Chapter 7: US Marshal Ken Sullivan
Twenty-four hours after we’d been picked up by the snow plow, I still had s**t on my to-do list, trying to sort out the mess of losing Ditweiller, wrecking the damn car, and the rest of it. Maynard Tazewell, aka my boss, had insisted I be assessed by a doctor for the concussion. I was also immediately banned from any further attempts to go find Ditweiller for at least seventy-two hours, regardless of what the doctor had to say. Maybe it was a good thing in a perverse way. All the bruises had blossomed in full color and more than half my body hurt. The doctor at urgent care agreed I did have a concussion, but claimed the headache and intermittent dizziness would fade in a few days. I spent three hours getting a new phone and having all the data transferre
