This route was filled with places to stay. I scanned to the left as Bob read off the names of places on the right.

“Partridge Inn… Town and Country… Stoweflake…”

“Up there,” I said. “You see the sign, just past the pizza place?”

“Mountain Shade,” Bob said. “Son of a bitch.”

I pulled into the lot, the tires crunching on the gravel. As I reached for the handle to open the door, Bob said, “Hey, you want this?”

He had a Ruger in each hand and held one out to me. “Which one is this?” I asked. “The one with one bullet, or three?”

He glanced down at one, then the other. “Fuck.”

I took the gun from him. Once we were out of the car, I tried to figure out what to do with it.

“It won’t fit in my jacket pocket,” I said.

“Try this,” Bob said, turning to the side and demonstrating how he could tuck the barrel of the gun into the waistband of his pants at the back.

“You’ll shoot your ass off,” I said.

“That’s how it’s done,” he said. “Then you hang your jacket over it, no one knows it’s there. It’s better than tucking it in the front of your pants. If it shoots off by mistake there, you got a lot more to lose.”

So, nervously, I tucked the gun into the back of my pants. It felt, to say the least, intrusive.

The night air was so still that when we closed the doors the sound echoed. There was a light over the office door, but no light on inside.

“What are we going to do?” Bob asked.

“We’re going to have to wake some people up,” I said.

I banged on the office door. I was hoping that whoever ran the joint had quarters adjoining the office and would hear the ruckus. You ran a place like this, you had to be prepared for the unexpected. A burst pipe. A guest with a heart attack.

I waited a few seconds after the first round of knocking, then started up again. Somewhere down a hallway a light came on.

“Here we go,” I said. “Someone’s coming.”

A shadowy figure started trudging down the hall, flipped the office light on, and came to the door. It was a man in his sixties, gray hair tousled, still drawing together the sash on his striped bathrobe.

“We’re closed!” he shouted through the glass.

I banged again.

“Goddamn it,” he said. He unlocked the office door, swung it open a foot, and said, “Do you know what time it is?”

“We’re really sorry,” I said.

“Yeah,” said Bob.

“I’m Tim Blake, this is Bob Janigan, and we’re trying to find my daughter.”

“What?” said the manager.

“My daughter,” I said. “We think it’s possible she might be working here, and it’s very important we find her.”

“Family emergency,” Bob chimed in.

The manager shook his head. The gesture seemed designed to wake himself up as much as to display annoyance. “What the hell’s her name?”

“Sydney Blake,” I said.

“Never heard of her,” he said and began to close the door.

I got my foot in. “Please, just a minute. It’s possible you might know her by another name.”

“What?” he said. “What other name?”

“I don’t know,” I said. I was reaching into my jacket for one of the photos of Syd I carried around with me everywhere I went. I reached through the door and handed it to him.

Reluctantly, he took it between his fingers and squinted at it. “Hang on,” he said and went around to the office desk, where a pair of reading glasses lay. That allowed us to open the door wider and take a step inside.

He peered through the glasses at the photo.

“Hang on,” he said again, and I felt my pulse quicken. “I’ve seen this girl.”

“Where?” I asked. “When?”

“She came in here, I don’t know, two weeks or more ago. Looking for some part-time work. I didn’t have anything.”

“Did she tell you her name?”

He shrugged. “Maybe, but I don’t remember it. I told her to try another place, one of their summer staff quit all of a sudden, they were looking for help.”

“What place?” I asked.

“Uh, hang on. Touch the Cloud.”

“What?” Bob asked.

“The inn. That’s the name of it, the Touch the Cloud Inn. It’s further up the road, on the way to Smugglers’ Notch, where the road starts climbing.”

“Do you know if she got a job there?”

“Beats me,” he said. “Now you can go wake them up.” He ushered us out of the office and killed the light.

Back in the car, the guns removed from the backs of our pants, we carried on up Mountain Road, driving slowly so as not to miss any of the signs.

“Whoa, go back!” Bob shouted. “I think it’s in there.”

I backed up the Mustang about thirty yards. Even at night, it was clear to see that the Touch the Cloud Inn had seen better days. The towering rustic sign out front needed paint, a mock split-rail fence around the garden below it appeared to have been used for bumper impact tests, and one of the bulbs over the office door was burned out.

We parked again, tucked the guns into our waistbands, and did the whole routine all over again.

A second after the first knock, a small dog started yapping. I heard nails skittering across the floor, saw the shadow of something small scurrying across it. “Yap yap! Yap yap yap!”

Even before the lights came on inside, a woman was shouting: “Mitzi! Mitzi! Stop it! Be quiet!”

She was in her forties, streaky blonde hair, good-looking-not easy to pull off this time of night in a frayed housecoat and no makeup. She was also very wary. She looked at us through the glass of the still-locked storm door and asked, “Who are you?” We introduced ourselves. “What do you want?” she shouted over Mitzi’s yapping.

I said, loud enough to be heard through glass and over Mitzi, “We’re trying to find my daughter. It’s an emergency.” I said I thought she might be working there, and gave her Sydney’s name.

“Sorry,” she said. “I’ve got no one here by that name. Mitzi, Jesus, shut up!”

The dog shut up.

I pressed Syd’s picture up against the glass. The woman leaned in, studied it, and said, “That’s Kerry.”

“Kerry?” I said.

“Kerry Morton.”

“She works here?” I asked.

The woman nodded. “Who’d you say you were again?”

“Tim Blake. I’m her father.”

“If you’re her father, how come her last name’s not the same as yours?”

“It’s a long story. Listen, it’s very important that I find her. Do you know where she’s staying?”

The woman kept studying me. Maybe she was looking for some sort of family resemblance. “Let me see some ID. Him too.”

I dug out my wallet, pulled out my driver’s license, and put it up against the glass. Bob did the same.

The woman was debating what to do. “Hang on,” she said. She left the office and could be heard in a nearby room saying, “Wake up, wake up, pull some pants on.” Some male grumbling. “There’s a couple chuckleheads here want me to walk off into the night with them, and there’s no way I’m going out there alone.”

A moment later she reappeared with a young shirtless and barefooted man who looked like he’d just walked out of an Abercrombie & Fitch ad. Washboard stomach, rippling arms, hair as black as the woods. The faded jeans he’d just pulled on were zipped but unbuttoned. Bob and I traded glances. A boy toy. But a boy toy who didn’t look like he should be messed with.

“This is Wyatt,” she said. He blinked sleepily at us. “He’s joining us.”

“Great,” I said.

“We got several out-of-town kids working here,” she said. “Wyatt’s one. We got a few mini-cabins out back for them.” Evidently Wyatt was favored with better accommodations, at least tonight. “Kerry’s staying in one of those.”

“Where?” I asked. “Do they have numbers? Can you tell me where-”

“Hold your horses,” she said and, along with Wyatt, led us down a sidewalk, around the side of the building to a row of cabins dimly lit by some lamps attached to wooden poles. They all backed onto a wooded area. I hoped Wyatt was groggy enough not to notice the bulges under the backs of our jackets. It was dark out, so I figured we were okay.