Thursday morning, Hud drove up a tree-lined street where spring buds were just beginning to unfurl, the mid-May air still carrying winter’s chill. He squinted against the pale light, checking house numbers as they passed.
“Nice area,” Creed said.
“Should be right up here.” Hud pointed toward the cross street. “Blue one with the white shutters.”
Creed leaned forward. “That’s it.”
Hud pulled to the curb and cut the engine. The small house sat tidy and still, hedges neatly trimmed, flower beds waiting on warmer days.
“Give me wide open spaces over this any day,” Creed muttered.
“Some people love it just as much as we love those.”
“True enough.”
They checked their weapons and climbed out, boots hitting pavement still damp from the morning frost. They crossed the porch past its empty hanging baskets and Hud knocked. The sound carried in the quiet street.
The door opened. A man stood in the frame, eyes dropping to their Kevlar vests before rising to their faces. Mid-fifties, heavyset, the kind of man who looked like he’d never done a hard day’s physical work in his life.
“Something I can help you with, agents?”
“Mr. Whittingham?” The man nodded, shoulders going tight. “Agent Hudson Anderson. This is Agent Creed McBride, Montana Department of Livestock. We’re here to speak with Carla Whittingham.”
“Please, come in.”
They removed their hats and wiped their feetbefore stepping inside. The house smelled of coffee and cinnamon. Family photos lined the walls, a blanket draped over an armchair, the inside as carefully kept as the outside.
“I’ll get her for you. Living room’s just there.” Mr. Whittingham gestured to a softly lit room on their right, then moved down the hallway, his footsteps heavy on the hardwood.
Hud and Creed settled onto the sofa, which sank beneath their combined weight. When the woman appeared in the doorway a few minutes later, both men rose.
She was slender, brown hair threaded with silver, somewhere in her fifties. Her eyes were rimmed red and her hands worked a tissue like she was trying to tear it apart without meaning to.
“Agents.” She didn’t sit. “I know why you’re here. I don’t know where Hal is, and I don’t care.” Her voice caught, rough around every word. “That bastard got my son killed.”
“We’re very sorry for your loss,” Creed said. “Do you have any idea where he might go?”
“The last time he called me...” She stopped and pressed her lips together. “I’d already heard about my son. I was too angry to talk to anyone. I hung up on him.” She looked down at her hands. “He was seeing someone in Autumn Falls. A woman named Burch.”
“First name?” Hud asked.
“Charlotte.” She shook her head slowly. “No. That’s not right. I can’t remember. She never mattered much to me.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Hud fished a card from his wallet and held it out. “Call me if anything comes to mind. Anything at all.”
She took it with both hands, studying it like itmight tell her something they hadn’t. “I will. I want him caught as much as you do.”
“Do you know his brother’s name?”
“Amos. But I wouldn’t think he’d help Harold out.”
“His cousins?”
“I never met any cousins.”
Hud nodded. He and Creed moved toward the front door. Hud opened it and stepped out first, the air sharp after the close warmth of the house. Creed followed, pulling the door gently shut behind them.
They stood on the porch a moment without speaking. Down the street a dog was barking at nothing. Farther off, a lawn mower droned on, indifferent to all of it.
