Sam Harlan (Book 3): Damned Cold by Kevin Lee Swaim Page A

speak. I raised my hand and silenced them. “Save it. I’m not a charity worker, and frankly, I don’t do missing women, but Meriwether attacked us, and that I won’t abide.”
    * * *
    The houses in Monticello were variations of clapboard-style bungalows, farmhouses, and one-story ranches common to the Midwest, but the homes along State Street were elegant Victorians and colonials that spoke to an earlier time of wealth and influence.
    Carlton Meriwether’s home was all that but turned up to eleven. I wasn’t an expert, but it was probably at least ten thousand square feet—perhaps even more—a two-story brick monstrosity that sprawled across the better part of two acres of tastefully maintained lawn. Even though the grass had gone dormant for the winter and was faded shades of green and brown, it was obvious that Meriwether spent a significant amount of money maintaining it.
    I turned into his driveway, between a pair of thick brick pillars, and followed it to the circle drive in front of the house. “The guy sure likes his brick,” I said as I turned off the engine. “Doesn’t come cheap, either, I’m guessing.”
    Callie snorted. “I don’t know much about housing costs, but this seems … extravagant.”
    “Kinda screams pretentious,” I said.
    Callie sighed. “I’ve never understood people’s fascination with material belongings. Even before I took my vows, I never wanted physical things.”
    “Some people are just assholes.”
    Callie gave me a disapproving look. “Please, will you stop using such language?”
    “I sure as he—heck will,” I said.
    That earned me a rare smile. “The Lord understands the occasional slip.”
    “Then he must understand the heck out of me,” I muttered under my breath. I ran my hand under my trench coat and checked for the reassuring weight of the Kimber. Satisfied that it was still firmly in its holster, I opened the door, got out, and made my way up the steps to the front door.
    Callie followed me up the steps. “What will you say to him?”
    “Relax. I’m not going to shoot him or anything.” I raised an eyebrow and muttered under my breath, “Unless he deserves it.”
    “Sam—”
    “I’m just going to ask some questions,” I said, ringing the doorbell. “I won’t have to drop a body. Probably.”
    The door was made from a dark wood, heavy and massive, with stained glass on each side. There was a rustling from within, and the door opened to reveal a man in his early forties dressed in a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles t-shirt that was a size too small, green sweatpants, and plastic flip-flops. His wide face was plastered with a delighted grin.
    “Hey,” the man said, his mouth drooping at the corner. “Are you here to play?”
    “Carlton Meriwether?” I asked.
    The man’s face lit up. “Hah, you thought I was Daddy! That’s funny.” His grin faded and he wiped at his messy black hair. “You want to see Daddy?”
    The man spoke with a lisp, and the innocent twinkle in his light blue eyes made me glance at Callie. There was clearly something wrong with the man.
    Callie came to my rescue. “What’s your name?” she asked slowly as if speaking to a child.
    “Nicky,” the man said. He showed a mouthful of teeth. “Will you play Ninja Turtles with me? I love playing Ninja Turtles.”
    I hesitated, unsure of what to do.
    Callie said, “We need to speak to your father, Nicky. Maybe after that we can play Ninja Turtles.”
    “Nobody ever comes to see me,” Nicky groused, his face falling. “Nobody ever wants to play Ninja Turtles.”
    He turned and took off down the hallway, leaving the front door standing wide open. “Daddy! Somebody wants to see you and they won’t play Ninja Turtles with me until you talk to them.”
    We stood awkwardly on the front steps. From inside, we heard an older man’s voice say, “Nicholas? Did you leave the door open again?”
    “I don’t ‘member,” Nicky hollered, shrugging his shoulders.
    There was a