Chapter 11 - Smoke on the County Road
The wind howled against the farmhouse siding, driving sleet horizontally across the darkened fields. We had less than twenty minutes before Ray's scanner picked up encrypted radio chatter from the local sheriff's department—deputies loyal to Judge Miller were dispatching a patrol unit toward the property under the guise of a routine weather check.
"They know we're here," Ray said, locking the heavy oak front door and sliding a steel security bar into place. "Vance must have tipped off the precinct the moment his men lost us on Route 9. We need to split up or abandon the house entirely."
"No splitting up," Dominic said instantly, his hand resting protectively near my shoulder as we stood by the mudroom exit. "We keep the girls together. Emily, do you know of any place nearby that isn't tied to the county network?"
My mind raced through every backroad, abandoned structure, and seasonal rental I'd serviced during my three years waitressing at Miller's Corner and the surrounding diners.
"The old Riverside Motel," I said, a sudden spark of hope cutting through the tension. "It's closed for the winter, three miles past the old lumber mill. The owner skipped town two years ago, but my cousin left the service key under the ice machine. It's off the grid, no smart meters, and no phone lines."
Dominic didn't hesitate. He nodded sharply, turning to Ray. "Can you hold them off long enough for us to clear the ridge?"
Ray grinned, a fierce, defiant expression that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "I've got a dozen smoke canisters in the root cellar and an old tractor parked across the main drive. Go."
We piled back into Dominic's black truck, the tires biting hard into the frozen ruts as we surged away from the farmhouse. Through the rear window, I saw thick plumes of gray smoke billowing from Ray's chimney, masking our departure just as a pair of cruiser headlights crested the far hill.
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The drive to the Riverside Motel was a harrowing exercise in blind navigation. Snow blinded the windshield, and the wiper blades struggled against a thick crust of ice. Dominic drove with absolute focus, one hand on the wheel and the other occasionally checking the heavy pistol resting on the center console.
We pulled into the desolate, snow-drifted parking lot of the motel ten minutes later, cutting our headlights before coasting to a stop beneath the rusted, flickering neon sign.
