Advertisement
Arthur turned on his heel.
His wet oxfords sank into the mud of the drainage ditch as he began the half-mile walk back along the dark shoulder of Route 30, the freezing wind howling at his back, leaving the food steaming upon the rusted iron rim in the dark.
Ten minutes.
That was how long Arthur Vance sat behind the wheel of his black Lexus LS500, parked on the gravel apron of the abandoned storage facility, fifty yards from the edge of the briar thicket.
The twin amber hazard lights pulsed rhythmically, casting sweeping, golden arcs of light across the drifting snowdrifts and the rusted corrugated steel doors of the storage units. The engine hummed with a quiet, imperceptible sixty-mile-an-hour idle; the digital dashboard read **74°F**; and the soft, rich leather interior smelled of cedar aftershave, clean wool, and the faint, nostalgic presence of Caroline’s French lavender hand cream that still lingered in the glovebox seams.
