Early morning of the election, Mickey Verona looked out of his living room window to see Comstock and a woman trudging up his walk through the snow. Behind them, parked in the road, was a brown truck with SHERIFF emblazoned on the side in bold white letters and a red emergency light flashing on top. The vehicle had been fitted with mattracks to travel over the deep blanket of unseasonably early snow cast upon the Mission Valley.

Comstock was clad in a heavy parka and boots. The woman, wearing a beige waistcoat over slacks and shoes, slipped and almost fell.

“Christ,” Mickey grumbled. He hadn’t even made coffee yet.

His eyes felt heavy and hot. He’d sat up most of the night waiting for his phone to ring, hoping Alan or Deputy Wolf would contact him and tell him what the hell had happened, or at least send some sort of signal they were alive. But the call never came.

Mickey made it a habit to monitor all the police bands in the valley. A friend in the Polson City Police Department provided him with the encrypted channels, just in case his services were needed. At two in the morning, his scanners had gone wild. It all began with a call out from the sheriff’s department asking Polson PD across town if they had internet and electricity.

“Affirmative. No problem here,” was the reply.

Thirty minutes later, another call had gone out, “We’re under attack!”

“Repeat. What did you say?” said the city dispatcher. “Repeat, Lake County!” But there was no further communication from the sheriff’s department.

After a solid two minutes of what must have been panicked confusion at the PD, the dispatcher radioed, “We’re sending a unit over now.”

Fifteen minutes later, a city police officer called back, screaming with adrenaline, “Officers down! Officers down! Send backup!”

Mickey sat at his kitchen table, listening intently to the back-and-forth chatter. Polson had requested backup ten miles up Highway 93 from the Tribal Police in Pablo and then six more miles up the road from the Ronan City Police Department. Every time there was another call, the body count increased.

“I found another one. That makes three.”

A few minutes later: “Body next to the café...”

“…body in the jail cell...”

“…human head on top of the cruiser…”

“Holy Christ, they look like Gretas.”

Then, a caller to Polson 911 reported an accident on Main Street. A car had plowed through the front door of Brown’s Dental Clinic. It looked like a crash and run, as there was no driver to be found to the black and gray late-model self-driver, registered under the name Alan Smith.

Mickey had been debating heading out into the storm on foot when the final call from Sheriff Comstock crackled over the scanner, the call that perplexed him more than anything and made him sit tight.

“This is Sheriff Comstock. I have an all-persons bulletin for three individuals suspected in the murder of my deputies. Forty-five-year-old White male, roughly six feet tall, 190, with brown hair, brown eyes, and a beard. The name is Alan Smith. Twenty-six-year-old White female, five-four, red hair, green eyes, Gwendolyn Wolf. Thirteen-year-old Native American male, long hair, injun style, brown eyes, five feet tall, eighty-five pounds soaking wet, goes by the name of Francis Builds A Fire. All suspects are wanted for multiple homicides of law enforcement officers and possibly other victims. They are considered armed and dangerous.”

Then in the pre-dawn hours, a knock on his back door. It was McGreevy, urgent, panicked, telling him a story about men turning into wolves and how he, with the help of a strange old woman, had killed them and burned their bodies.

And now Francis’s smashed guitar rested in plain sight on the sofa.

The front door vibrated like a drum. Comstock was pounding.

Mickey sighed and opened.

“I have a warrant to search your house, Verona.”

The large cop pushed past him into the living room. “This is Special Agent Nor-Nora-Nor-something from the FBI.”

The agent stood next to Comstock and looked around, melting a puddle on his living room carpet. She flashed her identification and reached out to shake Mickey’s hand with a firm grip. She removed her fogging glasses in the warmth of the house. “Norelhouda. FBI. Domestic Terrorism. Is it correct that you are the lawyer representing Francis Builds A Fire?”

“That’s right,” said Mickey.

Norelhouda stayed in the living room while Comstock tramped through the house.

“You break it, you buy it,” he called after him.

“And you’re a friend of Dr. Alan Smith?”

“Alan is Builds A Fire’s psychologist. We were coordinating on the boy’s defense.” A loud crash came from his office, and he flinched. “I heard the calls last night.”

“You did?”

“I’m an ambulance chaser.”

“I see. When was the last time you saw Gwendolyn Wolf or Alan Smith?”

“I didn’t look at my watch. Between midnight and 1 AM at the sheriff’s station. Alan was unconscious in a cell, probably suffering from a concussion, thanks to the rabid ape tearing up my house. Comstock beat the boy down, too. If I thought it’d make a difference, I’d file a report.”

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Agent Norelhouda raised her eyebrows.

“Anyway, Gwen and I had just finished talking to Sheriff Comstock. He told me to get out, so I came home, took a shit and a shower, and then all living hell broke loose over the scanners.”

Norelhouda frowned. She was pretty in a girl-next-door way. Remove the glasses and, well…

“Have they tried to contact you?” she asked.

“No, they haven’t. What the hell happened over there?”

The FBI agent closed her eyes tight and shook her head. She looked as tired as Mickey felt. “I don’t know. We’re trying to piece it together.”

“Do you really think a boy, a cop, and a shrink are responsible for all that?” asked Mickey.

Comstock came back into the living room, his face red. “No one is here but this greasy little lawyer.” His gaze settled on Mickey’s sofa and the busted blue guitar. “Where did you get that?”

“I rescued it after the concert. It’s evidence. Go ahead, take it.”

Comstock looked like he was going to pick it up and smash it again. He jabbed Mickey in the chest to emphasize each word. “Do not leave town.” He slammed Mickey’s door behind him and headed for his truck.

“Looks like you got fun company today, Agent Norelhouda,” Mickey said.

“Shit. I could’ve been in Cancun today. Thank you for your time, Mr. Verona.”

“Just Mickey.”

“I guess you’ll understand that we’re going to station a patrol on your house.”

“And my phone?”

“We have a warrant to monitor it, but if you get any information—”

“I know the drill.”

“Sorry about the mess.” She paused at the door. “One more thing, does it always snow this much up here?”

“It’s Montana. It always snows this much. Might be a tad early this year.”

“I better buy some boots then. Don’t forget to vote, Mickey.”

She made her way through the snow and climbed clumsily into Comstock’s rig. Mickey noticed a small, unmarked SUV had parked across the street. Two men were sitting in the front watching him. His stomach rumbled. He needed coffee and maybe a Lumberjack Stack.

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Bundled in his heavy winter coat, his work bag slung across his chest like a sash, Mickey ventured out into the world. He waved to the two men in the SUV as he snowshoed across the white powder of his yard, heading down the lane that would take him to his office. Hot coffee, food, a beautiful view of the lake, and hopefully an even better view of Foxy’s firm ass.

Mickey heard the rev of an engine. When he looked back, he saw the surveillance vehicle had become lodged in the snow as it tried to follow him. He waved, leaving the team behind.

Despite the horrific events that had transpired over the last twelve hours, he breathed deeply, savoring the crisp air of the valley winter come early. Just days ago, the town of Polson had been mired in the brown muck of late autumn. Now, it was a wonderland of frozen white, the whitest snow he’d ever seen. Ice crystals sparkled with hues of blue, red, and yellow, like diamonds catching the sunlight.

He made yet another turn into a decrepit trailer park. The long units, covered in drifts, looked like the set of a science fiction movie. Smoke rose from the chimneys, carrying the fragrance of burning pine logs.

He passed a boy pulling another on a red sled down the sidewalk. The kid was trying his damnedest to dislodge his rider, who, looking like a future astronaut in his snowsuit and ski mask, held on tight. As they hit the slope, big brother jumped on top, and down they went, reveling in their freedom of an unexpected snow day from school.

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“Hello? Anyone home?” Mickey called into the diner. There was no reply. The parking lot was heaped with snow and empty, but the neon OPEN sign shone in the window, and the door was unlocked. A tinkling Christmas melody played over the speaker system. He hung his wet coat on the rack and walked through the large dining area to his booth in the back next to the windows.

Dee’s Diner occupied the entire ground floor of a three-story redbrick building constructed in the early 1950s. The original owner, a Mr. Clarence Lindberg, had been a successful local pharmacist and businessman. Inspiration struck when his wife, Alice-Desaré (everyone called her ‘Dee’), mentioned she was bored and wanted something to take her mind off the tragedy of a child lost in the war.

Legend had it that the core of Dee’s clientele back in those days were the lumberjacks from the logging camps in the foothills of the Missions. Every morning, the lot of them would clean Dee out and grumble for more, so she was forced to design a breakfast sure to satiate those voracious men. The Lumberjack Stack: six buttermilk pancakes drowning in real butter and maple syrup, four eggs, six strips of bacon, hash browns, and the lumberjack’s choice of four pieces of toast or two giant buttermilk biscuits.

Coffee flowed like water.

Even if Foxy hadn’t worked here, the food would have kept Mickey coming back for more.

He wasn’t surprised the place was empty—most of Polson would probably stay empty today, save for the few disillusioned who still believed their votes mattered—but Dee’s was also famous for never closing.

“Hello?” he called out again.

He thought he heard something back in the kitchen. Poking his head through the double swinging doors, he felt the warmth from the massive, gas-fired griddle on his face. The smell of freshly beaten pancake batter, resting on a bed of ice in a large stainless steel bowl on the center island filled the air. But Foxy was nowhere to be seen.

He’d been coming here at least six days a week for the last ten years. Hell, he’d even worked here washing dishes for a few months when he first migrated to the picturesque lakeside town after college, so he didn’t think it was inappropriate to cross that boundary and look behind the curtain. And he was glad he did, because what he saw pleased him.

There was Foxy, on her hands and knees, doing something under the long sink at the far side of the kitchen. Her very shapely rump was sticking up in the air, her tight polyester skirt showing off each ham of her ass in fine detail.

“Lose a contact lens?” he said.

The waitress squeaked and smacked her head on the underside of the sink. “Ouch! Jesus! Mickey!” she said, standing up, rubbing her scalp.

“Sorry, Foxy, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Oh, Mickey, it’s alright. I broke a damn plate and was trying to get all the little pieces of glass. Those blue ones shattering is the worst.”

Her long blonde hair was done up in a net, but a few wild strands still managed to sneak out and fall across her face, where a dash of flour freckled over the bridge of her nose.

“I’ll just pour myself a cup. Take your time.”

“Office hours on a day like this?” she asked. That was how she referred to booth C-3, Mickey’s office; and except for times when they were slammed, she never let anyone sit there.

“You betcha. Is it a one-lady crew today?”

“Yeah, everyone’s snowed in this morning. They asked me to open up. The perks of living above your workplace,” she said, slopping a dirty rag into a bucket.

Foxy, in addition to being the most loyal waitress Dee’s had ever known, lived on the third floor in a cozy apartment.

“Well, if you need any help, let me know. I can still wash dishes.”

“Okay, Mickey, I’ll let you know, but by the looks of it outside, it ain’t gonna get too busy.”

She wore no makeup today, and she was just as pretty as the night of the Halloween Ball. God, that had been a night to remember. She’d been the perfect date, and perfectly in character as the buxom wench fallen under the spell of a lusty vampire. In the end, he’d been a perfect gentleman. He bought her two bottles of the overpriced pumpkin spice champagne, and drove her home safely, kissed her on the cheek, and asked her to the movies the following weekend—to which she replied in the affirmative.

Chip the bison trophy stared down at him.