away and then the damn snow started.
    Of course, Raines chuckled with some satisfaction, the cops would need fucking snowshoes to get anywhere near him.
    “What’s so funny?” asked Jimmy Tower, the other half of what Raines sarcastically referred to as their dynamic duo. Tower was anything but dynamic looking. Slightly over five feet tall and chunky, Tower was four years younger than the forty-year-old Raines. At a lean six feet, Raines dominated the other man in more ways than one. To put it politely, Tower was more than a little slow and looked it. Raines thought Tower might either have a mild case of Down’s syndrome or Fetal Alcohol Syndrome. Either way, Jimmy Tower was at least one egg short of a dozen.
    Raines had befriended the smaller man in prison and had become his protector from the sexual predators who had stalked him. Tower owed Raines big time. Raines was a leader who always had a small group of supporters—white, of course—while Tower was an efficient and often brutal lap dog.
    Jimmy Tower compensated for his slowness with his viciousness. Jimmy had cut the throat of the guy in Traverse City, and Jimmy had beaten the hell out of a woman in Green Bay. He had also raped her. Jimmy liked women, but they didn’t like him because he was such an ugly little shit. Jimmy thought most people were laughing at him, and he was often right. Raines made sure he never laughed at Jimmy Tower. So far, they’d gotten along well.
    But that was the least of their problems. The mounting snow was imprisoning them as effectively as metal bars once had, and ruining their plans to move south. The key to not getting caught was to keep moving. This is what they’d done since escaping from a medium-security prison in Wisconsin. From there they’d stolen cars and driven