A Moment in Crime
Blizzard conditions in a New Hampshire mountain pass result in a tragic, but hardly surprising accident...which becomes the catalyst for a series of what seem unrelated events. A witness to the first event, avid rock climber Greg Taylor is involved in a desperate effort to find a missing hiker, a search that reveals many dangers can't be put down to bad luck. Climbing the granite crags and pitches of the area's mountains, well aware of the dangers inherit in his sport, Greg becomes increasingly convinced that the real target, like the killer, is as yet, unknown.
A Few Paragraphs from Chapter 1:
Set in the lovely, wilder areas of New Hampshire's White Mountains, readers will traverse ledges, admire wildlife and delight in the charms of the local inn. This story contains not only all the puzzles of an old-time mystery, but also, the adventures of a modern mountain search and rescue team. From rock climbing to driving an eighteen wheeler, this lively mystery spans only a few short days, but readers quickly discover that every clue counts...
The drone of the aging Kenworth's big diesel engine abruptly stopped. Momentum kept the tractor trailer truck thundering along, but the power for the power-steering dropped out along with the engine. Bob Gallagher suddenly had to use both hands to force the wheel around and keep the old girl following the twisting road.
Gallagher swore softly as he slipped the main clutch to neutral, pressed home the choke, stomped the gas pedal to the floor once, and turned the key. The old truck's immediate roar was reassuring, and Bob sighed. The middle of snowstorm was not the time to find oneself careening through a mountain pass without an engine.
"Not a bad old boat, are you?" he crooned. He kept his eyes focused carefully on the double yellow lines running down the middle of the road. The white outer edge lines were already mostly obscured, and he was wishing like hell he had never set out.
That morning's road report had not made him think twice. It hadn't been snowing when he'd left home, but the report had called for a few snow flurries. He had figured that meant he might see a tiny dusting of snow, if anything. He had known he wouldn’t want to be traveling south into the notch in storm, but flurries didn’t sound like the storm would amount to much. If the weather report had given any indication of this, of flakes like fine white powder seeming to blow in every direction at once, he might have thought twice and decided to stay home and replace that fuel pump. Still, it sounded like it would be pretty mild in most places and if he was lucky at all, he figured he would get out of this freak bad patch pretty quickly. As he had passed the ski area, he had notice that the slopes were barely even dusted with snow and that was reassuring; the storm really wasn’t amounting to much.
In a truly phenomenal piece of bad timing combining nastily with rotten luck, he arrived at the final hill to the top of the narrow gap just as flurries gave way to heavy snowfall.
The roads still weren't thoroughly covered, but the dusting on the surface was enough to obscure the painted lines. Now that he was in the notch, the actual passage between the mountains, there wasn’t anywhere safe to stop. Pulling the rig to the side and stopping on the narrow patch of shoulder would have made the truck itself a danger to other drivers, as there was no where to get something the size of an eighteen wheeler completely off the road. Not for a few more miles anyway.
The engine thrummed steadily, and Bob kept her steady at thirty, southbound.