“Rains, it pours,” he smiled, studying his in turn.
My cell phone started chirping, making us both laugh.
“Christ,” I said. “No hands left to drive with.”
I dropped the pager into my lap and answered the phone. “Gunther.”
“Joe, it’s Snuffy. Where in Christ’s name are you?” His tone was close to panicky, unheard of in the man.
“Maybe fifteen minutes away from Tucker Peak.”
“Step on it, then. All hell’s broken loose. Some U.S. Marshal’s been shot at one of the condos, and my people are going nuts. What have you been doing up there? And when did the Marshals get involved, or is that news to you, too?”
Didn’t I wish. I leaned forward and hit the blue lights hidden in my car’s front grille. “I was about to call you about that. Does the condo belong to a guy named Andy Goddard?”
“Yeah.”
“Goddard’s in the Witness Protection Program. We just found out about him. I was going to get with you and the Marshals to bust him later today.”
“Thanks for keeping me in the loop,” he commented sourly.
“The Marshals must’ve jumped the gun, Snuffy. I didn’t know anything about it. When did this happen?”
“Right now. The Marshal was only wounded. He just called 911 a few minutes ago from Goddard’s house.”
Meaning there was still a chance. “Did you block the access road?”
“First thing, but my guys are feeling pretty lonely.”
“Okay, spread the word. Tell the feds, the state police tactical team, see about rounding up as many snowmobiles as you can, and have somebody warn Linda Bettina about all this. Her crew could be at risk. That road’s the only way out unless he goes cross-country some way.” I paused and looked up at the dull gray sky. “It’s about to start snowing here. Ask the National Guard if they can get a helicopter into this stuff-their infrared unit could give us a crucial set of eyes.”
In response to all this, the phone simply went dead. Spinney looked at me questioningly.
“We’re in deep shit now,” I said in explanation. “Tony Bugs is on the run.”
Chapter 22
Linda Bettina muscled her way through the small cluster of cops standing around me in the parking lot in front of the lodge, which at this point consisted mostly of sheriff’s deputies and a couple of state troopers who’d responded to the general alert. Her eyes showed she was in high temper. “What the hell’s going on? I heard somebody was shot, that the road’s been cut off, and I just got a call from that fathead sheriff to take all my people off the mountain, but he wouldn’t tell me why.”
I tentatively laid a hand on her forearm, hoping she wouldn’t feed it to me. “I’m sorry. That was my fault. One of the condo owners just shot a U.S. Marshal and disappeared. The road’s blocked so he won’t get away, but I was worried about employee safety. I know your folks are all over this mountain. I was afraid one of them might get hurt or killed for his snowmobile.”
She shut her eyes briefly and shook her head. When she spoke again, she’d regained her usual composure. “Christ almighty. I thought I’d seen it all till now. I can’t wait to get you bastards out of here. Look, you don’t want my crew gone, you need them as extra eyes. The weather’s about to turn shitty, and they know the terrain like the inside of the Butte’s bathroom. My concern’s more the guests. Who says your nutcase isn’t going to use one of them as a hostage to get out of here?”
“That’s what we were just discussing,” I told her. “If he does, he’ll have to announce himself, knowing full well we won’t let him through. To be honest, right now, a hostage situation would be good news.”
“And one I doubt he’ll use,” said a male voice behind us.
We both turned to see Al Freeman standing there, looking embarrassed.
I opened my mouth to voice my opinion about what had just happened, but he cut me off. “I know, I know. I’m sorry. It was a screwup, plain and simple. I didn’t know Tony’s case officer was in the area. We do that sometimes-run random checks on our clients. He had no idea of the situation, and we didn’t know Tony had caught wind something was up. When Tony saw the officer at the door, he freaked. It was just Murphy’s Law. We weren’t trying to end-run you.”
At this point, I didn’t much care. I also knew that such things did happen, as unlikely as they might seem.
“How many guys can you call in to help?” I asked instead.
“I have eight coming from various corners-a couple of hours out at the most for some of them, and I can get more.”
I turned to Linda as snowflakes began descending-fat, lazy, and very thick-guaranteeing we wouldn’t be getting that helicopter. “You got a deal. We’ll use your troops as eyes and ears, but I want them equipped with at least one cop each. They can come in to buddy up or we can send someone out to them on snowmobiles, but if you won’t give me that, I am going to pull them all off the mountain. As for the guests, the best I can think of is to stop loading the lifts right now and hope that everyone who’s up there skis off in the next forty-five minutes or so to give us a clear field.”
She looked at me grimly. “Let’s move to the dispatch room. We can reach everybody by radio or phone from there.”
I motioned to Spinney. “We’re going to Mountain Ops. Set up a command post right outside the garage and keep your radio handy.”
He gave me a thumbs-up, and I followed Linda as she strode off toward her operational center. I was feeling the earlier adrenaline rush transform itself into an all-too-familiar, slightly slower-paced tactical tempo. The only thing I knew for sure about the near future was that this situation could last for days without allowing for much rest. As when I’d been in combat so long ago, it was time to think of conserving energy.
Less than half an hour had elapsed since Snuffy Dawson’s phone call.
Twenty minutes later Linda Bettina and I, now joined by Sammie Martens, Al Freeman, one of the state police troopers, and Snuffy’s chief deputy were crowded into the resort’s dispatch center-the true brains of Mountain Ops. It had radio, telephone, and computer links to all over Tucker Peak, as well as a bank of small television sets connected to a dozen or more surveillance cameras overseeing the area’s primary gathering spots: parking lots, ski rack clusters, food service courts, and the lift buildings both near the lodge and at the top of the mountain. Before us, a huge whiteboard-mounted map of the resort covered the far wall and had already been sprinkled with cryptic notes in a variety of felt-tipped colors. Linda, a radio headset fitted over one ear, stood at the map, marking the locations of the teams we’d sent out. Over loudspeakers around the room, the air crackled with voices giving updates from the field, and on the TVs, the restaurants, bars, and lobby areas were filling with a growing crowd of confused guests. The whole setup looked like a scruffy movie version of a Pentagon war room.
Unfortunately, the exterior cameras only revealed a thick curtain of falling snow. Wherever Antony “Tony Bugs” Busco was right now, and whatever he was doing, it was going to be difficult getting a fix on him.
“What do you think?” Sammie asked me quietly. “He slip through already?”
“I don’t see how,” I told her doubtfully. “Linda says she’s gotten no reports of a stolen snowmobile. We have watchers at the top of every lift, and they haven’t spotted him. I suppose he could either cross-country ski or snowshoe out, but that doesn’t seem likely, not from what I’ve been told about his physical condition-he’s no jock.”
She seemed to absorb that for a moment, looking around the room, and then asked, “Where’s McNally? You’d think he’d be here sweating bullets.”
It occurred to me then that only Lester Spinney had heard my conspiracy theory in detail, although, having asked Linda about McNally’s whereabouts myself a mere quarter hour ago, I was beginning to feel more confident of it. “He’s apparently disappeared. Nobody knows where to.”