Free Dead Watch by John Sandford Page A

shop. Turn right and go one block.”
    “Thanks.”
    The Starbucks was a hot spot. He parked, went inside, got a croissant and a grande latte, took his laptop from his briefcase and went online.
    The file was there. Along with the information on Schmidt, Novatny included a map of the Scottsville area, pinpointing Schmidt’s house just off Highway 20, and across the James River south of the town. Scottsville was, as Jake thought, south of Charlottesville.
    He finished eating, closed down the laptop, went to his car and pointed it out onto I-64.

    There is no easy way to get from Richmond to Scottsville. Jake took I-64 west to Zion Crossroads, then south through Palmyra to Fork Union, and then west into Scottsville. When he saw the town, he remembered going through it on trips south of Charlottesville along Lee’s route of retreat from Richmond to Appomattox, which was farther southwest.
    He actually didn’t remember the town so much—it had seemed to be a depressing place when he’d gone through before—as he remembered the bridge, a humped structure over the normally turbid James. Now, with all the rain they’d had in the spring, the river was rolling heavily against the bridge, showing some power.
    The bridge was on Highway 20, south. Schmidt lived on County Highway 747, which was more of a lane than a highway, running in a loop off Highway 20. The house itself, painted a faded turquoise with a dirty blue trim, was not much better than a shack, and was sited almost beneath a line of high-tension electric wires.
    An unpainted tin carport stood empty on the left side of the house, except for an old washer-dryer and a stack of two-by-fours. An ancient Ford tractor with rotting tires sat in a clump of weeds behind the house. An iron stake in the front yard, surrounded by a circular bald spot in the overgrown grass, suggested a large dog sometimes kept on a chain.
    No dog visible. The front blinds were open. Could be a dog inside. From the road, he could see a sheet of white paper hanging on the door.

    In training for Afghanistan, Jake had taken a course in burglary—what the army called surreptitious entry—from an ex-burglar hired by the CIA. It turned out that surreptitious entry was not particularly practical in Afghanistan, but the training had been interesting.
    After three passes, he slowed and turned into Schmidt’s driveway.
    Just to knock, and maybe get a look at the door . . .
    The paper on the door was from the Watchmen: Carl: Please call in. We’ll be at headquarters until 5 o’clock. This is super-important. Dave Johnson, District Coordinator, Watchmen.
    The paper was limp with humidity, as though it had been on the door for a while.
    Jake knocked: no barking—but the door was probably the newest piece of the house, a solid chunk of wood with two small view windows and a big Schlage lock. His elementary burglary skills were not going to work with it.
    He walked around to the front. Same thing: old house, new door.
    He walked around to the carport again, knocked, called: “Anybody home?”
    The house was isolated, the occasional car buzzing by on Highway 20, out of sight, and the occasional bee from the weed patch out back. He took a quick trip around it. The house was set on a concrete-block foundation, so there might be a basement, but if so, it was windowless. The house windows were fairly high—Jake was tall, but their lower sills were almost chest high on him. The window glass was dirty enough that he couldn’t see much. Still, no barking, no sound from inside.
    The carport entry was obviously the main one. Jake remembered one more thing from the surreptitious-entry course. The instructor said, “A lot of people hide a key outside the house. If they’re going to do that, it’s gonna be in about one of nine places: repeat after me . . .”
    He found it in the wrecked washing machine, in the lint filter.

    The house was dim and smelled of old moldy wallpaper. The floorboards creaked