“That’s likely,” Lamar said. “I’ll help with the stove.”
They all left the room but Byron. He lagged behind, stood in the doorway.
“I almost got me a grizzly once,” he said. “Up near Crested Butte. But he moved faster than I thought he could.”
“What kind of gun were you using?” Trexler asked.
“Winchester thirty-ought-six with a Johnson scope. Dad was carrying his twelve-gauge. You ought to see it. He won it over at the Gunnison Thanksgiving Turkey Shoot two years ago. Got gold curlicues on the stock. Want to see it?”
“Sure,” Trexler said with a smile. “Sounds like a real treasure.”
There had been two storms in forty-eight hours with a six-hour break between them. Phone lines were still down and they were just beginning to clear the roads. Keegan and Dryman, huddled against the harsh wind, which was beginning to slack off, scurried down the street and entered the ranger station. It was eight o’clock in the morning and the sun was just beginning to rise over the mountains. They had been holed up in their hotel room for two days.
Jack Lancey, a grizzled, white-haired ranger, was sitting behind his desk with his feet propped up, drinking hot chocolate.
“Howdy gents,” he said. “Got coffee and hot chocolate on the stove in the other room. It ain’t the White House but it’ll do.”
“How’s Duane’s ankle?” Keegan asked.
“A little better today but what the hell, a compound fracture. That’s gonna smart for a while. You sure did a good job with that splint there, Dryman. He could’ve been crippled for life.”
“I’m sorry I got him into this,” Keegan said.
“It’s his job, Mr. Keegan, He’s faced up to a lot worse.”
“Any news from Kramer’s cabin?”
Lancey shook his head. “This is a real pisser,” he said. “We can’t get jack shit on the radio and our phones are down. Don’t know whether Soapie went on up to the ridge or stayed at the high cabin. Hell, for all we know Trexler went into the gulch, too. He could be an ice cube by now.”
“No such luck,” Keegan growled. “Got a big map of this area, Jack?”
“Right in the radio room there, gents. Almost life-size.”
They went into the radio room and stared at the map, which covered almost one entire wall of the room. Lancey pointed to a spot with his pencil.”
“That’s us, right there,” he said.
“Let’s say he skied out of Kramer’s place, just for discussion’s sake, okay? Where would he most likely go?”
Lancey stared at the map for a few minutes.
“Well, he probably went to the Copperhead Ridge cabin first. From there it’s just about downhill to anyplace you’d want to go. Hell, there’s a buncha little villages he might’ve made it into. But he would’ve gone southeast, to avoid the river. Over in here someplace. Almont, Gunnison, Sapinero.”
“What’s this?” Keegan asked, tracing a broken line down the center of the map with his finger.
“That’s the Continental Divide.”
“Definitely would’ve gone south, right?”
“Had to. Too rough going north. I don’t care how good he
“Down in here someplace,” Keegan said, kneeling down and looking at the bottom of the map.
“You’re talking about thirty miles before you see a smokestack,” said Lancey. “Trexler didn’t ski thirty miles through that storm. If he tried, he’s dead.”
“What would he do if he did get to some little burg?” Dryman said. “Nobody’s going anywhere. Two, three feet of snow all over the area, roads closed.”
“They just got the plows and sand trucks out late last night,” Lancey said.
“I’m telling you, he’s down there somewhere. Maybe he’s holed up, but he’s down there.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he doesn’t think anybody would believe he could make it. And besides, everybody thinks he went into Leadville. He probably figures he’s safe.”
Lancey sighed.
“Well, hell,” he said. “We got a four-wheel-drive with slug chains on it. C’mon, we’ll pick up the sheriff and see if we can make it up to Kramer’s cabin and take a look.”
The sheriff was an enormous man, over six feet tall and weighing about 225, with skin tanned the color of cinnamon. A soft-spoken man with a ready smile and alert eyes, he wore a plaid shirt and cord pants and a bulky sheepskin jacket that made him look even larger. A battered felt hat covered his bald pate. He climbed in the front seat next to Lancey and twisting around with some effort, offered a hand the size of a melon to Keegan and Dryman.
“Sidney Dowd,” he said softly. “I’m the sheriff hereabouts.”
Keegan shook the big hand.
“Francis Keegan, White House Security. This is John Dry- man, my partner.”
“White House Security, huh?” Dowd said. “You boys go in and check things out ahead of the president?”
“No,” Keegan said. “We’re in Special Investigations.” He let it drop there, hoping the sheriff would not pursue the point, but it was wishful thinking.
“What’d Johnny Trexler do?”
“We need to talk to him,” Dryman said. “Part of an ongoing investigation.”
“Took the liberty of callin’ the White House,” Dowd said. “Talked to a fella name of Smith who seemed a little surprised you were way out here, but he did say you were official and the investigation was highly confidential.” He paused for a moment and added, “Whatever the hell that means.”
“We just didn’t want him to get on to us and turn rabbit,” Keegan said. “But somebody tipped him off and that’s exactly what happened.”
“Don’t think there was anything suspicious about the call,” Dowd said. “Jesse out at the airport heard you mention John’s name when you landed and got all excited. He called to find out if Trexler was going to the White House for some reason.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” Keegan said. “I don’t mind telling you I was a little paranoid about that.”
“It’s a small town, gentlemen. Gossip is not uncommon.”
“I thought we might swing by Trexler’s place on the way up the mountain, just to check it out,” Keegan suggested.
“You think he went up to base camp and killed Soapie Kramer instead of going into Leadville?”
“Yes, we do,” Keegan answered.
“I really doubt that,” Dowd said and shut up.
They fell silent as they drove through the town and out the highway toward the base camp trail. Snowplows had piled snow deep on both sides of the road and the chains clinked rhythmically beneath them as they crunched over the road. Lancey could handle the vehicle. He wheeled into the mountain road that led to the Trexler and Kramer cabins, double-clutched down to first gear, and started up the trail at about ten miles an hour. The truck snaked up through the snow, its chains biting through the mud and slush into hard ground. Lancey kept a steady speed, made the turn into Trexler’s driveway and swung around in an arc so the pickup was facing back out on the road.
They got out and walked toward the cabin. Keegan took Dryman’s arm and held him back a little as they stomped a path through almost two feet of snow.
“Find a screwdriver,” he said. “And take the handle off the commode. Use gloves.”
“The commode?” Dryman said.
“Fingerprints, Dry. Nobody wears gloves when they take a leak.”
Dryman thought about that for a moment and nodded. “That’s right,” he agreed.
The cabin was clean and neat. Keegan checked all the closets. No suitcase. He checked the size of a pair of shoes. 10D. Pocketed a hairbrush with strands clinging to the bristles. Trexler’s skis and poles were leaning near the back door.
“Doesn’t look like he was planning to ski anywhere,” Dowd said.
“He wants this place to look like he went out of town for a couple of days,” Keegan said. “I’m sure he was planning to use Kramer’s skis. Notice something else? Not a picture in the room. Nothing personal.”