raised his voice to her—and she’d screwed up plenty of times—but she’d seen him nearly take the head off a guy who spoke rudely to the clerk at a little stop-and-rob where they were gassing up the G-ride. Arliss Cutter didn’t mollycoddle her, didn’t hold her hand during the tough stuff, but she was dead-level certain that he always had her back. A good boss gave you room to move, to make decisions, to stomp your own snakes—and she was damned good at stomping, even out here in this sloppy mess.
Cutter had gone to watch the shop teacher, who apparently spent his off time frequenting websites that featured sturdy women with big asses. Lola tensed her drum-tight glutes. She wasn’t a small woman, but probably wasn’t big enough for that kind of website. She thought about it for a second, then resolved to do more lunges to make sure. That guy was one surveillance she was happy to skip.
Lola was still fifty yards away when twenty-four Alaska sled dogs announced her presence with a riot of barks and whines. Chains rattled, wooden houses thumped and thudded as the dogs jumped on top. Lola stopped, then stepped slowly sideways, attempting to fade into a stand of willows. The notion of bumping into a rabid fox crossed her mind, but the porch light flicked on, giving her something else to think about. The door opened slowly and Mrs. Taylor stepped out, causing the dog yard to go completely crazy.
It was difficult to tell for sure in the fog, but it looked like Taylor was dressed in long johns and house slippers. Staying-in-by-the-fire clothes. That was good.
For one terrifying moment, Lola was worried Taylor might have one of the dogs in the house, off the leash. If that happened she was screwed. She remained motionless, fog and darkness her only concealment. No growling guard dog bounded out. Donna Taylor stood with one hand on the doorknob and leaned against the frame. It seemed as if the woman was looking right at her, but Lola chalked the feeling up to nerves. Bad guys always seemed to stare straight at your hiding spot. The truth was, most people didn’t give a second thought to anyone else in the world. It was usually only longtime criminals and meth heads who thought they were being followed. Lola took a couple of deep combat breaths to steady herself. Taylor definitely knew something had excited the dogs. She was a tall woman, sturdy looking—Lola stifled a chuckle, wondering what the pervy shop teacher thought about that. Blond hair was pulled back haphazardly with a wide elastic band, like she’d been interrupted in the process of washing her face before bed. She turned her head slowly, trying to see what had spooked her dogs, but she’d just come from a room with all the lights on. There was an open woodstove behind her, blazing away, which meant she had probably been staring into the fire. Her night vision would be toast.
Lola remained motionless anyway, except for the shivering. Hopefully, her chattering teeth sounded much louder in her head than they really were.
A cold wind freshened from the west. It wasn’t much, just a gentle back-of-the-throat puff, like the gods breathing fog against a glass. The temperature was dropping. Lola could feel it pinch her nose. She shivered from excitement now. Wind and falling temps meant the fog would lift and the troopers could start looking for the Meads. Maybe they could get the judge out of here and help with the hunt.
Taylor reached inside and grabbed a puffy down jacket. Draping it over her shoulders, she stood at the door and stared into the night, singing something that Lola couldn’t quite make out. A lullaby maybe? It would take half an hour for Taylor’s eyes to fully adjust to the darkness, especially if she’d been staring into the fire, but every second that ticked by made Lola feel more exposed.
After five full minutes, Taylor gave a final yell at the dogs, and then turned to go inside. Lola checked her watch. Nine thirty was late for someone who faced down elementary school kids all day and then mushed dogs several nights a week. Taylor was dressed in fuzzy slippers and jammies—well, thermals she probably used as jammies. She’d stoked up the fire in the stove and was in the middle of washing her face for bed.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Lola whispered.
James Johnny, the guy who was jealous of Rolf Hagen’s