Blizzard by H.W. Buzz Bernard 01

Bryant Street Publishing presents Blizzard by HW Buzz Bernard. Read for you by Steve Roush.

Dedication for my daughter Vicki.

Chapter 1. Failure.

American International System Solutions Incorporated. North Metro Atlanta, Georgia. Wednesday morning, December 28th.

Jonathan Carlton Rigggins, JC, to his friends and family, stepped out of the elevator on the 10th floor of corporate headquarters. He checked his watch. 8 a.m. Right on time.

He stopped at the desk of the CEO's assistant, Mary Hawthorne. "Good morning, Mary. Hope you had a pleasant Christmas."

She nodded but didn't return the greeting. In fact, she appeared strangely dower.

"FedEx should be here around 10:00 to pick up the proposal," JC said, deciding not to probe into Mary's personal feelings. "Eight copies. Mr. Billingsley will sign them out. He'd like to see you."

Something flashed in her eyes. A warning. A prophetus bearing a dire message. Her tacit alert seemed so palpable JC actually glanced behind him, wondering if someone dressed as the grim reaper might be creeping up unseen.

"I just need to stop by corporate communications first."

"Now," she said, her voice low. "He wants to see you now."

JC's gut churned. The holiday bonhomie and sense of vocational optimism he'd harbored just seconds before fled like helium from a pricked balloon. Adding to his sudden angst, the smell of blackened toast and scorched eggs drifted in from the executive dining room three doors down. The term "burnt offerings" crossed his mind.

He tried to imagine what could have gone wrong, for surely something must have. He wasn't misreading the foreboding implicit in Mary's demeanor. At yesterday's final review, the wrap-up prior to the most important proposal in the company's history being shipped out, everything had seemed in order. The meeting had been brief and smooth. No gremlins lurking in a forest, no trolls hiding beneath a bridge.

All that remained was to print and bind the proposal documents and put them in the hands of FedEx, who would deliver them to Rampart Aerospace and Defense Corporation in Durham, North Carolina by the end of the day, a step ahead of an impending winter storm that had everyone on edge. It seemed as though the Southeast, in the over-the-top words of a major TV network, faced a once-in-a-millennium monster. A shutdown blizzard expected to [ __ ] the region for a week, maybe two. What had he missed?

He rapped on the door of Cyrus Billingsley, the CEO.

"Enter." A curt command from a retired Air Force major general. JC stepped into Billingsley's lair. The man still appeared every bit a flag officer with his close-cropped gray hair, chiseled features, and laser-like gaze. While JC didn't mark him as a hard ass, he knew him to be demanding and blunt.

Billingsley didn't look up from a document he appeared to be studying. After a minute or so, he did. His gaze, something that could have withered a granite monolith, fell on JC with almost tangible intensity.

"Do you know how [ __ ] pissed I am?" Billingsley said. His voice rumbled with volcanic undertones. His face twisted into a mask of barely contained rage gleamed lavaflow red. JC had never heard the CEO use profanity before, so [ __ ] became an immediate marker of the depth of the man's fury.

JC chose not to respond to the question, understanding it didn't demand an answer. A wave of nausea swept over him. The strength in his legs failed, the muscles and tendons holding him upright deteriorating to a rubbery state. He grabbed the desk for support. Something cataclysmic had happened on his watch, under his leadership, his responsibility.

"Yesterday, I was briefed everything was fine," Billingsley said. "Last night, I decided to make one final sweep through the proposal." He slid a stack of papers toward JC and raised his voice. "You just cost this company a billion dollar project. A billion [ __ ] dollars. Damn it to hell, JC. Damn it to hell."

JC reached toward the papers, trying to camouflage the tremor in his hand.

"It's the test data," Billingsley snapped. "Here we are, the only company in the bidding with a working Hydrus, a virtual shoe-in to win the job. And instead of entering working model test results into the proposal, we entered the prototype evaluations. 2-year-old data. I know the differences are subtle, but when it comes to highlighting the effectiveness of the system, they're deal breakers. [ __ ]"

He pounded his fist onto his mahogany desk with such force JC thought the CEO might have shattered the bones in his hand. JC read the title on the top sheet in the stack of papers. "Test results. High-def low-light target acquisition system. Hyaltus."

The system, a high-tech blend of night vision technology and infrared detection capabilities, had undergone extensive modifications over the past two years. From a barely functional prototype, it had been crafted into a state-of-the-art, reliable, ruggedized military system. No other corporation, at least as far as American International's corporate intelligence could discern, had one. It was to have been the company's golden egg, the key to Fort Knox, their own Saudi oil field. But now, his hand visibly shaking, JC leafed through the papers.

"Don't bother," Billingsley said, his voice coated with rage. "I double checked, triple checked. It's not obvious, at least not until you drill down into the data. But it doesn't support our efficacy claims."

"We can fix it," JC said, his voice wavering and feeble.

"Sure we can," Billingsley said, his words derisive. "In case it escaped your notice, that data ripples through virtually every damn section of the document. Tech specs, functional design, applications, maintenance. By the time we repair the damage, it'll be midnight. FedEx can still—"

"I already checked. They don't expect to be operating tomorrow. If the weather guessers are right, much of the southeast may be non-operational tomorrow and Friday."

"Maybe they're wrong. Maybe pigs will fly too," Billingsley snapped.

"Look, I—I'll talk to Rampart," JC said, his words hesitant, irresolute. "And see if they'll make an exception and let us email the document."

"Not a chance. You know how acutely sensitive the data is." Billingsley shook his head. "I don't believe it. I just don't [ __ ] believe it. I trusted you. A billion dollar opportunity. You assured me things were under control. No potholes in the road. You said, 'Jesus.'" He buried his head in his hands.

"Sir, let's at least try."

"Shut up. Just shut up and get out. Pack your stuff. I want you out of this building in an hour. HR has your termination papers."

Another ripple of nausea coursed through JC. A stream of bile erupted into his esophagus. He turned, made a desperate grab for a waste can, and vomited.

Dispassionate, Billingsley watched. "Same way I feel," he said. He nodded at the waste can JC held. "Take it with you when you leave."

Back in his own office, JC leaned over the foul-smelling waste can and loosed another volley of his barely digested breakfast. He wiped his mouth with a paper towel and shoved the can into a corner with his foot. He sat in his chair, stared blankly at a wall adorned with family photos and framed awards, and waited for his stomach and breathing to regain a state of relative normality. It took several minutes.

He attempted to analyze what had gone wrong, how his career had come to such a sudden and mortifying end. Somehow, as proposal manager, he'd lost control of the effort and allowed the corporate ship to founder on the rocks. A week ago, everything had seemed on course, smooth sailing ahead.

A week earlier, American International System Solutions Incorporated. Thursday morning, December 22nd. JC sat at an aircraft carrier-sized conference table in the executive meeting room of American International, a half-dozen key members of his proposal team flanking him on both sides. As team chief and vice president of systems development, he carried the burden of heading the effort to put together the proposal to Rampart Aerospace and Defense. If American International won the job, and there was every indication they had the inside track against a score of other companies, it would mean a billion dollar project, a billion dollars. The company would move from being a minnow in the systems development world to being a whale.

The team members engaged in idle chatter, much of it centered on rumors of a major winter storm targeting Atlanta, sipped coffee and nibbled on stale bagels and frosted donuts while they awaited the arrival of Cyrus Billingsley. JC knew Billingsley had called the meeting to make certain everything remained on track as the proposal's delivery date, December 30th, neared. With only 8 days remaining and Christmas in the mix, they had definitely entered the "no screw-up zone."

Jan Darlina, tasked with overseeing the operational application section of the document, leaned close to JC. "Do you think the general will be in a jolly mood?"

JC dabbed at his mouth with a stained paper napkin. "Is he ever?"

"It's 3 days until Christmas. My question stands." Chastened by the reminder their boss wasn't exactly a hail-fellow-well-met or one of them, Jan wrinkled her nose and slumped back in her chair. She folded her arms across her stomach, resting them on the front of a woolly black and white sweater adorned with leaping reindeer, and stared straight ahead. JC patted her shoulder. "Don't worry, everything's on schedule. I've reviewed all the sections. We're in excellent shape. No lumps of coal in our Christmas stockings."

The door to the conference room popped open. Cyrus Billingsley strode in, followed by a rush of chilly air from an adjacent corridor. "Seats," he announced, though no one was standing. JC understood old habits were difficult to break. Billingsley hadn't quite been able to take the stars off his collar, hadn't fully made the transition from military commander to civilian boss, even after 2 years. When an Air Force Two Star entered a briefing room, everyone stood until ordered to sit. Not here, not at American International, where employees worked in blue jeans and t-shirts, at least during the warmer months, and called managers by their first names.

Billingsley lowered himself into a chair opposite of JC and his staff, flipped open the cover of an iPad, and tapped the screen. He looked up and spoke. "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I suppose I don't need to reiterate this, but the future of this company is writing on the work you're doing." JC resisted an urge to roll his eyes. No, Billingsley didn't need to reiterate that, but just did. Everyone in American International, as professionals, knew very well what the proposal meant. It was the sort of opportunity on which careers and major corporations were built. It was, to be trite, an opening that comes along once in a lifetime.

The meeting went smoothly and quickly. Each member of the proposal team tendered a status report. Nothing seemed amiss. At the close of the meeting, Billingsley snapped his iPad cover shut. "It sounds as if we're in excellent shape, but I want to make absolutely dead center certain this document goes out the door on December 28th. That gives us two days' grace before it needs to be in Durham. He stood. I don't want to get sandbagged by this so-called superstorm the media is screwing itself into the ceiling over. I understand it's probably the usual uber hype and that we'll end up with just a few raggedy ass snow flurries, but I don't want to take any chances. This document is far too important for us to risk getting little big-horned by the weather."

He started to move toward the exit, but stopped. "One more thing," he said, "just so we're clear. I know it sounds as if we're golden on this, so it's probably an unneeded warning, but I'm a guy who has zero tolerance for screw-ups. If someone fumbles the ball, steps on his poncho, gets her tit caught in the ringer, don't expect absolution from me. What you can expect is that your next job will be stocking shelves in Walmart if you're lucky. But like I say, it's probably an unneeded warning. Merry Christmas."

"Tit caught in ringer," Jan mouthed to JC, a smirk creeping across her face. Billingsley executed a sharp pivot and strode from the room.

Chapter 2. Conflict.

The Natural Environment Television Network, NEV, Atlanta, Georgia. Thursday morning, December 22nd.

Since no one can pronounce Tomas Shibichevski's last name, he simply went by Tom Pris. He stood as his immediate superior, Sophie Lions, the executive vice president of operational programming at the Natural Environment Television Network, entered his cramped office. In her 2-inch heels, she stood only a couple of inches shorter than his 6'1. He understood it to be socially insensitive. She was, after all, his boss. But he often found himself appraising her more as a woman—well, to be honest, a sexual fantasy—than a network executive.

Today, she looked particularly attractive with her raven hair pulled into a French braid and an Armani Kitzion business suit flattering her figure. In her early 40s, a few years younger than Tom, the first faint signs of aging had crept onto her face. A trace of crow's feet near her eyes, and thin threads of worry lines creasing her forehead. These early assaults by middle age had met their match. They had been whipped into submission by her fair skin, subtle aquiline nose, and, he guessed, intense workouts at the gym. He found himself attracted to her, not only because of her physical assets, but because she came across as smart and authoritative as well. Still, despite the fact she'd risen through the ranks in a rough-and-tumble business world, he sensed that underneath her frequent hard-shell bluster lay a certain vulnerability, perhaps a lack of a significant other in her life. He didn't know, but he did know that on occasion their gazes had locked, albeit ever so briefly, with an intensity that hinted at something beyond a casual interest in one another. More than once Tom had found himself, after an encounter with Sophie, sitting at his desk, attempting to camouflage a woody, and hoping fervently she wouldn't flounce into his office for one last word.

There probably wouldn't be anything to hide this morning. Her intense blue eyes radiated welding-light intensity, a far cry from anything sexual. Tom decided he'd better sit and motioned for her to do the same. She glanced at the chair he gestured toward, essentially an ad hoc table littered with meteorological journals, research papers, and National Geographics, and declined.

"This won't take long." She clenched her lips as if sucking on a pipe. Tom wondered if he should be looking for a foxhole. She wasn't referred to, at least behind her back, as "Her Highness of the Lioness," a play on her last name, for nothing.

"Network chief of meteorology," Sophie said. "That's what you are." A rhetorical question. She seemed to be waiting for an answer, so Tom decided it wasn't.

"Unless I've just been demoted," he said.

"Don't tempt me."

"Where the hell's this coming from?" Tom said, his voice firm but defensive. "Why am I suddenly on your [ __ ] list?"

A rising tide of red enveloped her face, a reflection of anger held barely in check. "Because I don't want to get taken to the cleaners by some other private forecasting outfit on this winter storm," she snapped.

"What winter storm?" He realized his tone of voice had risen in sharpness proportional to hers.

"The one that's all over Facebook, Twitter, the blogosphere, and a gaggle of TV talk shows. Rumors of a foot of snow in Atlanta."

"Jesus, Sophie, it's a fantasy cast."

"Oh, what?" He rose from his chair, removed the stack of papers and magazines from the other chair, and told Sophie to sit. This time, she did. Tom stared out his window for a moment at the traffic edging along I-285 at ice-flow speed through a cold, gray dawn. "Fantasy cast," he said. He returned to his chair. "That's what forecasters call a numerical model forecast of a major weather event eight or 10 days in the future. It rarely happens. It's a fantasy."

"You said 'rarely.' Meaning every once in a while, one of your fantasy casts, as you call them, must hit the nail on the head." Tom tapped his forefinger on his desk to emphasize a point he wished to make.

"The skill of longer-range predictions diminishes to virtually zero after about six or seven days." Tap, tap, tap. "The storm mongers right now are hyping a blizzard. I think I heard that term used based on a 240-hour forecast. Absurd. There's talk of a foot of snow in Atlanta."

"Oh, sure. When was the last time you saw a foot of snow in Atlanta?" She remained silent. "When do you think the last time was that Atlanta had a foot of snow?"

"Supertorm 1993." Tom had to admit she at least had awareness of significant historical weather happenings.

"No. Some of the northern suburbs might have picked up 10 inches in that storm, but officially Atlanta had only a little over 4 inches. So when was the last time we had a foot?"

"Never."

"Really? In January 1940, the city had an 8-inch storm. Well, a tad more than 8 inches, but we've never come close to a foot."

"So what are people seeing that's got them bouncing off the walls?" The crimson had drained from her face. She seemed ready to listen to reason.

"One of the models we look at regularly is showing the evolution of a storm very similar to Superstorm '93."

"Whoa. Whoa," Sophie interjected. "So, we're just going to sit on our thumbs and ignore that? I don't think so. If there's even a remote—"

"Let me finish, Sophie, please." She exhaled audibly. "Yeah, okay. Convince me. Any TV shouldn't be all over this." She sat back, crossed her legs—shapely legs, he noted—and brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. Outside, the wind had picked up. A skeletal bush tapped against the office window.

"I mentioned earlier that forecast models beyond about a week have very little skill. So, what forecasters like to look at instead is an ensemble forecast, which is—"

"In simplest terms, it's an average of a bunch of individual model runs, each using slightly different initial conditions. In other words, the parameters going into each iteration of the model run are tweaked slightly to account for our uncertainty about what's really going on in the atmosphere."

"You mean you don't know?" Her words bore a slightly accusatory tone.

"Not with pinpoint 100% accuracy. I mean, what if a storm system far out over the Pacific Ocean is actually stronger than our limited observations in that region suggest? What if a cold air dump over China isn't quite so cold as we were led to believe? What if the jet stream over the Himalayas is blowing at 200 knots instead of 180?"

"Your profession comes with built-in excuses, doesn't it?" He glared at her, but held his tongue.

"Relax, Tom. I'm yanking your chain. Go on about ensembles." He drew a slow breath and continued. "Well, for instance, with the European model, or Euro as we call it, 50 different runs are generated every 12 hours. The average of those runs beyond about 5 or 6 days turns out to have more validity than the primary forecast generated by what's known as the operational or deterministic run."

She nodded. "Okay. So, what does the ensemble average suggest is coming up next week?"

"A modest snowstorm, maybe for Tennessee and the—"

"What did you call it?"

"The operational run."

"Yeah. What's it showing that's giving everybody—well, everybody but you—wet dreams?" He drummed his fingers on his desk, suddenly thinking about wet dreams, Sophie, and what to say next. He wondered if her choice of words, "wet dreams," had been deliberate, meant to titillate him, or was she just being the slightly bossy one of the boy's club she liked to portray herself as? He found himself unable to focus, unable to articulate a response, her nocturnal emission reference catching him off guard. Though both divorced, they'd maintained the relationship at a strictly professional level. He supposed her remark wasn't out of bounds. It's something guys often said, yet he'd on occasion wondered if there might not be a reciprocal attraction. After all, she had a way of standing tantalizingly close to him during their talks, though that could just be her style.

"Tom," she said, snapping him back to the moment, back to her question. He blinked.

"You mean if you took its forecast literally?" She hung her head in mock dismay. "Am I not speaking clearly?"

"It's nothing cast in concrete, Sophie. Haven't you heard anything I've said?" He struggled to keep a civil tone, stood and faced her. "It would be irresponsible to go on the air a week in advance and trumpet something like what the operational model implies is coming, which is—"

"Look, I want to be leading the charge on this, not eating someone else's dust." She stood and approached him, moving close enough for him to inhale the heavy sweetness of her cologne and sense the heat radiating from her body. His resolve faltered, but he opted for a last-ditch stand. "We can't go on the air like Chicken Little and scream, 'The sky is falling!' If we do, I guarantee you that within 24 hours, every grocery store in the metro area, every Lowe's, every Home Depot will have shelves that look like they've been attacked by piranhas."

"Oh, for [ __ ] sake. All you have to do is mention flurries in Atlanta and that happens. Well, except for 2014 when an inch or two was forecast and everybody went to work instead of Kroger. Then everybody left work at the same time when the snow started and the city crashed and burned. Anyhow, I don't want to become known as the network that blew the biggest winter storm in southern history."

"Give me something to work with. I'm trying to give you a little sage advice. I understand you don't want the reputation of blowing a forecast for a major storm, but I'm trying to keep us from becoming the outfit that cried wolf when all that was out there was a fuzzy puppy."

"Cute, Tom." She moved even closer to him, the cool freshness of her breath a curious counterpoint to the warmth of her nearness. He stood his ground.

"Tell me what the model suggests," she whispered.

"Is that an order?" She waited, not responding. "Then I'll take it as a command." He paused, then forged ahead. "Perhaps as much as 10 inches of snow and 40 mph winds."

"My god," she said, stepping back from him, her voice harsh. "You expected the network to sit on that?"

"Emphasis on 'perhaps,' not '10 inches'," he snapped.

"Tom, maybe you need to consider a new line of work. Something where you can find shelter in ivory towers behind ivy-draped walls." She turned, exited his office, shut the door.

"Thank you, Your Highness, the Lioness," he said to the closed door. He sank into his chair, attempting to analyze Sophie's words, trying to divine if his job had just been threatened. His door reopened. Sophie reappeared. "I'm not over the hill yet. My hearing is fine." She backed out and shut the door once more, this time with particular firmness.

He sat staring at the closed door, wondering if he'd just managed to punch his ticket for a pink slip. He knew Sophie to be quick and smart and not liking to be second-guessed, but she'd never seemed vindictive. All he'd been doing was standing his professional ground. Still, he decided he'd probably ventured into a minefield and should move forward with extreme care. The idea of beating the drums for a major snow dump on North Georgia a week in advance seemed meteorologically irresponsible, but he realized Sophie viewed things through the prism of a broadcast network, and thus saw most things in terms of headlines and hooks. That shouldn't absolve her from exercising a modicum of circumspection, especially when it came to sounding an alarm for an event that occurs about as often as a rabbi appearing in a mosque.

Time for a visit to Gandalf. Tom stood, peeked out his office door to make sure Sophie wasn't lying in wait for him, then walked toward the forecast center, a glass-enclosed anti-room just off the production area. A half-dozen workstations for forecasters occupied the back wall of the center. Usually only two or three of the positions were filled, and today proved no exception. A large-screen HD TV exhibited a series of the latest forecast maps out through 48 hours. The maps displayed both meteorological features such as highs and lows and fronts, and sensible weather like rain, wind, and snow.

An elderly gentleman sporting an old man's belly, unruly white hair, and a shaggy beard—thus the Gandalf moniker—sat at the far end of the room, scratching with a pencil at something antiquated, a paper copy of a weather map. The nameplate on top of his computer proclaimed Alfred R. Tilman, Special Consultant. As Tom approached, he looked up. His clear gray eyes sparkled through tiny round spectacles. A bulbous nose threaded with blue veins suggested he'd perhaps been close friends with the Daniels or Beam family in the past.

"Morning, Al," Tom said.

"Jesus, kid. I hope you come bearing celebrity. Acting up. I should have moved to Tucson when Maggie wanted us to a few years back. You still could, you know. Not much point now, now that she's gone. Just seems like too much effort." He kneaded his left shoulder with his right hand.

Tom sat in a chair adjacent to Al and scooted close to him. "Maybe you'll find a new lady in your life someday."

Al issued a phlegmy laugh. "I hate to break this to you, but I'm old. Not to tarnish anyone's rosy outlook for the golden years, but you've reached a stage in your life where a good dump is better than a good hump."

"Well, now there's something to look forward to."

"Yeah," Al growled. "That and the fact that things which should be soft get hard like arteries and things which used to get hard—"

Tom cut him off. "Stop right there, or I may commit suicide before I'm Medicare eligible."

"Might not be a bad idea." Al arched his back, a careful movement, and groaned. "Did I mention arthritis?"

"Maybe there's a storm coming," Tom said.

"My ex used to say that every time her joint pains flared up." Al narrowed his gaze at Tom. "A storm. Yeah, I'll bet her highness paid you a visit. Added some extra octane to your testosterone, did she?"

Tom laughed. "After she got through with me, even Viagra wouldn't have given me a lift. So, I'm assuming she was on the warpath, beating her snow tomtom and getting ready to scalp the first person who doesn't bow to her 'let's get a blizzard warning on the air right now' party line."

"Something like that. Look, I'd like your opinion on what's brewing. I warned her we could be crying wolf if we blow the air raid siren. Now, what's your take on things?"

"Dog sleds and mucklucks for the deep South." He placed his hands in a prayerful position under his chin and bowed toward Al. "Lay some wisdom on me, oh meteorological Maharishi."

"Real wisdom? I'm still waiting. I think what passes for sagacity in us old farts is just the fact we become less stupid. What do you want to know?"

"Maybe how not to grow old." Al chuckled, but it morphed into a cough, stirring up something watery deep in his lungs.

"Look, put yourself in my shoes for a moment," Tom continued. "What would you argue should be the network's position on this storm?"

"Alleged storm." Al wiped his mouth with a handkerchief and stuffed it into his pants pocket. "When I was on active duty with the Air Force, we had a saying, and this, my friend, is genuine wisdom: Never pass up a chance to keep your mouth shut."

Tom considered the old man's words. So he drew out the word. "What you're saying is we go on the air and just ignore all the chatter about the possibility of a historic southern snowstorm. Don't even reference it."

"Exactly. At least for now. You know as well as I do that at this range, the models are going to be bouncing back and forth like a ping-pong ball with every run. Every 12 hours, they'll spit out a new solution. Big storm, little storm, big storm, wait, no storm."

Tom cracked his knuckles. "But if it comes to fruition, we will have figured out things long before then. Look, we wait until we're certain, as certain as we ever can be in this business. Then we play up whatever the forecast ends up being, like it was the second coming. It's a win-win for the network. Oh, so if what's flying around in cyberspace now turns out to be the usual model make-believe, then we come out looking really good and remind everyone it wasn't us crying wolf. If, on the other hand, a blockbuster does materialize, we jump on it when we're sure and forecast the hell out of it. Everyone will have forgotten we weren't out there banging at the moon like all the others a week in advance. People have short, non-discriminatory memories."

"Beautiful theory." Al spun on his chair like a little kid. "It is, isn't it?" He sounded pleased with himself. He broke his spin. "But it's not going to happen, is it? Her Highness has spoken."

Al sighed. "Must be tough. What? Having a cow tow a woman who isn't even your wife."

"Bite me, Al."

Al choked out a laugh. "Okay, maybe you'll be right. Then you can lord it over her. On the other hand, if you're not, maybe somewhere in the world, a village is short an idiot, and you'll still be able to find a job." Al grinned, a geriatric Cheshire cat.

Tom tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling. "Thanks for your encouragement."

"Look, Junior, if you're going to have your ass run out of town on a rail, it might as well be by a chick in a tight pants suit, right? Good night, old man." Tom stood and departed.

Chapter 3. Cole.

Magnolia Heights Subdivision, North Metro Atlanta, Georgia. Thursday evening, December 22nd.

JC entered his sprawling McMansion, as some people derisively called it, on Bankside Drive, overlooking an ice-fringed lake. His six-year-old son, Cole, sprinted into his arms. "Daddy," he yelled.

"Hey, big guy." JC lifted him into the air and swung him around, but only once since Cole remained prone to bouts of nausea. He had just completed a month's worth of chemotherapy for his acute lymphocytic leukemia.

"Santa Claus is coming," Cole said, clinging to JC's neck.

"Yeah, I know. I'm excited. Are you?" Cole bobbed his head in affirmation.

From the kitchen, the aroma of pork roast, sweet corn, and baked potatoes wafted into the foyer. "Let's go find Mommy," JC said. He set Cole down and followed him through the living and family rooms into the kitchen. In the family room, flames swayed and pirouetted from almost real-looking logs and a gas-fed fireplace. Garlands of greenery freckled with red hollyberries draped the mantle. Adjacent to an expanse of sliding glass doors overlooking an outdoor deck, a real Fraser fir twinkled with hundreds of tiny white LEDs. The house, in fact, appeared more like an overstocked Christmas decoration shop than a home decked out for the holidays. But JC and his wife Jenny had done that deliberately, wanting to make this Christmas a memorable one for Cole. He'd just spent 42 days at the MD Anderson Center in Houston, undergoing debilitating treatments. Jenny had spent most of her time with him. JC had flown back and forth, splitting his time between Houston and Atlanta while simultaneously attempting to remain focused on the billion-dollar proposal effort at American International. But now that they were all home for Christmas, it needed to be special.

As JC and Cole entered the kitchen, Jenny wiped her hands on a paper towel and greeted JC with a vigorous hug. "Smells good," he said.

"Me?" Jenny asked. "That, too? Hard to rid myself of that charwoman's odor, huh?"

"You're hardly that. I don't suppose you've noticed the guys at the club giving you surreptitious glances every time we walk in."

"Some aren't so surreptitious," she winked at him. She still looked hot, as teenagers say, although a tinge of weariness had crept in around her eyes and lips. Cole's illness had taken its toll. Both she and JC knew additional challenges lurked in the future.

"So," she said, "all went well at the meeting today." She turned to Cole. "Go wash your hands. Dinner's almost ready." Cole scampered away.

"Really well," JC said. "I think everything's in great shape. Maybe better than I could have expected."

Jenny smiled and stuck a fork into a baked potato, testing. "Well, you know the old Murphy's Law corollary, right? The one about if everything seems to be going well, you've obviously missed something."

"I never heard it." He'd lied. "No, really. I think we're dead center on the glide path. All the proposal parts are in place. Everyone's done their job. And the boss is happy."

"Good. Maybe you can kick back and relax and enjoy Christmas now. I know the last few weeks have been a real goat rope for you between the proposal, Cole being home, and getting ready for the holidays." Cole ambled back into the kitchen.

"Let's see him," JC said. Cole showed him his hands, backs, then palms. "You're good to go, kid. Grab a seat." JC walked to the oven, pulled out the pork roast, and set it on a trivet.

"Want me to carve it?" Jenny handed him a knife.

"The proposal has been a huge time suck. I know," he said as he sliced. "I just hope I haven't short-changed Cole. I've tried not to. I really have."

Jenny draped her arm across JC's shoulders and kissed his cheek. "You've been a great dad. I know how much he means to you. Honestly, I don't understand how you've done it. How you've been able to concentrate on everything? Work, Cole, home." She shook her head, kissed him again, and whispered in his ear, "Pressure's off."

As Cole poked at his food with a fork at the dinner table, he said, "Will Santa bring what I asked for?"

"Well, you asked for a lot of stuff," JC said. "I'll bet you get most of it."

"Yeah," Cole said, his tone suggesting "most of it" wouldn't cut it. He stuck a small piece of pork into his mouth and chewed on it without enthusiasm.

"What do you want most of all?" Jenny asked. JC already had a pretty good idea what that might be and knew that neither he nor Jenny nor even Santa would be able to deliver it.

"My hair to grow back," Cole said softly.

"It will, Big Guy," JC said, a slight catch in his voice. "But it'll take time."

"So, you know what I'm going to do tomorrow?" Cole looked up.

"I'm going to get a haircut just like yours. Father and son chrome domes for the holidays." Cole laughed. "Cool." Then he mumbled something.

"What?" JC asked.

"Do I have to go back to the hospital?" JC looked at Jenny, who nodded.

"Yes, after New Year's. But you probably won't have to stay overnight. We'll rent a nice place to stay somewhere near the hospital, and Gaga and Papa and Grandma and Grandad will come visit."

"I like the doctors and nurses at the hospital," Cole said. "But sometimes I get scared when I have to stay there by myself."

"We'll try not to let that happen, son." Most of Cole's follow-up chemo, known as consolidation therapy, would be on an outpatient basis, but the remaining concern a stem cell transplant might be necessary. That left JC weak-kneed and feeling gutshot just thinking about it. What the family faced would be traumatic, but he had abundant faith in the staff at MD Anderson, and Cole felt comfortable there, calling the doctors by their first names. It would be expensive, too. Renting an extended-stay suite, shuttling between Atlanta and Houston, covering the travel expenses of the grandparents, and picking up whatever medical costs insurance didn't. Thank God for a six-figure salary and gold-standard health insurance at American International.

The English carol, "I Saw Three Ships," floated from the home's integrated sound system. In the family room, the flames in the fireplace gamboled in a lively jig, their transient warmth a contrast to the chill lurking outside. For a fleeting moment, JC allowed himself to believe all was well in the world. That children didn't get sick, that hospitals were for the elderly, that Christmases with him and his son and wife would come and go forever. But he knew that was only a December daydream, a winter will-o'-the-wisp. On a muted TV, a red-lettered headline crawled across the bottom of the screen: "Holiday Blizzard for Atlanta."

Chapter 4. Chaos.

The Natural Environment Television Network. Friday morning, December 23rd.

Holding two cups of McDonald's coffee, steam leaking from drinking holes in their plastic tops, Tom used his foot to push open the door of the forecast center. The meteorologists on duty, three today, acknowledged his arrival with subdued good mornings. Al, as usual, sat by himself at the far end of the facility. He nodded a greeting to Tom, who extended one of the cups to him. He accepted it, popped its cover off, and sniffed.

"Something's missing."

"Biggy De's doesn't serve liquor before noon."

"My loss. Well, have a seat and prepare to feel vindicated. The Euro has backed off on the blizzard of the century."

"Yeah, for now. Several of its ensemble members still suggest some courier and ice-cream follies next week. But the ensemble mean and operational model are advertising only typical wintertime dreariness for Atlanta. A cold rain, maybe a bit of sleet at the onset, then some post-cold-frontal snow flurries. No big deal."

Tom sipped his coffee. "So, has that rained on the snow hounds on Twitter and Facebook?"

"Not all of them. A few still have their noses to the ground searching for new scents. Who knows? When the next model runs come out this afternoon, they just might find them. And all the blather will get re-energized."

"Tom," Al interjected.

"Al took a long drink from his cup. "Sure you don't have some of Lucky's finest hidden in your desk?"

"No, I finished it last week. You kids?"

"Fake exasperation. Check her Christmas stocking. You might get lucky."

"Yeah, that's about the only meaning that phrase has anymore." Abruptly, Al set his cup on the table and stared into the production area. "Uh-oh."

"What?"

"Dragon lady warning." Tom followed his gaze. Sophie, on a course for the forecast center, glided through the production area, nodding to a few of the staff and stopping briefly to chat with others. "A queen recognizing her court," Al noted. Dressed more casually than yesterday, perhaps in deference to the approaching holiday weekend, or maybe in an effort to ward off the outdoor chill, Tom had to admit Sophie still looked elegant, adorned as she was in a white silk blouse, red cashmere cardigan, and black slacks.

Al caught his appraisal. "Better to think how she might be sizing you up for your annual review rather than fantasizing how she might be in bed," he whispered.

"Jesus, Al."

"What? You think just because my testosterone tank is empty, my daydream locker is too? It's okay, Junior. You're normal. The hormones still flow. You wonder if she might be a lioness in some other environment in the office." He elbowed Tom softly in the ribs.

"Right." He broke into one of his patented hacking coughs. Sophie entered the room, a concerned look on her face.

"Everything okay, Mr. Tilman?"

Al ceased coughing and cleared his throat. "There, that's how you know you're over the hill."

"Mr. Tilman, I bet she doesn't call you Mr. Shibichevski, does she? But to answer your question, my dear, I'm fine. Just giving Tom a little adult guidance."

"I approve. He needs it. Good morning, Tom." She stepped close to him and allowed a smile to unfold in slow motion across her face.

"Your Highness, the Lioness, really?" He shrugged, but didn't offer an apology.

She eyed the McDonald's coffee. "None for me?"

Tom slid his cup toward her. She rolled her eyes. "So, what brings you to the salt mines, young lady?"

"Other than our scintillating company?" Al asked. He pushed a chair over to her, and she sat between the two men.

"A couple of the on-camera meteorologists tell me our big storm is kaput." Tom forced himself not to smile, stifled smugness.

"It never was un-kaput."

"Meaning?"

"It never was real."

"In a way, it was just the product of a bunch of mathematical calculations used to simulate the atmosphere. The key word being 'simulate.' Throw in natural chaos or the propensity of tiny differences in initial conditions to lead to widely diverging outcomes, and you're swimming upstream when attempting to forecast the weather a week in advance." Al piped in. "Professor Edward Lorenz was a pioneer in chaos theory. He defined chaos this way: when the present determines the future, but the approximate present does not approximately determine the future."

"Wow," Sophie said. "You were right about scintillating company." She grabbed Tom's coffee cup and took a swallow. She held the cup at arm's length and stared at it. "Something's missing."

Al smiled at Tom. "Told you."

"Anyhow," Tom said, ignoring Al and focusing on Sophie. "Now that you understand chaos, you understand why we use ensemble forecasting. And the ensembles are still suggesting no big deal."

"The ensemble mean is," Al said, answering for Tom. "But there are still two or three individual members clinging to the idea of a snow jam for Atlanta. So, the threat isn't dead, 'Tomatos'," he said.

Sophie expelled a long breath and tilted her head toward the ceiling. "So, what do we say on the air?"

Tom looked away from her. "We? Why didn't she listen to me in the first place?"

Al spoke up. "In the Air Force, we had a saying."

Tom cut him off. "Well, we want to avoid pinballing all over the place every time a new model run comes out. But since we've already committed ourselves publicly, we need to ease back from that stance, not leap."

Sophie stared at him. She pinched her lips together as she had yesterday when she'd entered his office. "I think what we—well, the on-camera people, anyhow—should do at this point," Tom continued, "is a little soft-shoe routine. Just give lip service to the fact we're keeping an eye on the possibility of a snowstorm. No adjectives, and let it go at that. No elaborations, no explanations. Then, depending on what subsequent model runs indicate, we can shuffle either way: back off further or sound the claxon."

"What time did the next model outputs come in?"

"Mid-afternoon." Sophie stood. "I'll drop by then." She took a step toward Tom, who remained seated. "Thanks," she said softly. She touched him on the shoulder and left. Again, her face had been disconcertingly close to his, and he wondered whether that had been deliberate or casually unintentional. He decided he'd better settle on casually unintentional. It was better for his peace of mind. Deep down, he sensed deliberate might have been truer.

The Natural Environment Television Network, Friday afternoon, December 23rd.

Tom, Al, and Sophie gathered in the forecast center. "What have we got?" Sophie asked.

"Nothing that's going to sell snow shovels," Al responded.

"The soft shoe continues, huh?" She stared at the floor.

"If it'll make you feel any better, a couple more ensemble members have jumped on the Superstorm bandwagon again," Tom noted.

Sophie nodded. "But the consensus remains no big deal."

"Pretty much still. The master lives on life support."

"So, we'll see where we stand tomorrow then."

"Even though it'll be Saturday, I'll come in and check the models," Al said. "Nothing else to do."

"I'll be in Philly visiting my mother for Christmas," Sophie said. She took a piece of paper from a table, wrote on it, then handed it to Al. "That's my cell number. Give me a call if you see anything that gets you excited."

"That'll be the day," Al muttered.

"Give me a call, too, Tom," he said. "I'll be at home. The kids are coming over to spend Christmas Eve."

Sophie stood. "Well, then, Merry Christmas to both of you. I'll be back on Tuesday. Oh, and I almost forgot. There'll be a reporter from the Atlanta Journal Constitution dropping by on Tuesday. He wants to find out what goes on behind the scenes here when a big storm is approaching."

"He might not have much to write about," Tom said. "But I'll take care of him. Happy travel, Sophie." She nodded slightly. An unusual warmth seemed to radiate from her eyes. A reflection of the season or something else? As usual, she exuded ambiguity. He never knew whether he was on her naughty or nice list.

Chapter 5. Blue Light Special.

Windy Hill Towers, Northwest Metro Georgia. Saturday afternoon, December 24th.

Tom Pris and his two children, Billy, 10, and Bonnie, 7, stood at the south-facing picture window of his 17th-story condo in Cobb County. "This is so cool, Dad. You can see downtown Atlanta from here." Billy announced. He studied the cityscape. "What's the tall building that looks like a pencil?"

"The pencil building. Really? No, not really, you little doofus." Tom ruffled Billy's curly red hair. "It's the Bank of America Plaza."

"It doesn't look like a plaza. It looks like a skyscraper."

"True. It's over 1,000 ft tall, but I forget the exact measurement."

"What's the flashing red light on top for?" Bonnie asked, pressing her face against the glass.

"It warns airplanes. There's a big building there." She pondered the statement, then with her face screwed into a mask of concern, turned to her father. "And Santa Claus, too, so his reindeer won't bump into it."

"That's stupid," Billy piped up.

"There is no—" Tom clamped a hand over Billy's mouth and flashed him a warning look. "There is no chance of that is what your brother wanted to say," he said, kneeling in front of his daughter, already a dark-eyed temptress like her mother.

Tom's cell phone rang, playing the tune, "Stormy Weather." He answered, "Gand here."

The voice on the line said, "I think you better drop by work. The afternoon model runs are in. Bad news. Come see for yourself."

"My kids are here, Al. It's Christmas Eve, and I don't have that much time to spend with them. I've got to get them back to their mothers by 10:00 p.m., and I promised I'd take them to see the lights at Lake Lanier this evening."

Al paused, then responded, "Pull up the Global Forecast System on your laptop. You won't have access to the Euro yet, but it's even more extreme. Look things over out through 168 hours. Try not to wet your pants, then call me back."

Tom agreed, then disconnected the call. "Hey kids, we'll leave for a laneer in about an hour." He checked his watch. "Billy, about a/4 to 5, gather up your jackets and gloves for you and your sister. I've got a little work to do until then, but we'll hit the road as soon as I'm done."

"Gloves, Dad, it's not that cold."

"Okay, Macho Man. At least get them for Bonnie."

"What do we do till then?"

"Watch football." Tom nodded at the 55-in plasma set in the living room.

"No football." Bonnie stamped her foot on the hardwood floor.

"Cartoons then, Dad."

Billy protested with total exasperation. "Guys, work it out with no yelling or fighting or forget about Lenir." He attempted a stern look, but probably came up short. He exited the living room and entered his study.

On his laptop, he called up the US Global Forecast System model, the GFS, and clicked through its graphical output. Over and over, he ran through maps showing various parameters, surface, mid levels, upper air. After 20 minutes, he swallowed hard and sat back in his chair. The sound of the TV floated in from the living room. Apparently, Billy and Bonnie had reached some sort of dant as the muted noise alternated between football stadium cheers and laugh track gafas. The odor of microwaved buttered popcorn also wafted through the condo. "Peace on earth."

On his cell, he punched in the number of any TV's forecast center. "I didn't wet my pants," he said when Al answered.

"Yeah, but I bet you came close."

"I'll tell you one thing. I've never seen a pattern like what the models are showing."

"Yes, you have."

"I have." He had a feeling he was about to witness a manifestation of El's half ccentury of experience trumping, as it often did, his academic background rooted in the University of Chicago and MIT.

"Think hard. You saw this pattern in 2012." Tom drummed his fingers on his desk and stared out a small window at the brown, bleak winter landscape of Atlanta. He still couldn't recall seeing an atmospheric arrangement in 2012 or ever for that matter like the one currently depicted by the GFS.

"Need a hint?" El asked. "Apparently Sandy. Hurricane Sandy. That MIT education paid off. Sandy was a northeast storm, New York, New Jersey. You got to think outside the box, Junior."

A ruckus arose from somewhere in the condo. Billy shouting, Bonnie crying. "Hold on, El. I'll be right back." Tom placed the phone on his desk and stalked into the living room.

Billy, red-faced, spoke first. "It's the fourth quarter, 7 to 7, 2 minutes to go, and she wants to watch some stupid girly show." He pointed an accusatory finger at his sister.

Bonnie darted at Tom and threw her arms around his legs, sobbing into his trousers. "It's my turn to watch my program, and he won't let me."

Resting his hand on his daughter's shoulder, Tom spoke, trying for firmness. "So, do you guys want to go to Lener or not? If you do, here's what I suggest." He tipped Bonnie's face toward his. "Let your brother finish watching his football game. Then he'll let you watch whatever you'd like until we leave." He looked at Billy.

"Right. Yeah, sure," Billy mumbled.

"And you, young lady, remember Santa's helpers are around keeping an eye on you."

"You better let me watch," Billy interjected, aiming his invective at his sister. "Or I'll get that light on the Plaza Tower turned off and Santa sleigh will have a midair."

"Billy," Tom snapped.

Billy fell silent. "Geez, kid. Learn to shut up while you're ahead."

Tom returned to his study. He put his cell phone on speaker. "Trouble in the DMZ," he explained.

"A wooden paddle ended most problems when I was growing up," L said.

"We can't do that anymore."

"That's worked well, hasn't it?" Tom ignored the bait, wanting to stay on topic. "So Sandy. Outside the box."

On his laptop, he brought up the GFS images again. "Remember the upper air pattern when Sandy hit?" L said. "Deepening trough along the east coast. Anomalous blocking high east of the Canadian Maritimes."

"The blocking high is what turned Sandy to the northwest into New Jersey, instead of allowing it to plow out to sea into the Atlantic like most good hurricanes," Tom offered.

"Okay, now picture that pattern displaced south and west. Remember, it's wintertime now, not autumn like when Sandy blustered around. The jetream, everything is climatologically displaced southward."

Tom studied the GFS model images more closely. He picked up his cell and shut off the speaker feature. "I see what you mean. A blocking high predicted over Pennsylvania. But you're not suggesting this storm, potential storm, is going to come up out of the Gulf and spin westward, are you?"

"No. But I think it's going to be a slow mover. If it forms. Yes, if it forms. My point is this. Most storms that form in the Gulf scoop through southern Georgia or northern Florida pretty rapidly, then lumber up the eastern seabboard. Their rapid movement through the southeast is what precludes big snow dumps in Atlanta on the rare occasions when there's enough cold air around to even make snow a possibility."

From the living room, Billy's enthusiastic yells punched through the study's door. Apparently, the team he was rooting for had done something good.

"So," Tom said, "What are you suggesting?"

"And maybe we think about reviving the 10-in 40 mph scenario."

"You're talking blizzard, near blizzard."

"Humor me. Look at the pattern objectively and forget for a moment the target is the deep south. What do you see?"

"L damn it. Atlanta hasn't measured more than 8 in of snow in almost 90 years."

"Technically true."

"What do you mean technically?" Tom stood, walked to the window, and peered into the fading winter light. A string of pearls, headlights, and a necklace of rubies, tail lights, mark the northern ark of the perimeter, the 8 to 10 lane interstate encircling Atlanta.

"The city has had close calls," El responded. "Maybe we've just been lucky. For instance, while the official snowfall for Superstorm was just over 4 in, some spots in the northern suburbs reported 10."

"I know. I would also add a caveat. People around here don't know how to measure snow."

"That's possible. But there were reliable reports from far northern Georgia of a foot and a half with 8ft drifts. Not exactly a near miss for us."

"That's 50 or 60 mi north of the city."

"You're a hard cell, aren't you?"

"I'm trying to keep things in perspective. In the end, the forecast is my responsibility."

"Okay. How about 50 to 60 mi south of the city, then? February 1973, a storm center marched across northern Florida and unloaded a swath of well over a foot of snow from Columbus, Georgia to Augusta and on into Columbia, South Carolina. Shift that track 50 or 60 mi north. Kind of like what the models are showing now."

"Then what?"

"Armageddon."

"Yeah, more or less. For the ninth most populous metro region in the nation, for the biggest travel week of the year, and for a city where three major interstates intersect." And he paused, seeming to toss the narrative to Tom.

Tom picked up the thread. "In the busiest airport in the world."

"Yep. And all of that," Al continued, "in a city that can't handle a few inches of snow, let alone a foot. It's still four to 5 days in the future. I'm not ready to send up flares yet."

Al cleared his throat, a sound like a toilet flushing. "I agree. Here's the thing, though. Enough of the ensemble members are saber rattling now that we can't ignore the possibility. I think you better call the dragon lady. Wish her merry Christmas and tell her she was right to begin with."

"You call her. You're the one she gave her cell number to. I'm just a consultant."

"You're in their chain of command, not me. Besides, you're the guy who gets a pocket rocket every time she comes close to you."

"Well, for Christ's sake. Rejoice, Junior."

"At my age, that's just a fantasy. Anyhow, merry Christmas. See you Tuesday." He disconnected the call.

A sharp knock on the door drew Tom's attention back to the moment. "Yeah," he said. Billy poked his head into the study. "It's almost time to go." He held up his iPhone and pointed at the time.

"Give me 10 minutes, please. I've got one more call to make, then we'll be off to the lights." Bonnie's head appeared beside Billy's.

"You have to buy us hot chocolate up there. Mom said so."

"I might if little girls asked politely."

Bonnie sighed theatrically. "Please."

Then, "10 minutes." Tom punched in Sophie's number. When she answered, he said, "There have been some changes, Sophie," he explained. "So, can I light up the airways now? The great post Christmas snow jam in the offing and all that."

She sounded almost gleeful. "Let's just say the possibility is looking stronger."

"No, I want to hit it harder than that. From what you're saying, this could be the biggest weather event in Atlanta's history."

"There's still time to go whole hog, but not yet. We don't want to end up with egg all over our face. What if the next model run backs off on the idea again?"

"That doesn't sound like the trend. Look, I just don't want to get caught with our pants down. Sorry, I guess that's a male metaphor. I mean, I want to be out front on this. I want to be screaming, 'City City shutdown, travel nightmare, air traffic catastrophe. Nobody else, National Weather Service included, is going to eat our lunch on this one.'"

Tom tightened his jaw, ground his teeth, didn't respond. "Tom, you still there?"

"Yes."

"Look, I've tried to explain this before. Forecasting weather is an exercise in probabilities. Nothing is ever certain. We can't produce yes or no black or white answers. We can't precisely replicate the atmosphere with equations. We can only approximate it and generate statistical outcomes which we try to translate much to our own detriment at times into absolute sounding predictions."

Sophie issued a soft, ladylike snort. "You need to live in my world for a while, weather boy, where success is measured in black and white. You're either getting a scoop or you're scooping poop. You're either out front on a story or you're sucking wind to catch up. You're either breaking news or you're breaking out a new resume. Get the picture."

"I..."

"Good. You know, the problem may be you don't have a dog in this fight, as they like to say in the South. Sure, you can hunker down in your ivory tower, hide behind your statistics, and feel like you've done your job and been faithful to your scientific credo, but it's all make believe." Her words carried the hardness of an icicle. "Sophie, tell you what, let's make this interesting. I'm going to let you walk a mile in my shoes. Let you toss a pitbull into the ring. You're going to make the call. Do we play it conservatively, cautiously, or do we become Paul River screaming, 'A blizzard is coming. A blizzard is coming.' Except we're riding the airways, not a horse. Sound okay, Sophie?"

"Here's the best part. The real stakes. If you make the wrong call either way, if you say back off and we end up eating [ __ ] or you say balls to wall and we end up like wy coyote flattened by an acne safe, you pay the consequences. Well, I probably will, too. But at least we'll share the misery, pounding the payment together come the new year."

"That doesn't sound quite fair, Sophie," he shot back, sensing a rug being yanked out from underneath him. "The nature of your job is that you take the broadcast risk. I take the scientific risk. Without consequences, where's the risk?"

"Not in my job description," he snapped.

"It is now. What the hell, Sophie? Why are you busting my balls?"

Another rap on his door. "Dan, it's time to go." He muted his phone. "Just a minute. I'll be right out."

"I need an answer, Sophie said. "What do I tell the on camera presenters? Hit it hard. Blue light special. Or back off. Pull down the blinds. Nobody home."

"Take a minute." A bubble through Tom's psyche. He struggled to focus on the evidence. Historically, a big snow was a bad bet. Yet, the model seemed to be suggesting otherwise. Still, the event remained 5 days in the future. At that range, the downside loomed huge. He'd been burned before. On the other hand, the ever-improving models, especially the euro, had proved adept at handling highly anomalous events, Sandy being the shining case in point. Further, he knew the clamor on social media and television for the great southern snowstorm would be deafening. Deep down scientifically, he knew he held the high ground, that his position from a meteorological and probabilistic standpoint remained unassalable. He also understood that probabilities didn't cut it with the public or Sophie.

He unmuted his phone. "Blue light special. Merry Christmas, Tom. See you on Tuesday. Keep me posted."

"Sure. Goodbye." He didn't wish her a merry Christmas. Instead, he jabbed his middle finger into the air of the darkening study.

"Dad." Billy stood in the doorway, backlit by illumination from the living room. "Extra hot chocolate if you don't tell mom."

Chapter 6. Christmas. Magnolia Heights subdivision, Sunday afternoon, December 25th. The mesmerizing flames in JC's massive stone fireplace leapt and weaved almost as if in touch with the spirit of the season. Appropriate crackles and pops, courtesy of special vermiculite pine cones, accompanied the blazing warmth. A non-stop concert of Christmas music from FM radio filled the house. Outside, a stiff breeze bore a touch of the Yukon. The lake that just a few days ago had been edged in ice now sported a thin glaze over most of its expanse. Only a small circle of dark open water remained at the center. Overhead, scutting clouds, amorphous gray dows sailing on an inverted ocean appeared to flee the polar invasion. The setting, both inside and out, sparked childhood memories in JC. Christmases spent at his grandparents hard scrabble farm in northern Vermont. Roaring blazes in a smoky wood burning fireplace, the Polar Express sighing through cracks in a sagging century old house, and deep snow slathered over a tiglike landscape. He wondered if Cole would remember this Christmas 40 years from now. He wondered if Cole would even No, JC didn't want to go there. He swallowed hard, checking his emotion.

JC and his wife, flanking Cole, sat on a couch in front of the fire. Between them and the fireplace, the aftermath of Christmas morning. Shredded wrapping paper, torn ribbons, and wounded cardboard boxes littered the floor. Immediately in front of them, a marble topped coffee table boasted a multitude of holiday treats. Snowman cookies, German stolen, peppermint bark, chocolate trees, and the rubble of an imploded gingerbread house.

"You look funny, Daddy," Cole said.

JC ran his hand over his shaved head. "I feel funny." He rubbed Cole's head. "But so do you. Thanks for all the stuff, Dad. Mom." Cole's eyes sparkled. Something Jaci had rarely seen recently. Stuff. Computer games, an iPod, an iPad mini, a new cell phone, neon bright red and black Nike shoes. Stuff.

"There's one more thing, big guy. And it's from your mother, too." Jenny's eyes glistened, filmed over by a sheen of tears.

"It's a commitment," JC said. "Do you know what that is?"

"Uh, it's a promise," Jenny explained.

Cole swiveled his head, first looking at Jenny, then JC. A wide-eyed, expectant meme countered the pale fatigue that had begun to creep into his face during the course of the day.

"The promise is this," JC said, a slight cash in his throat. "That we'll get you well. That we'll spend whatever it takes, however much money, however much time, however much prayer to bring you back to full health. For instance, now that the big job I've been working on is almost finished, I'll be able to spend a lot more time with you in Houston, especially next month. You'll stay with me overnight if I have to sleep at the hospital." JC pulled the son close and nuzzled his head.

"Absolutely. Cool. Mom, too."

"Of course. Nothing is more important to us than you, big guy. Nothing." Jinny, with orphan tears sliding down her cheeks in a slow motion glide, didn't speak, but leaned toward JC, and Cole hugged them both. "Everything will be fine, honey," JC whispered. "Everything will be fine."

After a light supper, JC and Jinny sat in the family room watching the evening news while Cole busied himself experimenting with his iPad. The local news kicked off with the usual grim holiday headlines. A house fire had killed three people. A crash on I85 had wiped out a family of five. A robbery had left a poor family with no gifts for their children.

"It's the same every Christmas, isn't it?" Jinny said.

"Joy to the world," JC responded. He pulled Jinny close to him.

The weather girl came on. "Ashley something or other. Always blonde with long legs and big tits," Jinny groused.

"Not always."

"Yeah, sometimes they're brunettes with long legs and big tits. But do they know anything about weather?"

"Who cares?" Jaci smiled and leaned away from Jinny, already knowing what was coming. In mock anger, she popped him lightly on his ear with her right hand.

"Hold it," he said. "I think she's saying something important."

"Unlikely," Jenny muttered.

"No, listen." Ashley something or other gestured in a map of the southeast. "Meteorologists call this a cold air wedge," she said, sweeping her hand from the Carolinas across Georgia into Alabama. "And it's a frigid one, likely to bring North Georgia the coldest weather in two decades. Some spots in the mountains could be below zero by Tuesday morning." She stopped, drew a deep breath, and walked toward the camera. "But there's more," she said.

"If you act now," Jenny interjected. "For just $19.95, you can get sh..."

JC placed a hand over her mouth. "The National Weather Service has issued a winter storm outlook. Now, that's not a watch or warning, let me emphasize. It just means that storm conditions with significant snowfall and strong winds are possible here in Atlanta and North Georgia by later in the week. We'll keep you a breast of the situation here on channel."

Jenny muted the sound. She had to say a breast, didn't she?

"You're hardly one to speak disparagingly of big tits," he said.

"They aren't big."

"No, better than that." She stared at him.

"Go on. You've got a Goldilocks rack."

"A what?"

"Not too big, not too small. Okay, I've got it. You pervert." She pulled him close and kissed him. Something stirred within him he hadn't felt in a long time. Not since Cole had become sick. And he nestled into her arms.

"If I'm not mistaken," she whispered. "I think there's an ICBM ready for lunch."

"Hey, you guys," Cole yelled. "Cut out that mushy stuff." They broke their clinch.

Later, JC said, keeping his voice low. "Missile launch into the promised land." Jenny's face turned 50 shades of crimson. She fanned herself with her hand. "Is it just me or is it hot in here?"

"Take a guess."

"Serious for a minute," she said. "If there's a snowstorm this week, that won't affect getting the proposal out, will it? The weather babe said later in the week, so I assume that means Thursday or Friday. I've got FedEx on the hook to pick up the document early Wednesday. That means it'll be in Durham by late afternoon. We're good to go."

"Maybe we'll get trapped at home." She snuggled into him again. "But first, my buxom lady, we must dawn our scabbards and swords and go forth with the Huns to pillage and loot the peasant graineries tomorrow." He sat back from Jenny. "You know darn well that by noon tomorrow, the shelves at Kroger and Publix will look like old Mother Hubard's cupboard."

Jenny smiled. "It's good to see you relaxed," she said. "You've been uptight for so long."

"We both have been." He glanced at Cole, who looked up from his iPad and grinned. "It's been a good Christmas," Jinny said. "Good to have Cole home. It'll be a good week. A day off tomorrow, wrap and tie the proposal on Tuesday, out the door Wednesday, and then for all I care, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow. Everything's under control. Everything's under control."

Outside, a gust of wind rattled a screen door as though a host of winter demons were attempting to claw their way into his life.

Chapter 7. Sophie's Rules. The Natural Environment Television Network. Tuesday morning, December 27th. Sophie, Rosie cheicked and looking refreshed, knocked on Tom's office door, already open. "Yeah, come in," he said, not particularly happy to see her after her ultimatum to him on Christmas Eve.

"And good morning to you too, Sophie." She held her hand up, a signal for him not to talk. She motioned for someone behind her to enter the office. A disheveled gray-haired man with bif focals perched crookedly on his nose stepped through the doorway. He wore a parka embroidered with the initials AJC. Sophie introduced him. "Mr. Hemphill, this is Tom Priz. He is the network's chief meteorologist. Tom, this is Don Hempill from the Atlanta Journal Constitution."

Tom stood and shook hands with the man. "Welcome, Mr. Hempill. He paused. Something about that name. Hemphill? Hey, you were the guy who wrote about the network and your adventures with the hurricane hunters, right? What a wild story. You were there when St. Simon's Island went underwater a few years back."

Hemp Hill nodded. "And the stuff that went on here at the network during the hurricane, the battles between Dr. Obermeer and Robbie Mcwansson, just unbelievable."

"All in the past," Sophie said, motioning for time to sit. "Mr. Hempill, Don, please," Hemphill said. "Don wanted to return to the network now that it's recovered the panache its predecessor, the Weather Channel, once laid claim to, you know, actually focusing on the weather."

"That, my dear lady, is largely due to you, as I understand it." Hemp Hill made his declarative sentence sound like a question.

"I have the support of the network," she said, not denying the accolade tossed her way, but at the same time maintaining a facade of modesty. "Anyway, Tom, before I forget, and not trying to capitalize on the old Johnny Carson Ed McMahon stickick, but just how cold was it this morning?" She gave a little shiver, perhaps an unconscious movement, as though the brittle cold had pursued her into the building.

"Seven above at the airport, a record low for the date. Two below in Blairesville up in the mountains."

"Colder than a witch's whatever," Sophie responded. Hemp Hill jotted a note on his iPad.

"So," Sophie said to Tom, "I'd like you to take Don under your wing today and show him around the operations area. Let him sit in at the forecast center for a while and maybe give him a little inside dope on this impending."

"Can I say blizzard yet?"

"You might as well. Tom said everybody else is apparently everybody else but my chief meteorologist. When I say it, you'll know it's for real." She motioned for Tom to step into the hallway out of earshot of Hempill.

"You already said it," she said. "No, you challenged me. Told me to make an up or down call for our on camera Mets, so I did. But you didn't really believe what you told me." She threw him a stare that matched the iciness outside. "Again." She stood uncomfortably close to him as she had a few days previous in the forecast center. Violating his personal space. Well, maybe not violating. That was too strong a word. He didn't feel threatened by her close proximity. No, he sensed something else. An amalgam of arousal and provocation. Instead of backing away, he leaned a fraction of an inch closer to her.

"I believed what I told you," he said, keeping his voice low. "To the extent the preponderance of evidence was slightly on the side of a big storm, maybe 55 to 45, far from a slam dunk."

She folded her arms beneath her breasts. Nicely highlighted, he metaphorically kicked himself for noticing, by a tad too tight Ralph Lauren sweater, and cocked her head at him, a sort of disciplinarian school marm stance. "So, where are we this morning? The GFS operational model is waffling again, backing off on the blockbuster storm scenario."

She nodded, looked at the floor, then back at Tom. "So, come January, we both may be updating our resumes, huh?"

"If we're playing by your rules, yes, we are." She pivoted and stroked away. He clenched his jaw and bit back his defense.

After grabbing a cup of coffee in the cafeteria, Tom escorted Hemphill to the forecast center. Al squirreled away in his usual corner like a monastic hermit, plotted ship and upper air reports by hand on a large paper chart. He didn't look up as Tom and Hemphhill approached.

"Now there's something you won't see anymore," Tom said, pointing at Al. "That's classic old school. These days, plotting and analyses are all computerized."

"Yeah, and you lose any feel for what's going on," Al muttered as much to himself as to Tom.

"12Z reports?" Tom asked.

Al nodded. "You bring me some coffee? Nothing to mix it with. They were all out of bourbon."

"12Z?" Hemphill asked.

"Z used to stand for Greenwich. Meanwhile, now it's called coordinated universal time. Same thing, translated 7 a.m. Eastern Standard Time."

"Okay." Hemphill set his coffee on a nearby desk and poked on his iPad.

"Al. Tom said, "This is Don Hempill from the AJ. He's here to get the inside scoop on the storm. See how we go about business."

Al grunted, but didn't otherwise acknowledge Hemp Hill. He began drawing lines on the map, carefully sketching, then erasing, resketching, erasing again, then with an artist's practiced eye and steady hand of a surgeon, finally firming up the arcs and loops he'd delineated. Tom and Hempill watched in silence. Finished, Al jammed his pencil into a hurricane hunter's coffee mug, already oversted with pens, pencils, and highlighters. He leaned back in his chair and swiveled to face the two men. He rad his fingers through his scraggly beard as though expecting to encounter something small and perhaps living. He cleared his throat, a grading hydrous effort.

"The storm is forming in the Gulf," he announced. "And like the euro's been advertising all along, an upper air trough is digging like a badger toward the central Gulf. This thing is going to bomb out."

Hemp Hill looked at Tom seeking a translation. "What he's saying," Tom said, "Is it the European model, the one that stayed the course on predicting a big snowstorm? Looks like it's going to be right."

"So, are you guys going to post a winter storm watch?" Hemp Hill asked.

"Not us. Only the National Weather Service can do that." He looked at the chart Allid created. He had to admit finally that his conservatism, at least in this instance, had probably been misplaced. "And they will."

"Mr. Tillman," Hempill said, "You use the term bomb out. What's that mean?"

"The storm in the Gulf of Mexico, the one that's a mere embryo now, is going to strengthen explosively. Probably like the '93 supertorrm. Boom." Al spread his arms dramatically. "From sperm and egg to Tyrannosaurus Rex in 24 hours."

"Blizzard," Hemphill ventured.

Al nodded at Tom. "I'll let our chief of meteorology handle that." A benign smile crept over his face.

Tom swallowed a nervous reaction. "Jesus. Does Al know about Sophie's threat? Has he gone over to the dark side?"

"I'm not ready to use that term yet," Tom responded, grasping at the last vestage of a cautious approach. "Let's see what the 12Z model run show."

"Look, I got to ask you gentlemen something else." Hempill seated himself between Al and Tom and plunked his iPad onto a table. "There seems to be little doubt these days that global warming is a fact, although some skeptics argue the upward temperature trend has flattened out recently."

"They aren't genuine skeptics," Tom interjected. "They're just naysayers and contrarians. If you break out any short-term period, let's say 15 years, for example, from any long-term trend, you may often find leveling or even reversals in the overall tendency. Worldwide warming during the course of the 20th century and into the 21st is well established, but that doesn't mean natural variability disappears."

"You've done some work in this," Hemp Hill typed on his iPad. "Postgrad study at MIT. Okay, help me out here. The Earth is warming, yet we're sitting here during a record-breaking cold snap talking about the possibility of a historic snowstorm. That doesn't compute for most people. What the hell's going on?" He reached for his coffee, dribbled a few drops on his unzipped parka, brushed them off, and took a long swallow from the cup.

Tom stood and began pacing the work area. "As I said, natural variability, the ups and downs of weather. Don't take a powder just because the globe is heating up."

Al joined the conversation. "Wasn't there a guy at the Weather Channel before Asian Pacific renamed and gutted it who did a lot of research on the subject?"

"Yeah, there was," Tom said. "I can't remember his name, but he was one of the first to realize that global warming was beginning to influence daily weather events."

"How so?" Hemp Hill asked.

"What he discovered?" Tom answered, still pacing. "Is it the frequency of blocking highs in the atmosphere, like the feature that kicked Sandy into New Jersey instead of letting it scadaddle into the wilds of the Atlantic, was increasing in lock step with global warming?"

"So that's what we're looking at today," Al chimed in. "A block developing over the Mid-Atlantic region. That in turn traps an anomalous pool of very cold air aloft to its southwest over us. And voila, you've got the ingredients for a slowmoving kickass storm."

Hempill typed furiously on his iPad. "Defined kickass."

"Let's wait till the winter storm watches the street," Tom said.

Al shrugged. "Okay, we'll pass on that temporarily," Hemp Hill said. "Again, just so people understand, what's the difference between a watch and a warning?"

"A wintertorm watch is meant to alert the public there's a decent possibility of nasty winter weather within roughly 48 hours," Tom said.

"Seems to me that's already happened," Hemp Hill responded. "With all the chatter on Facebook, Twitter, and TV."

"Not officially, but nobody seems to care or even know anymore if stuff is official. Social media and instant communications have pretty much obliterated the distinction between official and rumor." Hemp Hill shrugged. "Yeah, kind of, I guess. So, tell me about warnings."

"A warning means hazardous winter weather is occurring or imminent. Ideally, warnings are posted 12 to 24 hours prior to the onset of ice or snow."

"Got it," Hemphill said. "So now we're just waiting for a watch to be issued, right?"

"Like waiting for a blessing from the Pope," Al muttered. "Once that happens, everyone will know all is right with the world."

"Sarcasm," Hemp Hill asked. "Look, my friend, Atlanta's going to get buried. Waiting for the NWS to promulgate that doesn't change anything." He stood a laborious effort and took an unsteady step. "Got to take a pee," he said, then more softly. "Damn prostate."

"Buried, M. Hill exclaimed." He looked at Tom. Tom lowered his head. It seemed he had no allies for caution left. First Sophie, now Al, had abandoned him.

Later, he said to Hemp Hill. At precisely 2:00 p.m., Tom knocked on the door to Sophie's office. "Come on in," she said, sounding a bit weary, or perhaps resigned to the fact she was about to go another round with her chief of meteorology. He placed a sheet of paper on her desk.

"A winter storm watch has been issued for Atlanta and northern Georgia," he said.

She didn't look at it. "Summarize it." She leaned back in her chair and aimed a hard stare at him.

"It says conditions are favorable for substantial snowfall and high winds on Thursday and possibly Friday. Severe disruptions to travel are likely."

"How much snow are we expecting?"

He drew a deep breath. The battle once more appeared about to be joined. "As the text says, a substantial amount."

"Oh, for shit's sake, Tom. What the hell does that mean? A substantial amount for Atlanta is 2 in. A few years ago, 4 in shut down the city for the better part of a week. Are we talking 4 in or 2 feet?" Her voice carried the spring-loaded tension of an armed crossbow.

He stared past Sophie, looking through the panoramic window behind her into a barren winter landscape. Patches of ice reflected the low angled rays of the sun into diamond bursts of cold brilliance. "Let's stick with the NWS terminology for now. We can refine things later. We're not in competition here."

"I am, damn it." Sophie stood and pounded her desk. "I'm in competition every single time we go on the air with CNN, with Fox, with NBC, with all the other networks, even Al Jazer. Jesus, Tom, we're supposed to be the premier private weather service in the world, and we can't even tell people how much frigin snow is going to fall 48 hours in advance."

"They've been alerted."

"You don't get it, do you? We're at the height of the holiday travel season. The city sits at the crossroads of three major interstate highways. A quarter million people per day are elbowing their way through the airport, which by the way, if it shuts down, carries international implications for air travel. And we've got the Peach Bowl coming up on Saturday." He started to respond, but Sophie held up her hand like a cop stopping traffic. She spoke deliberately, clipping her words into sharp little blocks of ice. "You think people might want to be apprised about how much snow is going to fall?"

He remained silent, rooted to the floor by the intensity of their response. "I do," she continued, almost shouting. "I think they might like to know. I think city and state officials might like to know whether it's going to be a few inches or like Gandalf suggested, a foot. I think they might like to know if the wind is going to push the snow into drifts that make the perimeter expressway look like Donner Pass. If Hartsfield is going to end up buried like Bismar in a blizzard. If we don't know, who does?"

She remained standing, her palms flat on the desk, her cheeks flaming, her chest heaving. She pinched her lips together, which Tom had learned wasn't a good sign. He waited for her to speak again. "Get out. Leave," she said softly.

"I'm fired."

"Probably not a wise question." She didn't answer. Instead, she stepped from behind her desk and walked to Tom. She stood directly in front of him, still breathing heavily. Her anger appeared to have dissipated, replaced by something else, something that grabbed him by surprise, stole his breath. He inhaled her fragrance, an essence of honeysuckle that carried him off to lazy spring days, warmth and sunshine. She edged even closer to him, her hips almost touching his, the tips of her breasts resting against his chest. She reached up and stroked his face.

"Sophie."

She raised her forefinger to her lips, signaling him not to speak. "You aren't a badl looking guy, you know." Her words came off soft and measured. "But that's not it. Maybe I'm just attracted to men who will stand up to me without being condescending, without using the b- word, without viewing me as a conquest. You're a decent guy, I think. And if my woman's intuition hasn't gone offline, I sense the attraction might be mutual." The statement sounded more interrogative than declarative.

He nodded. He felt himself growing hard. He flushed and tried to back away from her without being obvious. Maybe the macho thing to do would be to take her right here, right now in her office, but he tossed the impulse aside. She was still his boss, and she'd expressed only an interest in him, not dropped her panties.

"That's a relief," she whispered and leaned into him more firmly, the hand that had stroked his cheek resting on his shoulder. "Otherwise, you'd have me on sexual harassment." Her hips pressed into his now. He had no chance of hiding his male reaction. Their gazes met and held. She grazed his lips with hers and backed off. "This didn't happen," she said. She brushed her hands over her sweater, smoothing it.

"Well, it did happen, but we're the only ones who need to know about it. I think from both a business and personal standpoint, we should take a leave of absence. Okay. We both need to get a handle on our emotions. Take the rest of the week off. See me after New Year's." She shed him away with a flick of her hand. Semi stunned, he gestured in the direction of the forecast center.

"What about the storm?"

"We'll need all hands on deck. We'll handle it without you. We're going to need all the bodies we can."

"For God's sake, Tom, just go, please." She directed her gaze at his crotch. "And maybe you'd better stop in the men's room, step into a stall, and take care of that before you do anything else." Her eyes danced in wicked marrynt. He turned to leave, but Sophie had one last word for him. "I'm still going to be all over your case, you know."

"I know, Sophie. I wouldn't have it any other way." He shut the door and returned to the forecast center. Feeling a bizarre mix of sexual excitement, emotional confusion, and subdued anger, he confronted Al.

"You went behind my back," he growled. "Told Sophie we were looking at a foot of snow. A blizzard. What the hell were you thinking?"

"I'm telling her the truth, Junior, in case you missed it." Several of the forecasters working at their computer stations turned to watch the verbal exchange.

"We're supposed to be singing from the same sheet of music," Tom said, his words curt. "Instead, you're off yowling solo to the boss."

Al rolled his eyes. He stood and took a step toward Tom. "Just for the record, Sophie came to me. I didn't go sniffing her out. She asked me what I thought. I told her. In case it slipped your mind, I'm a contract employee here, lured out of retirement. I don't have an agenda. I don't give a [ __ ] about impressing anyone or storming the corporate ramp parts. If somebody wants my opinion, I give it. Otherwise, I'm content to sit on my ass and take home a check."

"Well, you're not only sitting on your ass, you're stomping on mine." Al cleared his throat and hitched up his pants, which had crept southward beneath his prominent tummy. "The only reason you're getting your ass stomped on is because you're tangled up in your academic robes. You're enamored by the idea that weather forecasting is an exercise in uncertainty, cloaked in probability. That doesn't play well with the public or Sophie. I know you know that. Why in the hell can't you act on it?"

"The models are a long way from barking about a foot of snow," Tom said.

"Forget the damn models. Let me tell you something, and the rest of you, too," Al inclined his head toward the small audience of forecasters the skirmish between him and Tom had attracted. "Pay attention to pattern recognition, not some numerical simulation of the atmosphere."

"Pattern recognition," Tom said, his mind only half on Al's pontification, the other half still dwelling on his encounter with Sophie. "At least his maleness had shrunk back to normaly on its own."

Virtually gasping for breath, Al lower lured himself into a chair. "In other words, let me lay a little experience on you. All of the blockbuster winter storms I've dealt with, New York's Lindsay storm in '69, Boston's blizzard of '78, supertorrm, the blizzard of '96, all of them had features exactly like what's shaping up with a strong cold high beneath a cut off low pressure system aloft."

"At least the models are good about telling us that this is the deep south, not the northeast," Tom said.

"That's my point. You're wound around the axle because we've never had a foot of snow in Atlanta. But as I pointed out earlier, we've had that much not too far to our north and not too far to our south. Near misses. Look at the pattern and think about Boston in '78. A big arctic high, a cut off low, a loft, a stalling surface storm, hurricane force wind gusts, and over 2 ft of snow in the city. Closed it down for a week. Boston, a city used to dealing with that stuff. This is Atlanta, probably no more prepared for a big winter whopper than Koala Lumpur." One of the forecasters snickered. Tom glared at him and he fell silent.

"Well," Tom said, turning back to Al. "Good luck with your 12-in forecast."

"My forecast? I don't have any say in the matter any longer." A stricken look etched its way across Al's face. "Jesus, the dragon lady fired you?"

"Not exactly. Not exactly." Al stood again. "I think I'm under house arrest, which means I get to watch things evolve on my Sony at home. Hey, it wasn't my intent to..."

"I know it wasn't your fault. Something didn't click between Sophie and me."

"Not true. Something had clicked big time." He moved closer to Al and lowered his voice. Whatever anger he had had spent. "So, really, a foot? Is that what you honestly think?"

"No," Al responded, his voice thick and watery. "I think it'll be a hell of a lot more than that."

Chapter 8. Not on my watch. American International System Solutions Incorporated. Wednesday afternoon, December 28th. JC sat silently in his office, his throat raw from his earlier vomiting, his stomach still knotted from the verbal assault in summary dismissal by his boss. It really wasn't difficult to figure out why he'd stumbled, why he'd failed, why he'd gotten the axe. In fact, it was ridiculously easy. He'd lost focus. He'd been distracted by all that had happened with Cole. The leukemia, the diagnostic tests, the spinal taps, the chemo, the frequent trips to Houston and back, the long stays in the hospital, and on and on and on. Then finally, a Christmas reprieve with Cole home for the holidays and deserving his father's full attention. JC understood that his family responsibilities, as demanding and gut-wrenching as they'd been, offered no excuse for screwing up the most important bid in American International's history. The cross lay on his shoulders and his alone. When Cole got sick, perhaps he, JC, should have handed off the proposal management to someone else. But things have been going well. Not smoothly, but well, and he thought he could handle the challenges presented by both Cole and the proposal effort. That decision turned out to be a costly mistake, costly beyond anyone's comprehension. Not only did the company face a huge loss of income, but probably layoffs as well. Of course, nothing is guaranteed in bidding wars, but American International was generally acknowledged to have had the inside track on this one. Now, without even a horse in the running, defeat seemed assured. And what would the consequences be for Cole? The company subsidized health insurance, a Cadillac policy, had covered virtually all of Cole's medical expenses so far, costs approaching $100,000. JC had been warned that if his son needed a stem cell transplant, they could be looking at something in the neighborhood of a half million. Further, none of those tallies included the extensive travel to and from Houston and the often lengthy hotel stays required. Yes, health insurance policies could be purchased on the open market, but premiums to get the same coverage as he had now, if that were even possible, would be astronomical. And yes, Cole's care could always be shifted closer to home. But that wasn't an option JC wished to consider. The rapport his son had developed with the doctors and staff at MD Anderson was no doubt integral to his treatment. There was no way he would yank that out of Cole's life. JC acknowledged too that there came significant personal impact with his dismissal from American International. He'd join the millions of middle-aged executives shuffling through corporate America in search of jobs that had evaporated like dew on a summer morning. In addition, he'd bear the stigma of having blown a billion dollar opportunity. What a waste. 15 years of scaling the corporate ladder in the dumper. He'd been recruited by American International immediately after coming out of the University of Virginia with an MS in systems engineering. He'd made it to vice president within a decade and developed a reputation as a reliable can do kind of guy, always busting his ass to get the job done. He knew, as in any job or sport, you were only as good as your latest success. But he never expected to be a poster boy for the old saying that it takes only one a [ __ ] to cancel out 10 at a boys. Goodbye McMansion in Magnolia Heights. Goodbye country club. Goodbye his and her Mercedes. Goodbye good life. Minor stuff compared to Cole's health and welfare. He folded his arms across the top of his desk and lowered his head onto them. He considered weeping, but that he knew would only exacerbate the depression that seemed on the verge of breaking over him like a rogue wave in a storm. He sat upright in his chair, swiveled it, and gazed out into the gray morning, at an airliner descending toward Hartsfield Jackson, at traffic sweeping along a nearby four-lane, at songbirds huddled in the bare branches of hardwoods. He tried to imagine what the landscape would look like tomorrow, buried in silent whiteness, much like his life. "No," he whispered to himself, then out loud. "Not on my watch." He fumbled through his desk drawers, found a bottle of mouthwash, took a swig, swirled it in his mouth, and spit it into an empty styrofoam cup. He stood, straightened his suit jacket, adjusted his tie, shot his cuffs, and stroked out of his office. 30 seconds later, he reached Billingsley's outer office. "He doesn't want to be disturbed," Mary announced officiously, no longer deferring to JC's now former position of vice president. "Tough shit," JC said. Mary covered her mouth. Tough [ __ ] was not the response she expected. She reached for her telephone. "I'm not here to assault anyone, Mary," JC said. "No need to call security. Sorry about the language, but I'm a little pissed off." He knocked once on Billingsley's door and pushed it open. Billingsley leapt to his feet. "What the hell, JC? Not Mr. Rigggins." Similar to what Mary had done, Billingsley reached

For his phone. JC took a seat in front of his boss's former boss's desk.

"Relax, sir. I'm not here to hurt anyone or bust up the place."

Billingsley held the phone for a moment and studied JC with the analytical eye of a former military commander. Satisfied JC presented no threat, he replaced the handset in its cradle and sat.

"I fired you, you know," he snarled. "Unfire me."

Billingsley snorted derision. "You just blew a billion dollar opportunity for this company, my friend. Do you think I'm out of my freaking mind?" The words came out harsh and clipped.

"No, of course not. Look, it was a massive screw-up. I accept full responsibility. I'm the one who stepped on my dick. I lost focus. No excuses, but let's not throw in the towel. Let's repair the damage and I'll get the proposal to Durham before the deadline, before close of business on Friday."

"Don't blow smoke up my ass, JC. You know damn well that ain't going to happen. Life doesn't imitate fairy tales with happy endings and all that crap. From their human cry on TV and social media, you think the end time was upon us."

JC attempted to respond, but Billingsley cut him off with a curt hand signal. "We're pressing ahead with amending the document just in case the weather doesn't turn out to be as bad as advertised."

He leaned forward and stared hard at JC. "But quite frankly, things sound pretty damn dire. There are rumors that Hartsfield could be shut down for days and that the interstates from Alabama to the Carolinas will be closed through the weekend." He shook his head, a gesture of either disbelief or disappointment. Maybe both. "So don't tell me you got some half-ass secret plan to get the proposal to Durham."

JC stood, placed both his hands on Billingsley's desk, and leaned toward him, their faces only a foot apart. "I don't, but I will get it there, even if I have to do it by dog sled. Let's just say I'm a highly motivated employee, former employee."

"Not going to happen. Come on, Cyrus." JC snapped. "Neither one of us nor the company has anything to lose at this point. So what if I fail? You can fire me again."

JC paused, searching for the right words to convince Billingsley. "Look, I heard you're an ex-fighter pilot. Since you rose to the rank of general, I'm going to guess you didn't get there by turning tail, lighting the afterburners, and bugging out when the going got tough. Let's at least go down fighting."

"Just to re-emphasize my point, I have no intention of going down."

Billingsley expelled a long breath, sat back in his chair, and didn't say anything for a long time. JC waited.

Finally, Billingsley said, "Pick up the document at 10 p.m."

"Yes, sir." JC turned and walked toward the door.

"One more thing."

"Yes."

"You're rehired as a probationary intern."

Back in his office, JC watched with growing apprehension the midday news reports on local TV. The accounts seemed nothing short of apocalyptic, at least in terms of the weather. The NWS had issued a blizzard warning, virtually unprecedented, for all of North Georgia, including Atlanta. Forecasts vary from channel to channel, but the consensus seemed to be for a foot of snow with 50 mph wind gusts. Accompanying stories warned of impending airport and road closures, likely power outages, possible postponement of the Chick-fil-A Peach Bowl and cancellation of New Year's Eve festivities, including the famous Peach Drop.

But it was the looming airport and road closures that worried JC. Nothing else mattered. He went to work on his desktop computer, calling up airline schedules between Atlanta and the Raleigh-Durham airport. If he could hand-carry the proposal and get out of Atlanta before flights were cancelled or the airport closed, everything would be fine. The snow wasn't expected to start until the wee hours of Thursday. So, if he could secure a red-eye or early morning flight, but his hopes spiraled down in flames almost immediately. The last two flights out of Hartsfield-Jackson to Raleigh-Durham in the evening departed prior to 11 p.m. No way could he make either if he didn't get the document until 10 p.m.

Early morning then. Several flights leaving around 7:00 a.m. offered hope. He called the airlines directly, Delta, Southwest, US Airways, but to no avail. Flights had already been cancelled and aircraft dispersed. A reservationist at Southwest told him, "If it's any consolation, sir, you probably wouldn't have gotten on the flight anyway."

"You know, it's the holiday season to begin with, and now with the storm coming, people are scrambling to get out of town early. It's a zoo."

He investigated flights to other destinations. New York City, Chicago, Miami, Houston, Philly, all with the thought of just getting out of Atlanta, then beating his way back to Raleigh-Durham any way he could. Every time he met the same schedule roadblocks; the flights left too early in the evening to be of any help, and the dawn flights had already been scratched.

JC took a break, stood, and paced his office. Outside the sun had dimmed to a faint yellow smudge hidden behind a gauzy overcast the shade of a mothballed battleship. The traffic on the nearby thoroughfare appeared denser than one might expect during Christmas vacation week. It probably consisted, JC surmised, primarily of family raiding parties on their way to loot and pillage whatever grocery stores had not yet been stripped clean; or maybe people fleeing the looming snow-pocalypse as coastal residents might an approaching hurricane.

He sat again at his desk and stared into nothingness. He realized he'd signed on for a fool's errand by suggesting he could somehow overcome the forces of nature and deliver the proposal on time through a once-in-a-century, some commentators had suggested a once-in-a-millennium southern blizzard. He swiveled his chair toward the window and watched another airliner on approach into Hartsfield. A second, smaller plane, a corporate jet of some sort, followed it, but then broke off toward the west, apparently headed into Charlie Brown Field, or more formally, Fulton County Airport.

"Yes," JC said aloud. "That could be the answer. It would be an expensive solution to his dilemma, but worth every dollar he might have to shell out." He googled Atlanta charter aircraft and a dozen entries popped up. He called them in order, but as with the commercial airlines, discovered he was too late. The charters, both fixed-wing and rotary, were either already booked or lacked sufficient crews; many were on vacation to cover the sudden storm-driven spike in demand.

An hour later, JC phoned his wife and fought back sobs as he told her what had happened. He screwed up, failed her, Cole, and the company, and for all practical purposes, had probably committed professional hari-kari. Jinny met his labored confession with an extended period of silence.

"Jinny," he said, "I'm sorry. I know it wasn't your fault. You've been so wrapped up in Cole."

"It's still my fault. You don't get a pass because things are tough at home. It's an all-or-nothing deal. You either perform or you don't. All that counts is whether or not you deliver for the corporation. I didn't."

Again, silence. Deep breathing on Jinny's end of the line.

"Then the game isn't over."

"You think?"

"In case it escaped your notice, a blizzard warning is in effect for us. A blizzard warning. And there's talk of extending the warnings through the Carolinas. Bottom line, we're screwed."

A tightness in his throat betrayed the sense of failure that permeated his being.

"You didn't get to be a vice president because you lacked for ideas," Jenny countered.

"I'm out of ideas."

"No, honey. No, you aren't. I know you've got more. You made a name for yourself by always getting the job done, by overcoming the odds. That doesn't change now just because the odds seem, well, insurmountable." Desperation echoed in her voice. "Get a snow plow, a snowcat, a Humvee."

"Wait," he said. "Do you know anyone with a Humvee?"

A soft no shot down that possibility. He considered his own car, an S550 Mercedes, and wondered if it would stand a chance in a snowstorm. Probably not. It was rear-wheel drive, not four-wheel, and lacked snow tires. He'd grown up in Massachusetts and knew what he was up against when it came to blizzards. A rear-wheel drive vehicle without snow treads would end up as nothing more than an interstate igloo.

Then a spark of an idea ignited somewhere deep within his brain, a candle in an ocean of darkness. "Let me call you back, Jenny. You're right. I'm not out of options yet."

Chapter Nine

G-Wagen American International System Solutions Incorporated

Wednesday afternoon, December 28th. After talking with Jenny, JC, hoping for a miracle, called Hertz.

"Wonder if you might have any four-wheel drive vehicles available in Atlanta?" he asked when someone answered.

"Sir," a syrupy voice, Southern Bell announced. "We're fresh out of everything. The storm, you know. People are renting anything they can to get out of the city. Heading to Florida, I reckon. Sorry we can't be of service to y'all."

"Me, too." He hung up.

Humvee. The thought lingered in his head. Not about a Humvee, but something close. Forget car rental companies. On his cell phone, he punched in a number he knew by heart. The Mercedes dealer who'd sold him his S550 and his wife's E400.

"Carl Monto, please," he said when the dealer's receptionist answered. Carl came on the line after only a brief wait.

"Carl, JC Riggins here."

"Hey, Mr. Riggins, great to hear from you, sir. Merry Christmas and happy new year. How are Jinny and Cole?"

Jinny and Cole? I haven't talked with this guy in 6 months, yet he remembers the names of my wife and kid. Probably why he's the sales manager.

"They're fine. Thanks for asking." JC didn't wish to go into detail or engage in small talk. Matters more urgent called. "Look, I've got a bit of a strange request. I've had my eye on one of your GL models for a while now. Its all-wheel drive capability really interests me, and I thought, well, with this snowstorm coming, it might be a great time for a test drive. You know, really put one through the ringer on slippery roads. I grew up in Massachusetts, so..."

"Right. I remember you went to Boston. No, it was Northeastern University, wasn't it? Been to Virginia for graduate work?" How do you remember stuff like that? Carl laughed. "I've got what's known as an eidetic memory. Kind of like a photographic memory, but not quite the same. Anyhow, you want something that'll take on the snow? Well, I'm not planning a long trip or anything." JC lied. "But I'd really like to see how your GL model does. Let's say over the river and through the woods to grandmother's house. Something like that."

Is this guy on to me? JC's breathing accelerated ever so slightly.

"Well, if grandmother lives in the mountains, you might want something a bit more robust than a GL." JC could almost hear the wink in Carl's inflection.

"You mean something like a Humvee?"

"Mr. Riggins, shame on you. You dare use the word Humvee in a Mercedes environment? How plebeian?" He chuckled, a light-hearted response. "Sorry. Come on in. I think we can set you up with something. Something?"

"You ever hear of a G-Wagen?"

"Don't think so."

"No matter. It's really not called that anymore. It's something vaguely similar to a Humvee." He whispered the word as if it were something not uttered in polite company.

"Really? Only vaguely. Let's just say you'll raise a Stein to German ingenuity after you go off-roading. That is, assuming you go off-roading."

"No plans."

"True enough. He didn't have any plans, but you never know." Carl finished his thought for him.

"I'll see you in half an hour," JC said.

RQB Mercedes Dealership, North Metro Atlanta

Wednesday afternoon, December 28th. The thick slate-colored overcast had all but swallowed the sun. By the time JC arrived at the Mercedes dealership in mid-afternoon, patches of ice dotted the lot in front of the showroom. The knife-edged breeze of earlier in the day had lapsed into a bitingly cold stillness. It reminded JC of winter days in Massachusetts, days when the atmosphere slid into a false calm, an ominous quiet prior to a big storm.

Carl, a sturdy man with a ruddy, avuncular face, met JC at the entrance. Glasses pushed back on his head, nesting in an unruly shock of white hair. The sales manager looked more like a kindly college professor than a businessman.

"Mr. Riggins, good to see you again. How about a cup of coffee? Feels like Alaska out there today."

JC declined as the queasiness from his emotional reaction to the events earlier in the day still dogged him. Carl eyed JC's bald head.

"Mercedes sells a nice fleece cap, you know."

JC brushed a hand over his scalp. "It's to show solidarity with my son. He's undergoing chemo."

"Yeah, I remember. How's he doing?" JC gave Carl a brief update.

"Tough stuff," Carl said. He touched JC on the shoulder, a compassionate gesture. "My prayers are with you, brother." Though a regular church attender, mainly at Jim's insistence, JC didn't consider himself particularly religious. Still, he appreciated Carl's expression of concern.

"Thank you," he mumbled.

"Well, come on," Carl said. "Let's take a look at the G-Wagen." JC followed him into a massive garage adjacent to the showroom. About a dozen automobiles and SUVs sat on lifts or stood with their hoods yawning as a cadre of mechanics worked on them. Carl led JC to a far corner of the facility where a hulking black vehicle appearing more like a boxy paddy wagon than a slick modern SUV lurked.

"It's a couple of years old," Carl said. "We just took it in on trade."

JC studied it. "It looks like a Jeep on steroids."

Carl shrugged. "G-Wagen, although Mercedes doesn't call it that any longer, is short for Geländewagen or cross-country vehicle. And yes, it was originally designed for military applications. Ironically, based on a suggestion from the Shah of Iran in the 1970s." Carl patted the hood of the vehicle as though he were petting a family puppy. "These days, they're part of what's known as the G-series."

"This is a G550. I've seen them in movies," JC said. "Drug dealers and Russian bad guys drive them. Probably the only people who can afford them."

"True, but the counterpoint is that the Pope mobile is based on a G500. But let's say for sake of argument, you're heading for grandmother's house and not circumnavigating the Vatican or pushing coke. And let's presume grandmother lives on top of Grandfather Mountain with no paved roads. She's a bit of a hermit."

"No, she just wants to see if this chunk of German steel with the mechanical grunt of a Panzer and creature comforts of a Rolls-Royce can get you there." He gestured at the clunky-looking SUV. "Just under 400 horsepower, all-wheel drive, three locking differentials, 8 inches of ground clearance." He opened the driver's door. "Seven-speed automatic paddle shifters, burl walnut, leather, blah blah blah. It'll knock Granny's support hose off. So, it'll climb the Appalachians in a snowstorm like a mountain goat."

"Just what I need." JC considered asking what the driving range on a tank of gas was, what size snow tires the thing took, and tongue-in-cheek, whether it came with a plow attachment, but decided he'd better not tip his hand, at least not any more than he might have already. Carl undoubtedly harbored suspicions, however minor they might be. JC was, after all, a good customer, about someone asking to borrow a demo in the face of a blizzard warning.

"Bless you, Carl, for bringing up the idea of a trip to grandmother's house."

"Get in," Carl said and handed JC the key. "Crank it up." The G-Wagen growled to life with a truck-like roar. All business. It took less than 20 minutes for JC and Carl to handle the paperwork necessary for JC to keep the vehicle until the weekend. As he drove off, he glanced down at a note he'd hastily scribbled at the dealership.

Jenny, Bank, Tire Store, Home Depot, Kroger

North Metro Atlanta, Wednesday afternoon to evening, December 28th.

Driving the G500 proved a completely different experience from that of his sedan. For one thing, the driving position offered a trucker's view of the road. JC looked down at most of the traffic around him, including even the double XXL SUVs like Lincolns and Cadillacs. Due to its high center of gravity, the G-Wagen wallowed a bit in turns. Not a lot, but enough to suggest it would never break any speed records at Road Atlanta. But what the big Mercedes might lack in finesse, it more than made up for in brute power. JC envisioned it busting through snow drifts like Amtrak's Empire Builder knifing through a high plains blizzard.

He pulled into a SunTrust Bank parking lot, stopped, and called Jenny on his cell. He explained he'd be a bit late getting home, but wanted her to know he had a plan in mind and would explain everything after he arrived. He entered the bank and from his checking account withdrew a substantial amount of cash, contingency funds for his planned journey. He didn't know if he would need the money, but having a stash of liquid currency on hand seemed like a good idea, even if the trip itself didn't.

Prior to leaving the dealership, JC had examined the SUV's tires. The all-terrain Yokohamas looked okay, but he wanted something better than okay for his demo drive. His next stop, John Flatt's Tire and Battery Center, a huge facility known by locals merely as the "Flat Tire Place." As he pulled into the center, he realized he might again be a Johnny-come-lately. He couldn't find an open parking spot. Apparently, everyone in North Metro Atlanta had decided they needed snow tires. He gave up looking for a slot and parked in front of the main entrance. Inside he found a standing-room-only crowd. Men and women in eclectic southern winter attire ranging from hoodies and flimsy windbreakers to down vests and bulky parkas. Headgear spanned the gamut from Atlanta Braves baseball hats accompanied by red and blue ear muffs to Russian ushankas.

JC stepped to the reception desk. A stout, hair-looking young man with weary eyes, greasy hands, and a name tag reading "Thumper" greeted him.

"If you're here for snow tires, sir, I'm afraid you're too late. We've pretty much been stripped clean." He expelled a long breath. It had obviously been a long day.

"I was hoping to find something for a G-Wagen."

The kid frowned. "A what?"

JC pointed out the front entrance. "A Mercedes G550."

"Oh, cool. A Russian mafia staff car."

JC sighed. "Yeah. What do you think?"

The kid shook his head. "No, I'll check, but we've only got one or two sets left, and they're for sub-compacts. But even if we had some that fit your SUV, you'd be at the back of the line." He tapped in some information on his computer.

"Would this move me to the front of the line?" JC extracted his wallet, pulled out a $100 bill, and with his hand covering most of it, slid it across the counter to Thumper. Thumper looked at it, backed up at JC, and shook his head again.

"I'd love to do business with you, sir, but like I said," he stared at the computer. "There's nothing available."

JC leaned across the counter. "Well, Ben, do you think he might be able to call around to some other stores, find four snow tires for my bad-guy car, and earn yourself another Ben Franklin in the process?" He removed his hand from the bill on the counter.

Thumper glanced around the shop, apparently making sure no one was watching, and pocketed the bill. "I'll do my best," he said. "I can't guarantee anything and it may take a few hours. Give me a telephone number where I can reach you. It looks like we're going to be open well into the evening."

JC agreed to the deal, got Thumper's cell number, and departed for his next stop, Home Depot.

Home Depot, not surprisingly, had been plundered of anything remotely applicable to combating the impending winter assault. The shelves stood naked of de-icing materials, sand, even the type used in kids' play boxes, and snow shovels. JC marched through the aisles, searching for targets of opportunity, things he thought might come in handy on his planned journey to Durham. He issued a soft, self-deprecating snort. Plan wasn't quite the right word; more like a Hail Mary pass into the teeth of a blizzard. He found one orphan shovel, a short-handled spade, and placed it in his shopping cart. It wasn't designed to move snow, but would be better than nothing. He picked up an expensive high-intensity LED flashlight and added that to the cart. Other items included a first-aid kit, even though the G-Wagen undoubtedly had one; several blankets used to protect furniture when moving. He might need them for warmth; a braided nylon tow rope with grab hooks, an item he hoped he wouldn't need; a sturdy-looking utility knife, a roll of duct tape, and some hanger wire. A friend who served in the army once told him, "You can fix anything with duct tape and bailing wire." JC figured hanger wire would be the next best thing.

His final stop, Kroger. The Huns had come and gone. Now early evening, the huge grocery store loomed like a brightly lit but abandoned ship in a strip mall of otherwise darkened shops. Inside, soft pop music from overhead speakers wafted through the chilly, picked-bare structure as if offering a modicum of commiseration to the handful of tardy shoppers who wandered the aisles like lost souls in purgatory. They, like JC, seized what few leftover canned goods they could find, mostly stuff he viewed as inedible, and that, in normal circumstances, would never have sold. Gag food like Brussels sprouts, lima beans, and creamed spinach. He chanced upon a box of granola bars, the only one left, and found a ripped bag of kitty litter. Kitty litter, he knew from experience, could be used for traction on hard-packed snow or ice. The checkout clerk, a wizened lady with thick glasses and a threadbare sweater, pointed out the tear in the bag.

"I've got some tape in my car," JC said. "I'll patch it up when I get there."

Outside, a haloed full moon hung in the sky, smudged by the overcast. The wind had picked up again, its icy talons clutching at JC's neck. He turned up the collar on his overcoat, then placed the kitty litter bag on the passenger seat of the G-Wagen, and within a matter of a minute or two had it taped up. He metaphorically patted himself on the back for purchasing the duct tape and utility knife.

His cell phone rang.

"Hey, it's Thumper from Flatt's Tire," the caller said. "Is this Mr. Riggins?"

"It is. Thanks for getting back to me." JC cranked the engine to get some warmth into the vehicle.

"Well, Mr. Riggins, I've got some good news and some bad news."

JC sighed. "Lay it on me."

"Okay. The good news is I found you some tires. The bad news is they're in Making Creek."

"Ah, but more good news. I can get them here."

"Great." JC checked the time. Almost 7:00. The tires could be here by 9:00. Time enough to get them mounted and reach American International by 10:00 to pick up the proposal. He could launch immediately after that and maybe beat the worst of the snowstorm into the Carolinas.

"Wait, a little more bad news, I'm afraid."

JC squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. Thumper must have been a cheerleader in college, one of those guys who led the old "yay-boo" riffs.

"Just give me the bottom line," JC said.

Thumper cleared his throat. "See, the thing of it is, I can't get him here right away. I got a bud with a pickup in Warner Robins who said he'd ferry 'em up here, but he's working a swing shift at the air base and won't get off till midnight. So, it'll be like 2 or 3 in the morning before too late."

JC snapped. "It could be snowing by then."

"Sorry, Mr. Riggins. I did my best."

JC pondered his situation. He briefly considered driving to Macon and picking up the tires himself, but it would be after 9 before he could get there. The store might be closed by then. Even if it remained open, he'd still have to get the tires mounted, haul ass back to Atlanta, go home to say goodbye to Jenny and Cole, and grab a bite to eat, then finally pick up the proposal. It would be well after midnight by then, and he'd be exhausted before even launching his journey to Durham.

So, it came down to this. He could press on without snow tires, get a jump on the weather, and try to beat the heaviest of the snowfall into the Carolinas. Or he could hope the worst of the storm would hold off, wait for the tires, get them mounted, then sally forth with the assurance of having Zamboni-like traction if the blizzard caught him. Either way was a gamble.

"I know you tried your hardest, Thumper," JC said. "Thanks. I'll get back to you before midnight and let you know one way or the other whether to get the tires up here." He leaned his forehead against the steering wheel and sucked in a series of deep breaths. For the first time since committing to his quixotic quest, the adjective lit up abruptly in his mind. A bear trap of doubt snapped shut around his chest.

Chapter Ten

Warning

Magnolia Heights Subdivision, North Metro Atlanta, Georgia

Wednesday evening, December 28th. JC and Jenny sat on a leather couch in the family room. The Christmas tree from which needles had begun to shed sparkled with tiny white lights while orange flames bobbed and weaved in the fireplace. In one corner of the room, a silent flat-screen television flickered in a kaleidoscope of color as NETV offered wall-to-wall coverage of the impending blizzard.

Cole darted into the room. "Can we play in the snow tomorrow, Dad?" he asked, his small face painted in hope.

"Sorry, big guy. I've got to go on a trip."

"Oh, when I get back, okay."

"Okay," Cole said, his voice soft, dejected. He turned to leave.

"There'll still be lots of snow on the ground when I get back," JC said. "Besides, it'll probably be too stormy tomorrow to play outside."

Cole looked back at his father. "But not too stormy to travel," he trudged off, obviously unhappy.

Jenny chimed in. "Kid has a point. You don't have to do this, you know."

"I do," JC said. "We've been over this. I screwed up. I have to unscrew it. For Cole's sake, if nothing else."

"No, you don't." Jinny said, an undercurrent of sharpness embedded in her voice. "Even if the company gives you the bums rush, there are still good cancer centers right here in Atlanta."

"Change horses in the middle of the stream after all Cole's been through. Look, the Anderson Center is the best thing we've got going in our lives right now. If I lose my job, we lose Anderson, and Cole loses the medical anchor in his life. That's not going to happen." The words came out forcefully.

"People die in blizzards," Jenny said. She looked directly at JC. A mixture of fear and concern lodged in her eyes.

"We aren't in North Dakota," JC answered, making certain he kept his voice low and even. "It's not like I'll be traveling lonely farm roads in the middle of nowhere where homes are 25 miles apart. I'll be on some of the busiest interstates in the country."

"Not if they're shut down. You won't be."

"Jenny, please. I'm not going to die. I mean, what's the worst that can happen? I lose the race with the storm and get stuck in a snow drift for a couple of days and have to live on bottled water and granola bars."

"You might get arrested for being someplace you're not supposed to be."

"Luck on the bright side, honey. At least I won't get carjacked."

"I hate to point it out, but you thought you were on easy street with a proposal prep, too. And that kind of blew up."

"Yeah, it blew up," JC barked. "I know. That's how we got here." He stood and stalked into the kitchen.

"I'm sorry, honey," Jenny called after him. "I didn't mean to rub salt into a wound. It's just that I'm worried. I can't help it."

"You could crash or something."

"Jesus, Jenny, I'm driving a German Panzer." JC re-entered the family room. "And I hesitate to remind you, you were the one who urged me not to give up on getting this proposal delivered."

"I know," she said, her voice subdued. "But I didn't really think things would be getting as bad as they seemed to be." He pointed at the TV. "Turn it up. Let's hear what they're saying about the storm."

A young female reporter who didn't look more than a couple of months out of college stood in front of the south terminal of Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport. She'd flipped back a fur-lined hood from her head, but swaddled in a 3/4-length down parka, ski gloves, and calf-length boots, she appeared to be leaning into a Siberian gale on the Russian steppe.

"Oh, for heaven's sakes," Jenny said. "It's not even snowing yet, and the wind must be blowing all of what, 10 mph."

"It's for dramatic effect," JC said. "Shh."

"And already Delta has canceled over 800 departures out of Hartsfield-Jackson tomorrow." The reporter waved her hand at the terminal behind her. It appeared virtually devoid of travelers. The young lady straightened; a sudden cessation of the wind, perhaps, and continued speaking. "So, not only do hundreds of thousands of highway travelers face the prospect of becoming stranded in the Southeast tomorrow, but air travelers across the country, not to mention the globe, may find themselves marooned if Hartsfield shuts down. Now, back to Charlene and Randy in the studio."

The warm studio, the reporter pulled the hood back over her head as though facing a renewed assault of arctic wind. "Stay warm, Julie," responded one of the studio anchors, obviously Charlene. "Let's see what Sam Rackley has to say about all this. Sam."

The station's meteorologist, putting on his best gloom-and-doom face, stepped in front of the camera. Superimposed behind him, a map of the Southeast centered on Atlanta, highlighted the web of interstate highways radiating from the city. At the bottom of the TV screen, a red-lettered crawl: BLIZZARD WARNING. North Georgia, Upstate South Carolina, Western North Carolina. Sam, middle-aged, tanned, and undeniably handsome with wavy blonde hair, could have been a refugee from the Southern California surf scene. He shook his head slowly as if he were about to deliver devastating news.

"Wow," Jenny whispered. "He should be on the cover of romance novels."

"Shh," JC ordered again.

"Folks," Sam said, "We're facing a serious situation here in North Georgia. A rare, dare I say, unprecedented blizzard is about to wallop us." He pressed a handheld clicker, and a radar image of current precipitation appeared on the map to his rear. He turned and gestured at it. "There's no snow falling yet, but a cold rain is dowsing the Panhandle and South Georgia. As that precipitation sweeps northward, it will encounter much colder air entrenched over the Appalachian Piedmont. The temperature in Macon now is 33°, while here in Atlanta, we're well below freezing at 27°." He pressed his clicker again. A new map came up. Sam pointed at a large red "L" in the Gulf of Mexico. "A rapidly strengthening storm center located about 150 miles south of Apalachicola will turn northeastward relatively slowly, I might add, along this front stalled over northern Florida." He indicated an alternating red and blue line strung from the "L," the low-pressure center, to the offshore waters of the Carolinas. "The expected slow movement of this low is what will make it different for most developing winter storms in the Gulf, allowing it to unload snowfall worthy of New England on the Southeast. Another key factor, of course, is the cold air trapped between the storm and the Appalachians."

Cole reappeared, his attention focused on the TV. "This is so cool, Dad," he piped up, already forgetting the journey his father faced. "We need to get a sled."

"We will. Let's watch the forecast now." Another map came up on screen.

"Here's what we expect for snowfall amounts," Sam said. "From middle Georgia to central South Carolina, 6 to 10 inches." He swept his arm along a swath from the lower left of the screen to the upper right. He moved his arm to point farther north. "From around metro Atlanta into upstate South Carolina, 10 to 14 inches. But remember, with winds forecast to gust as high as 50 mph, drifting snow will become a real problem. We could have drifts as deep as 4 to 5 feet."

Someone off-camera whistled softly.

"Yes," said Sam, looking in the direction of the whistler. "That's why the blizzard warning. Maybe this is run-of-the-mill for Boston, but not for Atlanta. This storm will be crippling."

JC's stomach nodded, and a looseness he cared not to acknowledge crept through his bowels. Perhaps he'd been too cavalier in his attitude. His planned odyssey seemed on the precipice of becoming mission impossible without Tom Cruise. He doubted even a Geländewagen could batter its way through shoulder-high mounds of wind-driven snow. He also realized that to embark on his trip without snow tires, without every bit of help he could get, would be idiotic.

Sam continued speaking. "We expect the snowfall to develop over Atlanta between 2 and 4 tomorrow morning and increase rapidly in intensity. By 8:00 a.m., it should be snowing heavily all over the city. Just plan on staying home tomorrow, folks."

JC muted the TV and reached for his cell.

"What?" Jinny said.

"Calling a guy named Thumper," JC answered. He punched in Thumper's number. The young man answered.

"I'll take the tires," JC said. "How soon do you think we can meet?"

"Let's allow some extra time for my bud to get here from Macon," Thumper said. "Just in case the weather gets really nasty really fast. I can probably get the store open by 4 in the morning. Will that work?"

"I'll be there."

"You got a trip or something planned, Mr. Riggins?"

"It's an emergency."

Thumper started to ask another question, then apparently thought better of it. "See at 4," he said.

JC disconnected the call. Jenny stared at him, her eyes misty, her face etched in concern.

"You don't have to."

He raised his finger to her lips, hushing her. "I do have to," he said, wishing he didn't.

Windy Hill Towers

Wednesday evening, December 28th. Tom Price, a little melancholy and still nonplussed after his very personal tête-à-tête with Sophie, sat in a recliner in front of his plasma TV, sipping a Jack Daniels on the rocks and watching Sam Rackley finish his weather segment. On the floor beside Tom, a half-eaten pepperoni, mushroom, and pineapple pizza rested in state in a Papa John's cardboard box.

Stormy weather chimed on Tom's cell phone.

"Hey," Al Tilman said. "You didn't happen to catch that [expletive] Rackley on TV just now, did you?" In the background, Tom heard strains of the Rolling Stones' "Jumping Jack Flash."

"Jumping Jack Flash? I thought you were into the classics, old man."

Tom muted his TV. "What?"

"The Stones aren't classic. Classic rock, Junior. Definitive sounds for the late 20th century. No different from Haydn, Mozart, and Sibelius in their times."

"Who?"

"Jean Sibelius, Finnish composer. He wrote Finlandia, the Karelia Suite."

"Never mind. Rackley the [expletive]. Did you see him? Where in the hell are you, Al?"

"In the office. Why aren't you at home?"

"Because I'm old and lonely. Because the dragon lady requested my presence. Because we're short-handed. Most of our employees are hunkered down in their domestic storm bunkers. Oh, and a certain coworker of mine is under house arrest."

"Why is Sam Rackley a [expletive]?" JC asked, ignoring Al's jive.

"Because he's leading the good people of Atlanta to believe they aren't going to see more than 14 inches of snow."

Chapter Eleven

Doubts

Windy Hill Towers

Wednesday evening, December 28th. Tom picked up his glass and with a vigorous twist of his wrist created a micro-cyclone of whiskey and ice cubes.

"So that makes Rackley a [expletive] because he didn't predict more snow even though he's forecast a greater amount than has ever fallen here."

Silence ensued on the other end of the call.

"Okay, Al finally said, "I recant my indictment. The guy's just inexperienced. He got the part about the slow movement of the storm right, but he didn't take it far enough. He missed the fact that the upper-level system's going to cut off and stall for 6 to 8 hours. That's when we'll get clocked. It'll be like Boston in '78 with an inch or two an hour."

"You're sure?"

"Of course not. But I've seen enough of these things to know the atmosphere doesn't give a damn whether it's doing something weird over Massachusetts or Georgia. Within limits, the results are the same."

Tom expelled a long breath. "So, the Gandalf crystal ball says 20 inches, maybe 2 feet."

"That's insane. It's a Walmart crystal ball. Take it back."

"Can't. The roads will be impassable tomorrow and probably for the better part of a week."

"So, you're hunkering down at work."

Tom rescued a piece of droopy pizza from the Papa John's box. He sniffed at it, nibbled, made a face, and tossed it back. "Cold."

"Yeah," Al said. "I doubt many people are going to make it in. I know the newspaper guy is supposed to show up again and Sophie, but there's strap-hangers. There'll be more hindrance than help."

Tom stood and paced to the window of his condo. The distant lights of Atlanta cloaked the city in an electric mantle of shimmering colors; red, white, green, yellow, blue; an urban tribute to the season, though in reality the multi-toned spectacle was no different from any other night.

"What time do you expect the worst?" he asked.

"Not until Friday, but it'll be bad enough tomorrow with the surface storm center crawling across South Georgia. I'm thinking 1/2 inch to occasionally an inch an hour. If I were you, I'd get back in here. You're within walking distance, right?"

"Listen to me, Al. If and when I return, it'll be because I got the request from my parole officer, not you." Al muttered something Tom couldn't understand and hung up.

Tom flopped back into his recliner. A bachelor pad miasma of unwashed dishes, undusted furniture, and unlaundered clothes permeated the room. "Hey, Billy and Bonnie," he muttered. "I miss you guys." On his cell, he punched in Billy's number.

"Hey, kid. How about you, me and Bonnie go sledding tomorrow? It's going to snow, you know. There's a great hill on the golf course near your house."

"I know, Dad, but Mom already said if it doesn't get too bad, she and Rick would take us."

"Rick, the stepdad."

"Yeah, well, okay. Maybe later in the week."

"Sure, that'd be fun." They made small talk for a few more minutes. Then Billy put Bonnie on the line with a stern warning not to burn up all of his minutes. She whined that Rick didn't pay enough attention to her, that she wanted to come back to live with her daddy. Tom told her it would take time, that she had to go through a period of adjustment, but that everything would smooth out and there would eventually be plenty of attention and love. She said goodbye through drama queen sobs. Tom reached for the Jack Daniels and drained the glass.

American International System Solutions Incorporated

Wednesday evening, December 28th. Cyrus Billingsley, his tie loosened, eyes heavy with fatigue and lips pressed together in a death clench, looked up as JC entered his office. Containers of half-eaten Chinese takeout littered his desk. Odors of Mongolian beef and Moo Shu pork hung in the air.

"It's ready," Billingsley said, not bothering with a greeting. He swiveled in his chair and pointed at three securely taped, sturdy-looking cardboard boxes sitting side by side on a credenza. Each container, emblazoned with the American International Corporate logo, a red lightning bolt backed by a blazing yellow supernova, appeared about the size of a five-ream paper box, the kind you'd pick up at Office Depot or Staples. An address label on each indicated its destination: Rampart Aerospace and Defense Corporation, Military Systems Division, RADCMSSD, Research Triangle Park, Durham, North Carolina.

"And I'm ready," JC said.

"I presume you have a plan." It seemed both a statement and a question. JC briefed him, explaining about the Geländewagen he'd borrowed for a road test, his appointment to get snow tires mounted, and his plan to get out of Atlanta early in the morning in an effort to beat the worst of the snowfall. Billingsley seemed unimpressed by the strategy, squinting at JC, apparently in circumspection, as JC rattled on.

"A snipe hunt!" Billingsley growled after JC had finished. "You don't have a prayer. This isn't New England, you know, when the interstates are clear of snow 6 hours after a storm. No, the roads around here will end up looking like the Greenland ice cap in January. They'll probably have to call in rotary plows from the Sierra Nevada to clear them. You're dead, man."

"Thanks for your support, sir." JC tried to keep the sarcasm out of his voice, but came up short.

"I didn't bring this on, Mr. Riggins. That was your doing. I'll give you credit for the old college try, but you're off on a 'where angels fear to tread' mission." Billingsley leaned forward, rested his elbows on the desk, and steepled his hands in front of him. "What's your planned route?"

"North on I-85 through upstate South Carolina and western North Carolina until it intersects with I-40 in Greensboro, then into Durham on I-40."

"The old bull rush, huh? Meet the enemy head-on. Why not head east on I-20 through Columbia, South Carolina, then north on I-95 into North Carolina? Maybe stay south of the worst of the weather."

"I checked the forecast pretty damn closely, sir. Even that far south, the forecast is for 8 to 12 inches of snow. Plus, I'd be adding 100 miles to the trip."

"Farther south, then into Savannah, then north on I-95."

Billingsley snapped out the words in his best flag officer voice. "200 extra miles," JC responded. "Plus, what do you think I-95 is going to look like? With all the other interstates blocked, every holiday traveler in the Southeast is going to try to squeeze onto it. You'll have a 600-mile-long parking lot from Jacksonville to Richmond."

Billingsley grunted. "Point taken. So, I guess that's it then. Off into the wild blue or feral white, maybe." He shrugged.

"Look, once I get the snow tires on, I'm out of here. By 4:30, I should be flying. I can outrun the storm. It isn't supposed to really start dumping here until around sunrise. I'll be well into South Carolina by then."

"Dumping or not, 85 will still be snow-covered. You won't be doing the speed limit."

"I'll be in South Carolina." JC made the statement with a firmness disconnected from the uncertainty burning in his gut. His grandfather had always told him, "If you sing loudly enough, you'll scare away the monsters." Billingsley probably needed to plug his ears.

"This isn't a run-of-the-mill snowstorm, you know," Billingsley reminded him.

"There isn't any such thing in the South, sir."

Billingsley sighed, probably more out of exasperation than frustration. "You got survival gear, I trust." Even as a civilian, he remained ever the commanding officer, checking on the preparedness of his troops, or in this case, trooper. JC nodded and gave him a brief rundown.

Billingsley stood. "I'll help you carry the boxes down to your... what did you call it?"

"G-Wagen."

"Yeah. And one more thing." He pulled a business card from a holder on his desk, turned the card over, wrote something, and handed it to JC. "My cell number. I'll be available 24/7. Stay in touch." Almost as an afterthought, he added, "Please."

They loaded the boxes into the rear of the Mercedes. In the glow of the high-pressure sodium lights in the parking lot, Billingsley glanced at his wristwatch. "Well, who knows? Maybe you got a chance. Over 40 hours to go. You know, nobody thought the Doolittle Raiders would make it either." He proffered his hand to JC. JC accepted it. He tried to recall the Doolittle Raid; the bombing of Tokyo by B-25s flying off an aircraft carrier as a show-the-flag attack on the Japanese in the wake of Pearl Harbor. As he remembered it, well remembered reading about it. The planes reached Tokyo, but most crash-landed in China after dropping their bombs. A mixed bag in terms of success. He hoped he and his $100,000 demonstrator, the G-Wagen, would fare better, but the doubts had begun to swarm like winged termites on a warm spring afternoon.

He cranked the vehicle. A gust of wind sent an empty styrofoam food container cartwheeling through the parking lot. It careened off a patch of ice, tumbled into a chain-link fence, and came to rest, pinioned by the elements. JC stared at it, wondering if he weren't seeing his own fate. He slipped the Mercedes into gear and drove off. In his rearview mirror, he watched Billingsley, suit jacket clutched around his neck to ward off the icy wind, trudge back toward the American International Building, shaking his head in slow motion. Not exactly a vote of confidence.

Magnolia Heights Subdivision, Wednesday night, December 28th. JC set his alarm for 3:30 a.m. and crawled into bed. 4 or 5 hours of sleep, assuming he could actually fall asleep, wouldn't be enough to fully restore his mind and body, not after the kind of day he'd had, but it would be better than nothing. The alternative would be remaining awake or trying to do so and watching the hours and minutes slink by until it was time for his departure. If he did that, he knew he'd do nothing but dwell on the boogeymen, both real and imagined, that lurked in his future. Exhausted, he tumbled into a dream world of winter whiteness almost as soon as he pulled the sheet and blanket up to his nose. And he whistled and shouted and called them by name. "Now Dasher, now Dancer, now Prancer and Vixen, on Comet, on Cupid, on Donner and Blitzen." But the reindeer hadn't flown to the top of a porch or the top of a wall, surrounded by wolves on a snowbound road. They lay in deep drifts, their almost skeletal bodies barely visible. St. Nicholas, a German army

Coal scuttle helmet perched on his head, stood in his trapped sleigh, firing a 12-gauge Mossberg at the encircling predators. Unseen by Saint Nick, a wolf the color of obsidian stalked through the chest-deep snow directly to the rear of the sleigh. The animal stopped and crouched, then sprang forward in a rush, preparing to leap at the tubby, white-haired man with a shotgun.

JC screamed a warning that awakened not only him but Jenny as well. "Jesus, honey," Jenny said. "Don't do that. You scared me to death."

"A dream." He nodded. "What time is it?"

"Not quite 3:00's nap."

"Tell you what," Jenny said, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. "I'll fix you some eggs and toast while you get dressed."

">> Yeah, okay," he mumbled. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. "Sorry I woke you."

"I would have killed you if you hadn't. Cole wants to say goodbye, too. I'll roused him after I fixed breakfast."

A short while later, they sat at the table in the family room. Outside, snow illuminated in the deck lights sifted down in snow globe laziness, white veils sweeping back and forth at the whim of the wind. "It started early," Jenny said.

"Not what I wanted to see," JC responded. He shoveled in a mouthful of scrambled eggs, followed by a large bite of multigrain toast.

Cole, as animated as he'd been since returning home, darted to and fro in front of the sliders leading to the deck. "Will you be home by this afternoon, Dad? We could go sledding or build a snowman or have a snowball fight or make snow angels. Will you, Dad?" He came to where JC sat and leaned his head against his arm.

JC pulled him close. "I don't think so, big guy. But I won't be gone long, and the snow will be around for days. We'll have plenty of time for some fun."

"Okay, I guess." Cole's voice echoed his disappointment. "I think your mom can probably handle the snowball fight bit this afternoon, right, honey?"

Jinny glared at JC. "Mom can probably handle the build a snowman and knock him down bit."

JC smiled, took a swig of his coffee, and turned on the TV. Radar images showed the snow had already spread over most of North Georgia and adjacent parts of South Carolina. A voice-over indicated the snowfall rate was forecast to pick up throughout the morning with many roads becoming impassable by noon. Only essential travel was advised.

A man appeared on screen, a grizzled-looking middle-aged weathercaster. "A blizzard warning remains in effect," he said. "Winds will increase steadily today, and by this afternoon, blowing and drifting snow will exacerbate travel problems, which should be bad enough from the snowfall alone." The camera closed in on him. "Friends, this is going to be a real taste of New England, believe me. Forget this is the South. Please stay home today. Don't go out unless it's an absolute emergency. It's already dicey out there. It'll be downright dangerous within a few hours."

JC switched off the TV. Jinny reached out and gripped his arm. He read the fear in her eyes. It had elevated well beyond mere concern. She started to speak.

"I smell gingerbread," he said, cutting her off at the pass. She relaxed her grip, but held her gaze on him. "I'm frightened. I can't help it."

"Gingerbread," he said. She sighed, stood, and walked to the kitchen. "I baked some cookies for your trip."

Cole danced after her. "Can I have one?"

"After lunch, they aren't breakfast snacks." She turned to JC. "I made some sandwiches, too. Ham and cheese, roast beef with a little horseradish mustard."

He pecked her on the cheek. "I need to hit the road. The kid will be at the tire store shortly."

Jenny stuffed the sandwiches and cookies into a picnic cooler and filled the thermos with coffee. "This should keep you going for a bit. As backup, waffle houses are always open, no matter how bad the weather."

JC wrapped Jenny in a bear hug and pulled her to him. "I'll be fine." He imbued his voice with more confidence than he felt.

"Call me," she said, "every hour. I want to know where you are and how you are."

"I'll be fine," he repeated. "Call."

"I will. I will." He kissed her and released his embrace.

Cole, who had briefly disappeared, rejoined them. "Teddy's going with you," he announced. He handed JC a one-eyed, cut-foot brown and white teddy bear almost 3ft tall. "He'll be like your guardian angel."

JC knelt. "Wouldn't you rather have Teddy stay with you and mom?" Teddy had been Cole's constant companion since JC had won him by knocking down stacked milk bottles at a county fair when Cole was three. Teddy had endured as many hospital and doctor visits as Cole.

Cole, his face wrinkled into a mask of childhood contemplation, examined Teddy. "No, I think he's part polar bear. He needs to go with you."

"Thanks, big guy." JC tucked Teddy under his arm and stood. "Time to beat feet."

Jinny picked up the cooler and thermos and followed JC and Cole into the garage. "Got everything?" She ran through a verbal checklist. "Parker, gloves, phone, charger, flashlight, shovel."

"I'm ready to roll," he assured her.

"Okay." She ran her gaze over him, a drill sergeant scrutinizing a recruit. He at least felt prepared. "Pendleton shirt, insulated pants, gators, refugees from New England, Timberland hiking boots, wool watch cap. Do I pass inspection?"

He patted the cap perched on his head. "You know, I really need this now that I'm bald."

He placed the thermos on the front passenger seat and the cooler on the rear seat along with Teddy. "Buckle him up," Cole commanded.

"He'll be fine, son."

"No, you have to fasten his seat belt." A glare from Jinny underscored Cole's request. JC buckled the teddy bear into the seat.

"Ready, I guess," JC said. He embraced Jinny. "I don't like this," she whispered. Moistness clouded her eyes. She squeezed them shut. A single tear slid down her cheek. Slow-motion proof of the emotions roiling within her.

"You worry too much." He didn't mention the disturbing snowbound shotgun-wielding Santa Claus nightmare he'd had. It spectre hung over him like a snow squall about to swallow the landscape.

He kissed Jinny and hugged Cole. "Take care, Mommy." Cole nodded, then stood on his tiptoes to peer through the G-Vagen's rear side window. "Do you have your gun, Daddy?"

JC stared at Cole. A strange question. Why would he think of that? "No, no need. I'll be battling bad weather, not bad guys."

"Oh."

JC punched the garage door opener, climbed into the vehicle, which he'd backed into the garage, and started the engine. The G-Vagen's headlights shot into the dark, reflecting off a swirling crystalline ballet on a stage of black velvet. Mantles of white shrouded the ground on either side of the driveway, but the drive itself had been swept clean of snow by the wind. Tendrils of tiny flakes slithered across the bare concrete like Sahara sand driven by desert gusts. JC eased the Mercedes into the storm. An old saying from New England crept into his consciousness. "Big flakes, little storm. Little flakes, big storm."

Chapter 12. Into the Storm. North Metro Atlanta, Georgia. Early Thursday morning, December 29th. The snow, fine and powdery, fell in thick, whirling sheets as JC steered the G-Evagen onto a deserted snow-covered boulevard and headed toward the tire store. No plows in sight. Not that he would have expected them in Atlanta. The radio tuned to an all-news station broadcast a string of advisories that sounded like those from an Old Testament prophet warning of dire consequences for those who failed to heed the council of officials. Stay off the roads. The all-wheel-drive SUV felt solid and sure-footed on the slick road, but JC knew as the snow continued to accumulate, he'd need something other than the all-terrain tires currently on the vehicle. He no longer pictured himself driving in the South, but mentally transplanted himself into a January nor'easter in Massachusetts.

He arrived at the tire store shortly after 4:00. The building sat cloaked in darkness with no signs of anyone around. The parking lot, frosted over with several inches of snow, supported that notion. The only tire tracks visible belonged to JC's vehicle. He pulled up to the garage doors and let the G-Vagan idle while he fished out his cell phone. Normally patient, he knew each minute counted in his race against the storm. He punched in Thumper's number. No answer. He slammed the phone onto the passenger seat. Ten minutes passed. Fifteen passed. Twenty passed. How long do I wait? His cell phone rang. He yanked it off the seat.

"Thumper."

"Yeah, man. I'm sorry I'm late. I know, but the roads are really greasy. I'm not used to this [ __ ]."

"Okay. Okay. Take it easy and be careful. Have you heard from your friend in Mon?"

"He's on his way, but he says I-75 is like a skating rink. Once he got north of the fall line, things slowed to a crawl. He fell in behind a salt truck and followed it to I-675."

"Where is he now?"

"Glad I didn't try to make it to Min. On the perimeter, east side coming north. He says there's one lane that's pretty clear. You know, ruts down to the pavement, but traffic's only moving about 40 mph."

JC drew in a deep breath and expelled it silently through his mouth. He ran a quick calculation in his head. It could be another 40 or 45 minutes before Thumper's friend arrived with the tires. By the time they were mounted, it would be 5:30. He'd be over an hour behind his planned schedule right out of the starting blocks. Yet, given the storm had already begun, it seemed foolish to try to save time and press on without snow tires.

"All right," JC said. "Tell your bud to keep coming. I'll be here." He killed the engine and watched the snowfall dance in the wind. Thick curtains of white slanted one way and then another, emulating flocks of birds in tightly-knit formations darting across the sky in seemingly random choreography.

JC jerked his head up, startled by a rapping on his window. "Hey man, you okay in there?" JC looked around, grappling for his bearings. He found them quickly. Tire store. Snowstorm. He'd dozed off. He turned and stared into the face of whoever had knocked. A face half hidden in a hoodie. He squinted at it. Thumper.

JC opened the window. "Sorry," he said. "Guess I nodded off."

"Come on, Thumper said. "Let's get inside. Get warm. I'll brew some coffee." In his bulky hoodie, a red University of Georgia version likely pulled on over several shirts, he looked like a dancing bear as he trudged through the falling snow.

"Are the tires here yet?" JC checked his watch, almost five. He stepped out of the G-Vogen and followed Thumper.

"They're about 10 or 15 minutes away," Thumper answered. "My bud Eddie's his name called a few minutes ago. He's on Jimmy Carter Boulevard headed this way."

Twenty minutes lapsed before Eddie arrived, fishtailing through the deserted parking lot in his pickup, partly because he could, mostly because he likely lacked winter driving skills. Thumper and Eddie working together had the Okahamas off and four Michelin ice and snow tires mounted on the SUV in a matter of minutes.

"When do you want I should do with the Yokohamas?" Thumper said.

"Is it okay if I leave them here and come back in a few days and get them remounted?" JC asked.

"Not a problem, Mr. Rigggins." Thumper paused. "You sure you want to set off into this storm? Snow tires and no supposed to be a really bad one, you know."

JC handed Thumper a credit card. "It's not that I want to, it's that I have to."

"Well, be careful, sir." Thumper entered the sale in the store's computer. $900 lighter and 8 ounces of coffee heavier, JC pulled onto Hulcom Bridge Road and headed toward I-85. He had debated whether to use secondary roads or stay on main routes while working his way toward the interstate. He decided his chances of getting through would be better on primary roads. On a two-lane street, if a car spun out or wrecked, it could easily block both lanes. On multi-lane boulevards, there would be more room to navigate around any impediments. Also, he knew primary roads would get priority over others for plowing and salting. Well, priority after the interstates, at least.

The snow fell even more heavily as he crawled east on Hulcom Bridge, then Jimmy Carter. Traffic remained sparse, non-existent over many stretches, and the GV-Vagan churned through the thickening white blanket like a snowcat. The landscape, typically an unattractive tangle of strip malls, fast-food eateries, and gas stations, seemed to morph into something from a quieter, simpler time, whitewashed of the commercial sins begat by urban sprawl and greed. Something perhaps from a 19th-century Currier and Ives winterscape.

JC reached the diverging diamond intersection at Jimmy Carter and I-85 and eased the Mercedes across the overpass, preparing to turn left onto the interstate. Ahead, a police car, blue lights strobing through the snowfall, blocked the entrance ramp to the highway. An officer stepped from the car as JC approached. JC brought the SUV to a stop and cracked open the window.

"Good morning, sir," the officer said. "Out early in bad weather, huh?"

"Earlier than I'd like, officer. Don't tell me the interstate is closed already." Snow quickly coated the police officer's blue watch cap and flight jacket topped by a reflective safety vest. Embroidered on the cap in gold letters, "Gwinnett County Police." The officer ran his gaze over the G-Vogen, and JC wondered if he was being sized up as a Russian mafioso driving a vehicle stuffed with illicit drugs.

"Where are you headed?" the officer asked. Snowflakes clung to his eyebrows like tiny ornaments. Clouds of condensate puffed from his mouth with each word. JC considered the question and decided to keep his destination close-hold until he understood why the ramp was blocked.

"Just up 85 a little way."

The officer stepped closer to the SUV and lowered his head toward the window and out of the biting breeze. "Well, we're going to close the interstate to the South Carolina border about 30 minutes from now. How far are you planning on going?"

"Only as far as Sugarloaf Parkway," JC lied. He had no idea how far that was, but guessed it was close enough to fall safely within a 30-minute travel time.

"Okay," the officer said. "That's only about 10 miles up the road. Even at a creepy-crawly speed, you should make it before we close shop. And it looks like you're well equipped to handle winter driving. Nice wheels." He gave the GVOG an admiring nod.

"Thanks." The officer gave the Mercedes a pat on the roof. "Be careful. You and Mr. Bear have a good day now."

"I'll move my cruiser." JC nodded. Mr. Bear. He glanced at Teddy strapped into the rear seat and smiled. He waved to the officer as he steered the G-Vagan down the ramp. Chunks of snow flying from the winter tires like clouds of dirt from a John Deere at a tractor pull. He assumed nobody would monitor whether he actually exited at Sugarloaf and also assumed no one would expend resources chasing him down on a closed interstate once he got rolling. He'd probably end up in the pokey if he got stuck someplace, but he had no intention of letting that happen. For all intents and purposes, he was on a cannonball run to South Carolina.

On the interstate, he maintained a steady speed, beginning at 30 mph, then increasing to 40 mph, as he became more comfortable with the Mercedes' ability to track unerringly through the snow. The snow itself seemed deep enough to be plowable, but he saw no signs of any such activity. He surmised the plows and salters were biting their time until the interstate was officially closed before launching their counterattack on the winter assault. The 12-lane interstate, normally clogged with morning rush traffic, appeared more like a snow-encrusted ghost town in the pre-dawn darkness. Only a handful of cars and a scattering of 18-wheelers pushed through the intensifying storm. Wind-driven snow slanted through JC's field of vision, and tiny drifts, a product of increasingly strong gusts, began building on the shoulders. Occasionally, tiny haboobs of snow swirled across the highway, creating near white-out conditions.

South of Steve Reynolds Boulevard, an overhead DOT electronic message sign advised, "Blizzard warning, I-85 closed to SC border 7 a.m." JC pressed on, crawling through the tangled I-85 interchange with Highway 316, the route leading to Athens and the University of Georgia. Several cars had spun out, their noses stuck in roadside drifts like a fox after a rabbit gone down its hole. A highway emergency response operator, a hero unit, its orange and red warning flashers challenging the storm, stood guard over one of the stranded vehicles, but there wasn't much assistance that could be rendered until a tow truck showed up.

As JC approached the Sugarloaf Parkway exit, he slowed even more. He momentarily considered playing by the rules, getting off the highway where he said he would, but quickly discarded the notion. He couldn't gamble on the interstate being reopened anytime soon. He had to get to Durham. Besides, a ready-made excuse: a pickup truck had lost traction and become stuck on the looping, climbing exit ramp, blocking the way. In the tried-and-true southern tradition, the driver gunned the engine, certain additional speed would spring him or her from the snowy trap. The effort served only to dig the stalled truck deeper into its gook.

JC continued north on the interstate, maintaining a slow but steady pace. The traffic, what little there was, thinned even more as he passed the I-85, I-985 split. Shortly, he found himself virtually alone on the road, knifing directly into the wind. Despite its nearly 3-ton bulk, the G-Vagan shuddered in the powerful gusts. The highway lane stripes had disappeared, buried by what JC guessed was close to a half foot of snow. Along some stretches of the road, the pavement had been swept almost bare by the wind. But in other spots, the big SUV pounded through drifts already over a foot high. JC couldn't remember how many lanes this part of I-85 had, but guessed it was only two in each direction. He struggled to locate the right edge of the road, but visual cues had disappeared, buried under a white blanket. In an effort to stay on the highway, he slowed even more. At this rate, he fretted, he might not reach Durham until after New Year's.

By late morning, near Commerce, he spotted the first flank of plows in the southbound lanes of I-85. He glanced at his rear-view mirror. Still nothing on the northbound side. He continued to push ahead, the lone vehicle on the road. Perhaps it was best he didn't encounter any snow removal equipment. The drivers might report him to police, and that could spell the end of his journey. He judged now he had only a few more miles to the South Carolina border. Of course, he had no idea if I-85 in that state would be open legally, but his luck seemed destined to run out before he reached the state line.

Ahead, looming out of the gray-white bleakness of the snow, now flying almost horizontally, appeared the flashing lights of a police cruiser parked on an entrance lane to a way station. An officer, wearing a Smokey Bear hat, tilted low over his eyes, emerged from the car and motioned for JC to pull over. He did, his gut feeling as though a rat were gnawing at it from the inside out. As he neared the cruiser, he could see "Georgia State Patrol" emblazoned in large orange letters on its doors. Several inches of snow caked its roof. It had been here a while. As JC pulled to a stop, the outline of another vehicle, a small civilian model of some sort, materialized out of the gloom in front of the cruiser. He focused on the trooper as the man waited through the snow toward the G-Vagan. JC slid the window down and swallowed hard. The trooper, rough-looking, unshaven, and red-eyed. A long night perhaps, gave JC a withering stare.

"Roads closed, partner. What are you doing out here?" He leaned against the side of the Mercedes as though seeking support.

"Emergency," JC said. "I have to get some medical supplies to South Carolina." Another little lie. Okay, maybe not so little.

"Yeah, well, the interstate's closed in South Carolina, too. Could I see your driver's license, please?" JC retrieved the license from his wallet and handed it to the trooper. The officer studied it, then handed it back. "You're out here illegally, Mr. Riggins." He paused. "We need to rectify that."

With those words, all hope of saving American International's future, his job, and Cole's finely tuned medical status quo seemed to evaporate. A puff of icy wind flung a tiny tornado of snowflakes into the SUV.

Chapter 13. Second Chances. Windy Hill Towers. Thursday morning, December 29th. Tom Prris, sipping a cup of lukewarm coffee, stared out his condo window into a dull white void. Through the fog and snow that whipped around the building, only amorphous forms could be made out 17 stories below, creeping across a colorless tundra. It seemed more like a scene of a Siberian winter rather than one in the American South. Single lines of traffic snaked over the snow-covered and normally clogged lanes of the I-285/I-75 interchange. Most people, it seemed, had heeded the warnings not to venture out.

In the background, Tom's TV broadcast an endless string of headlines and advisories. Hartsfield-Jackson was closed until further notice. Delta Airlines alone had canceled over 1,000 flights, both departures and arrivals. Air travel over most of the country, but the eastern seaboard in particular, was spiraling toward chaos. Despite an early warning of the airport's closure, hundreds of travelers, maybe over a thousand, still found themselves prisoners in a facility that likely would run short of food before the end of the day. People were urged to remain wherever they were. Every effort, a breathless newscaster announced, was being expended to keep at least one lane open each way on the perimeter. Ditto for I-20, I-75, and I-85 through the city and Georgia 400, the expressway north. But one DOT official conceded it might be a losing battle. Even though the metro area had beefed up its snow and ice removal strike force in the wake of a crippling 2011 snowstorm, the fury of a full-blown blizzard might be too much to overcome. The litany of challenges continued outside the metro area. The unprecedented act of closing I-85 northeast to South Carolina, I-75 north to Tennessee, and I-20 west to Alabama had been undertaken. In the face of a blizzard of historic proportions, the plan was to take preemptive action in an attempt to keep plows moving on the interstates in hope of quickly reopening them once the storm slackened.

Tom turned from the window and walked to the kitchen. The faint odor of yesterday's deceased pizza assaulted his sense of smell. Also hanging in the air were vapors from the watery detritus of last night's Jack Daniels stagnating at the bottom of a rocks glass. Tom found his appetite for breakfast abruptly DOA. He peered into his refrigerator hoping to find some orange juice. The only liquids in residence proved to be a carton of spoiled milk adding to his olfactory miasma, a six-pack of Kors, and a half-empty bottle of Columbia Valley Riesling. "[ __ ]" he muttered and slammed the door.

Stormy weather chimed. He tracked the source to his bedroom and pulled his cell phone from beneath a stack of dirty clothes. "Tom Pris," he said. "Hey, Junior, where in the hell are you? We're about to turn into Buffalo, New York, and you're sleeping in."

"We already had this conversation, L. I was given the week off, remember?"

">> Well, the dragon lady wishes you to be dragging your ass in here now. Only two people in our fearless female furer have managed to get into work this morning. We're desperate for slave labor."

Tom sat on his bed. "You're her mouthpiece now. Let her tell me."

Alex expelled a long breath. "Sure, hold on. I'll find her." Heavy, labored breathing followed as Al began his search. "Hey," he said between deep inhalations. "I got an idea. I'll tell her she doesn't even have to order you back on the job. All you want is tit for tat." He broke into a wheezing, hacking laugh that sounded on the edge of strangulation.

"L Have you ever seen a psychiatrist?" Tom said. "I think you're some kind of sexual deviant with repressed desires." He rose from the bed and strode back to the living room.

"At my age, Sunny, there's nothing left to repress," Al rasped. "Oops, hold on. My infrared sensors detected her highness in the immediate vicinity." There came a muffled exchange of voices, then Sophie.

"Tom, we could use your help in here."

">> I thought I was on a leave of absence." He struggled to keep his frustration in check, to keep his voice on an even keel.

">> It seemed like a good idea at the time. We can still do it later if you'd like."

">> No, I wouldn't like."

">> Good. Come on in."

">> So, you agree our differences were more a matter of semantics than anything?"

">> No. Damn it, I don't." Sophie shot back. "Don't you faking get it? Sometimes your scientifically based conservatism or circumspection or whatever in the hell it is just doesn't cut it. You got to tell the people what's going to happen without being all wishy-washy about it and maybe blow trumpets and beat drums to get their attention."

Tom drew a deep, measured breath and remained silent. In truth, he wanted to be at work dealing with what would undoubtedly go down as one of the great storms of the 21st century. But he didn't need the mandrang of dealing with Sophie. Still, ironically, he did want to see her again, curious to discover if their pseudosexual encounter in her office was a one-off flirtation or an invitation to be her lover. Uncertainty raged within him.

"Tom, I'm on my way." After the call, Tom stared out into the wintry fury whipping the city. He had to admit he'd been summoned by a Laureli, the mythical siren on a rock in the Rhine who lured sailors to their destruction. But, and he hated to cop a plea to this, deep down he savored it. He slogged a quarter mile through ankle-deep snow to ANY TV headquarters, the wind hurling flank after flank of stinging crystals into his face. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the glass doors of the facility as he entered. His nose and cheeks looked as though they had suffered the consequence of falling asleep in bright sunshine on the shimmering sands of Panama City Beach, Florida.

"Wow, Mr. Press." The security officer at the front desk said, "You look like Santa might have if his sleigh had broken down in Siberia."

"Feelin' that way, too," Tom mumbled through numbed lips. He brushed snow off his ski hat and parka and swiped his ID card through the reader. He took the elevator to the fifth-floor operations center where he found Sophie and Al waiting for him.

"Thank you, Tom," Sophie said, but nothing more. In those few words, he sensed an electric charge, a strong current running both ways. Al remained quiet, his gaze drifting from Sophie to Tom and back again. He appeared to sense something between the two, but perhaps couldn't quite decipher it.

"Come on, El, let's get busy," Tom said. They walked together toward the forecast center.

"Hey, what's with you two?" Al asked. "Something's going on, isn't it? Maybe a little afternoon delight." He nudged Tom with his elbow. "How about it, Junior?"

"You really do need to visit a counselor," Tom muttered.

When they reached the forecast center, they found Don Hemphill, the Atlanta Journal-Constitution reporter, seated at a table writing on his iPad. Only two forecasters, half the usual compliment, busied themselves at workstations.

"Well, I can see why I was recalled to active duty," Tom said. He turned to Al. "How about bringing me up to speed on the situation if you can drag your thoughts away from your harlequin novel for a few minutes?"

Al grunted, issued a muted hack, and motioned for Tom to follow him to a wall of large-screen computer monitors. "The primary surface low," he said, pointing, "is sliding northeastward from the Gulf of Mexico toward the Jacksonville, St. Simon's Island area. The rain-snow line extends from extreme southeast Alabama to near Columbia, South Carolina. Just south of that, there's a narrow band of freezing rain."

"Nasty snowfall rates?" Tom asked.

"The onentrophic lift is near its maximum now over northern Georgia and upstate South Carolina. So they're picking up on the order of an inch an hour." He'll moved to where Tom and El stood. "Excuse me."

"He said ontropic lift?" Tom smiled. "Weatherman talk for lift created by a warm front. In this case, there's a lot of lift." He gestured at the map on the monitor. "We've got warm, juicy air from the Gulf of Mexico and off the Atlantic being sucked in by our strengthening storm. That air is being hurled up and over a rock-solid mound of very cold air parked over the Piedmont. Bingo. Heavy snow. Something we don't often see in the Southeast."

Hemphill drew diagrams and typed notes on his iPad, trying to keep up with Tom's explanations. "So," he said as he continued to draw and type. "The heaviest snow is occurring right now."

Tom looked at Al, flashing him a tacit sign to take over the briefing. "Sort of," Al said. "At least for the immediate future."

"Meaning?" Hemphill asked.

"Meaning the snowfall rate should taper off this afternoon as the storm continues to press northeastward. But I'm thinking that later tonight and early tomorrow we'll be underneath a comma head here in North Georgia."

"What?" Hemp Hill asked, clearly puzzled.

"Comma-head cloud. It's a feature that on satellite imagery looks like a big old comma. It occurs near the upper-level storm center where the air can be very unstable and the precipitation quite heavy. Sometimes you get thunder snow in a comma head."

">> So what you're telling me?" Hemphill said, "Is it the storm center aloft lags behind the storm center at the surface?"

"You should have been an atmospheric scientist," Al said. "Yes, you're right. And you said the snowfall will taper off later today and pick up again tonight?" Hemphill asked.

"The snow might even end for a while," El answered. "Often there's what we call a dry slot, a tongue of dry air that develops between the warm frontal snow and the comma head."

"So, you want to summarize the sequence of events you foresee for Atlanta?" Tom asked.

Al rubbed his chin and cleared his throat before answering. "I think we'll see the snow taper off this afternoon. Maybe just to occasional light stuff, then pick up again late tonight or early tomorrow morning."

"Amounts," Tom said. This had always been the thorny issue between him and Al.

"Well, we've already got six or seven inches on the ground, so probably another four or five before it peters out this afternoon. And after that, wham, bam, thank you, ma'am, with the comma head." Hempale typed rapidly on his iPad. Tom touched him on the arm. "You don't need to quote that verbatim," he suggested.

"So, how much, wham, bam?" Hemphill asked, a slight smile on his lips.

"Probably another 8 to 10 in." Hemphill whistled softly.

"And don't forget the winds," Al said. "The worst is yet to come with the storm still deepening."

"Drifts?" Hemphill asked.

"Big time," Al answered.

">> How big?"

"You don't need to quote me directly on this either, but how about [ __ ] deep to a giraffe?" Tom rolled his eyes. "He isn't one of us," he said, inclining his head toward Al.

Hemphill laughed. "So noted. Let me put it this way, then." Al responded. "A lot of folks in Atlanta will get up tomorrow morning and won't be able to see out their sliding glass doors onto their decks."

Near Leavonia, Georgia. Thursday, midday, December 29th. "We can't have non-emergency vehicles out here on the interstate hindering snow removal crews during a storm," the trooper said. To JC, the statement seemed disingenuous. "I haven't seen a plow."

The officer held his forefinger to his lips. "Let me do the talking, sir." JC nodded. "Maybe we can help each other out. Sir, the transmission on my cruiser seized up. I'm stuck. I radioed for help, but every single one of our troopers is on a call right now. Accidents galore on secondary roads, and it might be hours before a tow truck could be dispatched." The officer's eyes flickered, and he issued a barely audible gasp. "You okay, sir?"

"Fine. Just cold from waiting out here. Look, here's the deal. You give me a lift back to Post Headquarters in Takcoa and we'll call it even. Call it even. You drop me off, then go your way. Just not on the interstate. No ticket, no citation, no warning, just you being a helpful citizen. How about it?"

"How far is Takcoa?"

"About 10 miles north on Route 17. Maybe 25, 30 minutes in this weather."

JC pondered the trooper's offer, though there really wasn't much to consider. It was, in fact, a no-brainer. He'd been caught driving illegally on the interstate, but had just been thrown a lifeline. Strange, but welcomed.

"Let's go," he said.

"Good. I appreciate your help. Hold on a second." The officer trudged to the cruiser, opened the back door, and pulled out what looked like an aluminum attaché case. He returned to the SUV and yanked open the passenger side door. A mini snow slide cascaded from his hat as he lowered himself gingerly, it seemed, onto the seat beside JC. "Oops," he said. He rolled slightly to one side and reached underneath himself. He pulled out the thermos of coffee JC had placed on the seat before leaving Atlanta. "Feel for the trip?" the trooper asked. "Hot coffee?" The cop set the thermos in the floor well and tossed the attaché case into the rear of the G-Vogen. He appeared to do a double-take, then suppressed a chuckle. "You got a teddy bear riding shotgun?"

JC shrugged. "Never know when you might run into a bad guy." The officer flashed JC an easy smile. "No, you never know."

"Don't you need to lock up the cruiser or anything?" JC asked.

"Like, who's going to bother in the middle of a snowstorm?" The trooper removed his hat and set it on the dash. "Just pull straight ahead through the way station back onto the interstate." He leaned his head against the headrest and closed his eyes.

"Where do I exit?"

"About a mile up the road," the trooper said without opening his eyes.

JC eased the G-Vagan forward through the storm, the snow almost blinding now, hurtling through the air parallel to the ground. He passed the cruiser, then the car parked in front of it. He glanced at it as he went by. "Hey," he said. "What happened to that car? It looks like its back windows blown out."

"It's a derelict," the officer said. "Been there for some time."

"What? You just let a car sit abandoned on an entrance ramp to a way station?"

Chapter 14. Trooper McCracken. On the road to TCOA, Georgia, Thursday, midday, December 29th. The G-Vagan lost traction, but only briefly, coming up the unplowed exit ramp from I-85 to State Route 17, the road to Takcoa. JC turned left on 17 and crawled northward, maintaining a steady speed of about 30 mph. Occasionally, a vehicle, an SUV or pickup, passed him going the opposite direction. The shoulder of the highway had disappeared beneath an ever-thickening quilt of snow, but JC managed to follow old tracks filling with snow, but still vaguely discernible in the northbound lane. The surrounding countryside, dramatic and indistinct, and fuzzy tones of gray and white, appeared to be gently rolling farmland. The deep South, yes, but now encrusted in a frozen mantle, it could have passed for a bleak winter landscape in New England or the upper Midwest.

"How much farther?" JC asked, glancing at his semi-slumbering passenger.

"Just keep going." The trooper didn't bother to open his eyes. Not much of a conversationalist. JC tried to spot a road sign with a mileage to Takcoa on it, but most of the signs were plastered with snow and unreadable. He gripped the steering wheel and plowed on, an achy numbness working its way across his shoulders, manifest tension from driving on snow-packed roads. He decided to try again to initiate a conversation with the patrolman.

"I'm Jonathan Riggins, officer." But he felt foolish as soon as the words came out of his mouth. The cop, of course, already knew that.

"Trooper, I'm a trooper, not an officer." The man opened his eyes. "Trooper McCracken. I appreciate your help, Mr. Riggins." He checked his wristwatch and peered into the storm, perhaps trying to spot a familiar landmark. He shook his head. "Hard to tell where we are, but I'm guessing maybe another 20 minutes." He shifted in his seat, a slight movement, and grunted in apparent discomfort. "Been a tough morning, you know, with a cruiser crapping out and all." He surveyed the interior of the G-Vagan. "Nice wheels, new a loner. How do I explain that? Mine's in the shop for a few days. The dealership thought I should have something that would get me through the snow."

McCracken eased himself into a more upright position. "Well, it does a good job. Maybe the state patrol should invest in a few of these things." Hardly in the state's budget, JC thought, but didn't verbalize it. He glanced at McCracken. The man certainly didn't appear to be the archetype of a state trooper. Sporting shoulder-length hair, thick eyebrows, and a prominent forehead, he had an almost Neanderthal look. Yet his voice belied that. He spoke without an accent and came across as educated and assured. At least those characteristics would seem to fit the profile of what the state might like in a patrolman. JC attempted to come to grips with why the trooper had been at the way station in the storm. It just seemed so strange, but no ready answer came to mind. He gave up trying to analyze the situation and instead focused on driving, in and of itself a demanding challenge.

They rode in silence for several minutes. Then, in the middle distance, through the thin, dim light of the falling and drifting snow, flashing blue lights loomed. A Georgia State Patrol vehicle approaching from the north. "Look," JC said, nodding his head at the windshield. "You want to flag him down?"

"No, keep going." McCracken reached inside his parka as if to retrieve something, but didn't bring his hand back out. "They're on a call. Besides, we're almost to the post. Less than a minute later, a second police car, "Sheriff Stevens County," emblazoned on the side, raced by, heading south.

"Busy morning," JC said. He glanced at his passenger. "Lot of accidents." McCracken twisted in his seat to watch the sheriff's car disappear into the falling snow.

JC reached an intersection where a divided highway teed into Route 17 from the left. "Take a left here," McCracken said. JC looked at him. "It's the Takcoa bypass. I thought the post was in Takcoa."

"It is on the west side of town. This is a shortcut." The Kraken's right hand remained inside his parka. A ripple of unease shot through JC. Things weren't fitting together. A state trooper in distress with no help from his compatriots, a guy who instead calls on a civilian for assistance, and an abandoned car sitting on a ramp of a commercial way station. Surely there'd been ample time to move it before the snowstorm hit. Another thought sprang into JC's head. Why hadn't the trooper radioed that he was returning to the post with the help of a good Samaritan? Something he could have done either from the cruiser or by using one of those ubiquitous shoulder mics. Despite the warmth from the G-Vagan's heater blasting through the vehicle, a cold sweat seeped over JC's skin.

JC fumbled for his cell phone. "What are you doing?" McCracken asked, an icy edge to his words.

JC sucked in a lung full of air and steadied his voice. "Thought I'd call 911 and let them know I'm bringing a state trooper into Takcoa."

"That's not a good idea." The phrase came out hard and biting, as though from a teacher disciplining an unruly child. JC paused with his thumb hovering over the keys. He looked at McCracken, if that's what his name really was, and saw something dark in the man's eyes, not exactly evil, but certainly foreboding. He placed the phone on the center console.

"Good," McCracken said. "I know you're just trying to be helpful, Mr. Riggins, but what I said earlier still applies. The guys are tied up with emergency calls. Real emergencies. We don't need to clutter the switchboard with dudly dog good stuff."

"Okay." JC nodded. "Well, we must be almost there anyway."

"Yeah, we're almost there." McCracken peered out the windshield into the flannel morning streaked with thick wind-whipped snow. "You handle this stuff like a pro. Where'd you grow up?"

"Snow country, I'll bet."

"New England, Massachusetts." JC paused, suddenly not wanting to engage his passenger in conversation. On the other hand, he decided it might be better to find out as much as he could about him, whoever he was. "And you?"

"Eastern Kentucky, the coal fields. I was born in a town called Louisa." He winced, an almost imperceptible reaction as he wriggled himself into a more upright position on the seat. "Where over 30% of the population lives below the poverty line?"

"Good reason to leave."

"When did you join the state patrol?"

"If you did."

"Few years ago." Vague. The G-Vagan shook as a blast of wind smacked it broadside. Snow swirled around the SUV, encasing it in a bleak embrace. For a moment, it was as if nothing else existed, save for the two men, the vehicle, and the storm. JC imagined them trapped in their own little snow globe universe. He glanced at the speedometer around 20 mph, barely moving.

"So, you left Kentucky and came to Georgia?"

"Not directly. I spent a couple of years in college at Appalachian State, but oh, I don't know." His voice trailed off.

"But what?" JC wanted to keep McCracken talking. It didn't matter if the guy was spouting [ __ ]. All he wanted to do was establish a connection with him just in case. "I never felt I fit in there. Even though I aced most my courses, I always sensed I was viewed as being lowercased. Maybe because of where I came from. Besides that, I didn't know what I wanted to be, what I wanted to do with my life. So eventually, I just bailed out and bummed around for about a year. Florida, Mississippi, Texas. Got into some minor trouble, then decided to clean up my act. That's when I put in an application with the state patrol. Paid off, huh?" JC noticed that McCracken still hadn't removed his hand from inside his parka.

"Yeah, I guess. I guess." JC checked the time. They'd been driving for about 15 minutes. He calculated they must have traveled 5 miles. Surely they'd reached the western edge of Takcoa. It wasn't exactly a sprawling metropolis.

"It must be about time to turn," he said.

McCracken rocked forward in his seat. "Jesus," he said, the word threaded with pain. "What? I'm hurt." He pulled his hand from his parka, smearing blood across the garment as he did.

"Oh man. Oh man. You need a doctor. How far are we from a hospital?"

"No. No hospital. Keep driving. Keep driving."

"What the hell do you mean?"

"Aren't we going to Takcoa?" Even before JC asked the question, he knew the answer. Knew his passenger wasn't a cop. Knew they weren't going to Takcoa. He'd harbored the suspicion earlier, but didn't want to nurture it. Light-headedness swarmed over him. Fear, he supposed. He tipped his head down to keep from fainting, but just as abruptly as the feeling had surged through him, it passed. Or maybe he willed it to pass. He snapped his head up and forced himself to focus on his dilemma, to analyze where he stood. He had a wounded man as a passenger. The guy wasn't in good shape. He, JC, remained in control of the situation. He had the vehicle. He would determine where they went. He would not be deterred from his broader mission to reach Durham, North Carolina, for his son's sake, if nothing else.

What looked to be a major intersection loomed out of the swirling snow. JC slowed the J-Van and prepared to turn right, the direction in which Takcoa should lie.

"What are you doing?" McCracken asked, his words razored with an undertone of malice.

"Going to Takcoa," JC answered, new resolve in his voice. He ignored McCracken's, or whoever he was, implicit threat.

"No, you're not." McCracken reached beneath his parka with his bloody right hand. He withdrew it. This time holding a black, large-caliber automatic pistol. Something a police officer would carry. Something that put McCracken, not JC, in control.

Chapter 15. Intimidation. The Natural Environment Television Network. Thursday, midday, December 29th. Sophie strolled into the forecast center shortly afternoon and seated herself at an empty workspace next to Tom. Tom, busy examining the latest numerical model outputs, didn't acknowledge her. She sat in silence for a minute, then said, her voice low, "I suppose you've got your knickers in a twist about the other day at my office."

">> I don't wear knickers."

">> It's a metaphor."

"Yes, Sophie, I know." She leaned closer to him, not violating any amorphous personal boundaries, but near enough that he caught the freshness of her breath. Her demeanor exuded a coolness that seemed to match the weather. "It wasn't an accident," she said.

He nodded. "But it won't happen again, at least at work." He nodded once more, at a loss for an intelligent response. He always felt as if he were tiptoeing along a tightrope whenever he dealt with Sophie. For the moment, he decided to let her take the lead and march off in whatever direction she wished.

"So, here's what I'm wondering," Sophie said. "Now that our focus has returned to business, why can't you just admit, at least in this instance, I was right?" She leaned back, gesturing at the window, and sang softly, "Let it snow. Let it snow. Let it snow." She ended her little serenade with a smile.

Tom grimaced, at least inwardly. He forced himself to analyze the situation, what had taken place over the

Last week, and decided it might be wise to at least partially capitulate. "In this particular situation," he said, choosing his words carefully. "Your decision to headline the threat of a major snowstorm was correct. I salute you for that."

But, she said, "I know there's a butt coming."

He sucked in a silent breath. "But given similar circumstances in the future, I'd stand by my conservative guns." Again, she made a declarative statement sound like an interrogative. "I think we got lucky on this storm. In the long run, and admittedly it might be quite a long run, given we have so few winter storm threats here, my approach would prove the wisest."

Sophie clenched her lips, the pipe-sucking expression Tom had seen so often. He knew he'd best be ready to duck and cover. "Jesus, you're hard-headed," she said. Her words rang with contemptuousness. "And you're not," he snapped. "I deal with the reality of situations." "So do I. Not my reality. You don't."

He massaged his temples with his thumb and forefinger. As often in the past, their conversations had deteriorated into open hostility. His partial concession obviously hadn't been enough for his boss. Without thinking, a gut reaction, he allowed his lips to form the word [ __ ] though he checked himself from verbalizing it.

"Sophie." A red tide of anger rising in her face sprang from her chair. "That, my friend, is how you lose your job."

"What the hell do you mean?" He stood to face her. "You think I can't read lips?" She shouted. "What you can't read is my mind." He paused a beat. "I didn't say anything."

She attempted to stare him down, but he refused to cowtow to her icy gaze. After several moments, she wheeled and stalked from the room.

Tom felt a hand on his shoulder. Al stood by his side, shaking his head. "Well, they say faint heart never won fair lady, but you may have gone overboard there."

Tom pulled away from hell. "Fair lady, [ __ ] And what in the hell makes you think I'm trying to win anything? I'm old, Junior. Not senile or unobservant. Just because the last erection I had was building a treehouse for my grandson doesn't mean I can't sense sexual chemistry. For God's sake, Al, will you drop it?" Tom said, raising his voice. "Once and for all."

Hemp Hill appeared. "Is there a subtext I'm missing here?"

"No," Tom growled.

Al grinned. "An elderly elf. Yes, but not one you'd be wise to write about."

Northeast Georgia. Thursday, midday, December 29th. JC, his heart thumping like a hydraulic jackhammer, stared at the pistol held by his passenger. "Best keep your eyes on the road," McCracken said.

JC flicked the steering wheel to the left as the G-wagen veered off course, chewing through thick snow along the right edge of the road. The edge seemed only nominal, buried as it was under a mantle of solid white.

JC, his chest heaving, drew in a series of deep breaths. He found himself unable to think, unable to articulate some sort of response to the abrupt shift in his situation. He flinched when his cell phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID, Jenny. He'd forgotten he'd promised to call her once an hour. "It's my wife," he said. McCracken nodded. "Play it straight." He rested the gun in his lap.

JC answered the call. "Hi, honey. I'm sorry. I know I said I'd call, but once I got going, I just got totally focused on pushing through the storm. I apologize. Mayalpa."

"But you're okay. You had me worried." A tone of admonishment colored her words. "I'm fine. I'm somewhere near I'm almost at the South Carolina border." McCracken bobbed his head in approval.

"The roads are bad?" Jinny asked. "Very bad. I'm not even supposed to be out here. But you're moving slowly. Okay, good. But please, please, please stay in touch. I know it's tough out there, but I'm stressed, too."

"If only you knew. I'll call Jenny, but it might be another couple of hours before I can get back to you. Everything's fine. Love you. Give my love to Cole, too."

They disconnected the call and JC placed his cell back on the console. "Who's Cole?" McCracken asked. "My son."

"Nice to have a family." "It is. Do you?"

"Let's not get too buddy-buddy, Mr. Wiggins." McCracken waggled the pistol at the windshield. "Let's just press on. That's what would make me happiest at the moment. And you, too."

"Why me?"

"Let me put it another way. That's what'll keep you alive."

"Oh."

The snowblown landscape grew indistinct and wavy, and JC sensed himself beginning to levitate or float as though some sort of out-of-body experience were coming on. A push on his shoulder snapped him back to the moment, back to reality. "Hey, hey, hey. I didn't mean to cause you to lose it, buddy." McCracken tucked the gun back inside his parka and raised his hands. "Look, Ma, no Glock."

The blood pumped back into JC's head and he settled down, refocused. "Who are you really? And where are we going?"

"McCracken's my real name, but I'm not a cop. Duh." JC held a steady pace, albeit a plodding one, through the storm. The road had grown virtually indistinguishable from the surrounding landscape. The only thing that marked the highway now was a pair of old tire tracks in the outside lane, rapidly disappearing beneath the blowing and drifting snow.

"Where are we headed?" "I like that, Mr. Rigggins. Your use of the first person plural 'we.' You're on board then. On board with a program."

"What program?"

"Jesus, is that all you can do? Answer a question with a question?" He grunted softly and blinked.

JC looked over. "How bad?" "I'll live." JC recalled the abandoned car, the blown-out back window. Had there been a shootout? "You're shot?" "Yes, I'm shot."

"You were in a gunfight with a cop, man."

"The questions just keep on coming." "Why shouldn't I have questions? I'm the one being carjacked here."

"Carjacked. You volunteered to help." "Okay, I volunteered. My volunteerism has a limited tenure."

"You think?" McCracken's words rang with intimidation.

A plow, the first one JC had seen since leaving the interstate, approached from the north. He considered swerving in front of it, a desperate measure to end his predicament, but decided against it. It wouldn't be a wise move when he had no idea what lay beneath the snow in the median, when his passenger possessed a gun, and when the plow, even if the Mercedes could make it across the divide, might be unable to stop in time.

"Look, just tell me where we're going. I'll get you there, then be on my way. Not to try to one-up you, but I'm on the clock to get to where I'm going."

"A matter of life and death, no doubt."

"Sarcasm. Yes. As a matter of fact, try me." JC did, telling him about Cole, the leukemia, the trips to MD Anderson, the possibility of a stem cell transplant, his screw-up with the proposal, his determination to get the document to Durham. After he'd finished, McCracken stared at him as if trying to evaluate the veracity of the narrative. "Assuming you aren't jerking me around, that's a gut-wrenching story."

"It's true," JC mumbled. "We all live pretty [ __ ] up lives, don't we?"

"Do we? So, what's your story?" JC decided to continue trying to develop a rapport with McCracken. After all, he was the guy with the firepower, the guy in control. "You really want to know?" "Sure. I mean, it's either that or listen to Rush Limbaugh."

"Is that a joke?" "I mean, I like Rush." He looked out the window, perhaps trying to gauge where they were. "Just keep driving. Forget the conversation."

"And if I don't," JC said, feeling suddenly emboldened for no rational reason. "Don't want." The words came out accompanied by a slight grunt of discomfort. "Don't keep driving. Just stop the vehicle."

The Kraken pulled out the Glock again. "Want to try it?"

JC swallowed hard and slowed the G-wagen. Despite every conscious thought in his head telling him not to, there remained one little voice saying, "Call this guy's bluff." McCracken smiled, a wolfish grin, lifted the gun, pointed it toward the back seat, and pulled the trigger. An explosive percussion deadened JC's hearing. A fog of cloth, cotton, and dust swirled through the vehicle's interior. JC swiveled his head and looked at the rear seat. "Jesus, you shot Teddy."

McCracken shifted his aim, pointed the Glock at JC.

Chapter 16, Caveman. Northeast Georgia. Thursday afternoon, December 29th. Teddy, his head slumped forward, seemed to be gazing with his single button eye at his now half-missing chest and wondering what had happened. McCracken prodded JC on the shoulder with a pistol. "Get my point."

In response, JC increased his speed slightly and kept the G-wagen moving. "Good," McCracken said. "You know, stuffed animals are a hell of a lot less messy than humans. Can you just imagine the blood spatter you would have?"

"I get your point," JC snapped. He gripped the steering wheel with a fierceness born of fear. "Anyhow," McCracken continued. "Sorry about your buddy, Teddy. He's my son's buddy. Cole sent him along as a guardian angel." The Kraken made a show of studying Teddy. "At least what was left of him. Kind of [ __ ] up that job, didn't he?"

"Like I said, you made your point, Mr. McCracken. You can call me Butch." He moved the gun back to his lap. "I'm caveman to my friends, but we can keep it at Butch."

JC peered straight ahead into the flying snow, a blurry world of gray-white streakiness. He could see only a matter of yards down the road. He may as well have been on the Mass Pike as on a road in rural Georgia. Yet here he was, somewhere in the deep South, mushing through a blizzard with a trigger-happy, wounded nutcase nicknamed Caveman, who actually bore some resemblance to a Neanderthal. "What do you want from me?" JC asked, forcing his voice not to quaver.

"Cliance."

"Could you be more specific?" McCracken drew a long, slow breath and stared out into the storm. "I want just what you're doing. Driving me to safety."

"Where? How far?"

"Look, the story I told you wasn't [ __ ] I have to get to Durham. If you don't believe me, the document I have to deliver is in boxes in the back." He inclined his head toward the rear of the SUV. "You're welcome to take a look at it."

"It's not that I doubt you, Mr. Rigggins. It's that I just don't care. Your priorities aren't mine. We're going where I want to go."

"What happens after that?" "We'll see. We'll see."

JC's heart raced, his chest tightened. "We'll see." Not exactly reassuring words from a guy with a gun who may have shot a Georgia state trooper. If that was the case, there was no way McCracken was just going to let him go, even if he delivered McCracken to wherever he was headed. JC hadn't wanted to admit it earlier, but realized now how dire his situation had become, morphing into something he might not survive. Images of Cole and Jinny flashed through his mind. Focus on them. Let them be my reason for being, my reason for acting. He willed himself out of the equation, removing his self-centered fear and replaced it with concern for his family. He concentrated on studying his breathing. After several moments, his heart rate settled and his chest muscles relaxed. He'd do what he had to, whatever it took to get him and the proposal to Durham. For Cole, for Jinny. That seemed a purpose worth living for. A purpose worth dying for, too. Damn the Kraken. Damn the blizzard.

The Natural Environment Television Network. Late Thursday afternoon, December 29th. Tom, Al Hemphill, and a couple of other employees gathered in front of a TV monitor in the forecast center as a special news bulletin came on. A local reporter, a middle-aged veteran whom Tom had seen before, but whose name escaped him, stood in the storm on the shoulder of an interstate highway. Behind him, a long line of 18-wheelers idled in the right-hand lane, their exhaust streams flattening in the wind, mixing with the blinding snow.

"I'm standing on the edge of I-285 north on the east side of Atlanta," the reporter said, using one hand to hold his hat in place against the wind. "As you can see, traffic is basically stopped. Interstate truckers along with a few cars have been unable to move because of the closures of I-75 and I-85 north out of Atlanta. All of the vehicles you see stuck here came into the city from the south on I-75 or 85 or from the west or east on I-20. Now they're unable to continue their journeys north."

The camera panned to a shot of a plow pushing through the snow in the lane adjacent to the stalled vehicles, mostly semis and tankers. "As you can see," the reporter continued, "the DOT is working hard in an attempt to keep at least one lane of I-285 passable for emergency vehicles, which, by the way, is the only traffic allowed out here. Now, there is mounting concern for the drivers of these stalled vehicles, and the governor is considering activating the National Guard in an effort to ferry those trapped to nearby motels or shelters." The camera zoomed in on the reporter. "But the highways," he said, "aren't the only places where we have travelers in trouble. Let's go to Willie Edertton at Hartsfield-Jackson Airport."

The shot switched to a reporter standing outside the south terminal of the airport. "Thanks, Ron. Willie said, "Yes, there's trouble at the airport, too, where all arrivals and departures, over 2,500 of them, have been cancelled today. Needless to say, with this being the busiest airport in the world in terms of travelers, the cancellations have disrupted air traffic globally. And with a shutdown expected to continue into tomorrow, a mess that could take a week or two to untangle will grow worse. Normally during the holiday season, over a quarter of a million passengers stream through Hartsfield-Jackson daily. Today, the usually bustling ramps give the airport, at least from the outside, the appearance of a snow-covered ghost town somewhere in Siberia." Willie smiled, a set of alabaster teeth showing against a flawless ebony complexion. "Despite all the advanced warnings, however," Willie went on, "there are people, travelers, stuck here. Airport officials estimate about 2,000 folks are going to be long-term and probably somewhat unhappy guests of Hartsfield-Jackson for at least another day, if not longer. My colleague Gron mentioned a few moments ago that the governor is considering activating certain elements of the National Guard. Another reason that contingency is being evaluated is to provide a means to get some of the necessities of life. Food, water, cots, blankets to those trapped at the airport. In the meantime, blizzard-like conditions are expected to persist."

Al shouted, drowning out Willie the reporter. "He didn't really say that, did he?"

One of the forecasters muted the TV. "Didn't say what?" Hempill asked.

"Blizzard-like," Al answered. The words came out raspy like a semi-snort. A drop of something squirted from his nose. He wiped it with the back of his hand.

"What's wrong with blizzard-like?" Hemphill said. He held his iPad at the ready.

"There's no such thing."

"What do you mean?" Tom inserted himself into the conversation. "Blizzard, at least in the meteorological world, has a strict definition. So, you either have blizzard conditions or you don't. Near-blizzard is fine, but phrases like blizzard-like or blizzardy are crap. They could mean anything."

"To a weather guy," Al said, "hearing 'blizzard-like' is akin to listening to fingernails screeching across a blackboard or green board or whatever they use these days."

"So, a blizzard technically is what?" Hempill asked.

"I don't recall the exact wording," Al responded. "But a true blizzard requires winds of 35 mph or more with falling or blowing snow reducing visibilities to a quarter-mile or less for at least 3 hours."

Hemp Hill typed on his iPad. "So, the amount of snowfall has nothing to do with whether a storm is a blizzard or not."

"Strictly speaking, that's correct," Tom said. "You can have blizzard conditions, what most folks would call a ground blizzard, without any snowfall at all. As long as the winds are howling and the visibility is shot to hell, it's a blizzard."

"Temperatures don't have any bearing?"

"They used to, but no longer. Way back when, you can ask Al when there used to be criteria for a severe blizzard that included temperatures of 10° or lower."

"Don't ask me when," Al said. "Half the time I can't even remember whether I'm coming or going." He squinted his eyes in an apparent thoughtful pose. "No, strike that. I haven't come in years, and these days I seem to be going all the time."

"You poor man," Sophie said. She had appeared silently at the edge of the group. Al's face turned the color of an inflamed beet. "Sorry, I thought you were among men," Sophie said. "That's all right. Just consider me one of the guys." She gave Tom a pointed look as if to say, "I know you don't." Tom smiled at her. His earlier eye had semi-evaporated, but still hovered. "You ain't one of the guys." He meant it on several levels.

"I just came by for a last check before I head home," Sophie said. She turned to Al, addressing Tom noted a consultant and ignoring him, the company's chief of meteorology. "Are we still looking for the snow to taper off shortly, then crank up again in earnest late tonight or early tomorrow?" She asked.

Al, his countenance still the shade of a ripe pimple, nodded. "We are. Good. Then I should be able to make it home before the nastiness returns. Can't guarantee I'll be back here in the morning, though." She looked again at Tom, maintained a stone-faced expression. "Given the mess the roads are in, why would you even consider driving?" But this was Sophie, not a run-of-the-mill mortal. He pictured her Lexus buried up to its windows in a deep drift on Cobb Parkway. He smiled goodbye to her as she walked out the door.

Chapter 17, Revelations. Northeast Georgia. Late Thursday afternoon, December 29th. JC decided to attempt to re-engage McCracken, Butch, Caveman, whatever, in conversation. To try to run from or overpower a guy brandishing a Glock would be foolhardy. He knew he still needed some sort of connection with McCracken. It might save his JC's life.

"So, the story you told me earlier, JC said, about Kentucky Appalachian State kicking around after you left school, total fabrication." McCracken looked at him through lidded eyes and seemed to wheeze. "No. But you never joined the Georgia State Patrol?" "No."

McCracken turned his head and stared out the windshield, gazing into the whirling snowfall, seeming to search for something. An overhead highway sign loomed out of the storm. "There," McCracken said. The sign, half plastered with snow, indicated, as near as JC could discern, the towns of Clarksville and Clayton to the right, Highway 441. JC knew it. He and Jinny had traveled it several times, heading to a pleasant little boutiquey town in the North Carolina mountains, Highlands.

"Take a ride here," McCracken said. "Then another right in a few hundred yards." The G-wagen churned through the snow, now probably 8 or 10 inches deep, without missing a beat, and JC made the consecutive turns onto 441 north. The road, another divided four-lane route, seemed to have one lane in each direction that had been plowed within the last couple of hours, but already fresh snow coated what had been cleared. In some spots, deepening drifts made even the plowed lanes difficult to navigate. Traffic remained sparse to non-existent with only an occasional pickup or van easing through the storm.

"If you want some coffee, Butch, there's some in the thermos there." JC pointed at the footwell where McCracken sat. "And there's some sandwiches my wife made in back."

"Maybe some coffee." McCracken retrieved the thermos and awkwardly unscrewed the top with his left hand. He kept his right inside his parka, presumably on the Glock. Instead of trying to pour the coffee into the thermos' cup, he drank directly from the bottle. The aroma of vanilla hazelnut filled the SUV.

"Look, we need to pull over someplace so I can call Jenny, my wife. JC said, "It's been over an hour since we talked. If I don't call, she'll worry that something's wrong."

"Something is wrong," McCracken chuckled and half-choked as he took another swig from the thermos. "I still need to call her."

"Sure, you know the ground rules. No stupid [ __ ] right?" "I'll play by the rules. I'll bet all the teachers loved you."

JC pulled the Mercedes onto the shoulder of the highway and let the engine idle. Occasional gusts of wind rocked the vehicle as wind-whipped snow swirled around it in a disorienting jitterbug. Jenny answered JC's call almost immediately. "Are you okay?" Apprehension and concern resonated in her voice like a plucked violin string.

"I'm fine, honey. I'm making good time. Where are you?"

"In trouble." He looked around, searching for the lie. "On I-85 in South Carolina. They say the snow might let up this evening."

"That's good. But I don't know if that means in the Carolinas, too."

"That's okay. I'm not in the Carolinas. So, it's about over in Atlanta."

Jenny paused. "No." She drew the word out. "It's supposed to get worse tomorrow." He gripped his phone with the fierceness of a vice. What Jinny was telling him, without really knowing it, was that he'd better be out of here, wherever here ended up being, tonight. Of course, worrying about the time frame of his exodus might be academic. What he probably ought to be centered on was getting out of here, period.

McCracken leaned close to JC. "You're about to strangle your cell," he whispered. JC nodded and relaxed his grasp. "Okay, then be safe, Jenny. Just hunker down in the house tomorrow. I'll keep calling."

"Wait," she said. "Where are you planning on staying tonight?" "I don't have a clue. I may just press on, especially if the snow lets up. Love you, honey. I'll call again soon." He gave McCracken a pointed glance. "Love you, too, hun."

After they hung up, McCracken asked, "What did your wife say that triggered the death grip on your phone? Your knuckles turned white." The question caught JC unprepared. "What? Oh, that she heard she told me that Cole was having a bad day. He He probably misses me. Yeah, that."

McCracken studied JC's face. He seemed to contemplate the answer, then said, "Come on, back on the road." JC knows the Mercedes back onto 441 into the teeth of the storm. "Anyhow," JC said, still attempting to forge a rapport with McCracken. "After you left school and beat around for a while, what then? Where'd you end up?"

McCracken leaned back against the headrest. "Here," he said, his voice strained. "In the middle of a blizzard with a guy driving a Mercedes G-wagen. Before that. Not sure you want to know."

"Will it make a difference one way or the other?"

"Questions, questions. You know a hell of a lot more about me than I know about you." McCracken remained silent for some time, staring into the flannel bleakness of the fading afternoon. He shifted in his seat and grunted softly in apparent discomfort. "Like you," he said. "I've managed to step on my schlong. He paused. Well, maybe not like you. You've never been arrested, have you?"

JC let the question pass. "I've been picked up half a dozen times," McCracken said.

"Misdemeanors?" "Misdemeanors? JC said. "That's how you got shot committing a misdemeanor?" "I guess I took my game to the next level."

"What happened?" McCracken didn't answer. Instead, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes, letting JC's question hang in abeyance. Finally, he said, "Traffic stop." He opened his eyes and looked straight ahead. "You were speeding in a snowstorm?" "Not hardly."

"What then?" "The cop was interested in the car I was driving." "Stolen." "I'd like to think of it as requisitioned for," JC prompted, "a group I work with."

"What group might that be?" "They're called the Appalachian Devils." "Great. Probably not a Doctors Without Borders type of organization. Care to elaborate?" "It's a motorcycle club that needed a car. JC said, his tone flat. Tough to get around in the snow on a bike."

JC held the G-wagen at a steady, sure-footed speed, continuing to guide it through the accumulating snow. He squinted into the glowing. It seemed the snowfall had begun to slacken, though he had to admit it could be just wishful thinking.

"So," Jaci continued, "you took exception to being pulled over. It wasn't convenient for me." "I'll bet. Like you, I was carrying something that needed to be delivered." He inclined his head toward the rear seat, toward the briefcase. "Something other than a business proposal, I guess." McCracken didn't respond.

JC decided to cut to the chase. "What happened to the trooper who shot you?" "He's taking a nap." "Dead." "Might as well be blunt."

JC swallowed, fighting through a constriction in his throat. His respiration turned short and shallow. McCracken shrugged. "I'm here. The cop isn't."

JC's stomach roiled. He realized, assuming he had a cop-killer as a passenger, his chances of surviving the day were damn near close to zero. McCracken wasn't just going to let him go after he got to wherever it was they were headed.

JC slowed the SUV as it pushed over packed snow and ice on a bridge crossing Tula Falls Lake just south of the visitor center for Tula Gorge. He glanced at McCracken, who remained impassive. At the moment, he looked non-threatening, but JC knew once McCracken no longer needed his assistance, no longer needed transportation, he JC would be expendable. An almost palpable thrumming surged through JC's head as he analyzed his situation. He knew he'd have to make a move soon to save himself. He had to assume they weren't going to remain on 441, a main road, much longer. Although given the sparse traffic on the highway due to the storm, the term "main" didn't really apply. He tried to remember if there were any towns of consequence coming up. Only one came to mind. Clayton. He guessed, and that's all it was, a guess. They were perhaps 10 miles from Clayton. Would they stay on 441 until they reached it? Maybe not. He had to act now. But how? With what? A Glock can do a lot of damage to a man.

Chapter 18. Twilight. The Natural Environment Television Network. Late Thursday afternoon, December 29th. Pulling on his gloves, Tom stood just inside the main entrance of NEV. He gazed into the slate twilight. A furious wind continued to hurl the snow into acrobatic swirls and curls, but the snowfall rate itself had dwindled. Now only squadrons of tiny crystalline flakes flew through the air. But the damage had been done. A heavy blanket of white, perhaps 8 to 10 inches thick, cloaked the ground. In spots, drifts several feet deep accentuated the polar look of the landscape. The roads appeared devoid of traffic, as if over 5 million people had gone into hibernation. On an interstate in the middle distance, a line of snow-covered semis, like woolly mammoths from the ice age, hunkered silently on the shoulder, their journeys at a temporary end. Occasionally, blue or red lights strobed off the low-hanging overcast as emergency vehicles plied their trade.

Slowly, carefully, Tom pulled his parka tight around his neck and stepped into the storm. He wondered how long it would take to reach his condo. The slog into work through ankle-deep snow had taken 15 minutes. He moved forward, kicking through snow, now up to his shins in drifts over his thighs. It would take a hell of a lot longer than 15 minutes to beat his way home. He lowered his head into the wind and walked, slid through the parking lot toward where a sidewalk intersected the exit drive. Used to intersect, he corrected himself. The sidewalk had disappeared beneath the undulations of the snowscape. Halfway down the drive, the snow up to his knees. He pulled up abruptly. 20 yards ahead of him, a black Lexus LS460 sat at right angles to the drive, its rear end snug deep into a drift. Sophie.

Tom broke into what he imagined might be the biggest [ __ ]-eating grin ever. "There is a God after all." He waited for a moment, wanting to see how Sophie would handle her predicament. He had a pretty good idea and was not disappointed. She gunned the engine, the rear tires buzzing against the ice and snow, clawing deeper into their icy prison, the rear of the Lexus sinking into the drift like the Titanic into the frigid depths of the ice-berg-laden North Atlantic.

Tom moved to the car and rapped on the passenger-side window. The window slid down. "Stuck?" he asked. Sophie glared at him, her eyes narrowed to fiery slits. "Well," he said, "Jesus, what's it look like? No, I'm sitting here having a bowel movement."

Tom lifted his head from the window and stared over the roof of the Lexus so she couldn't see him laugh. "Go back into the building," Sophie commanded. "Tell the guard to call a tow truck or something."

Tom forced the smile from his face and bent to respond to Sophie. "You don't really think you're going to get somebody out here until tomorrow, do you?" "Well, have the guard call a cab then."

"Sophie, for crying out loud. Have you seen any vehicles at all on the street since you've been out here? Just one?" Sophie ignored the question, or more to the point, the fact Tom wished to illuminate. The streets had become impassable. "Have him call," she snapped. She seemed to think a cab with a plow attachment must be idling on hot standby somewhere, just waiting for her Imperial summons.

"Call yourself," Tom said. "I'm heading home." He stepped back from the window and started down the drive again. "Hey," Sophie called. "What the hell am I supposed to do?" "You're the boss. You figure it out. I'm not your indentured servant." He pushed on through the powdery snow. Sophie attempted to open the Lexus's door, but the drift that imprisoned the car had blocked the door, too.

"Tom," she said, almost pleading. "I can't get out." Tom stopped, cursed under his breath. "I'm such a friggin' doofus when it comes to Sophie." He waited through the snow back to the car. "I can't get out," she said again. Somehow she managed a lost little girl look. Tom folded his arms in front of him and pretended to study the situation. "Keep the engine on idle, the heater on high, and crack the window so you won't die of carbon monoxide poisoning, and you'll be fine, Tom." He began digging with his hands at the snow that blocked the door. "They probably have some cots set up in the building for folks who can't make it home tonight," he said as he worked.

"I'd like a hot shower," she muttered. "You'll probably have to settle for a sponge bath." "Isn't there a hotel or motel or something nearby? How far away is that Marriott Courtyard?" "Too far to walk to in these conditions."

"You're really enjoying this, aren't you?" She said, her voice subdued. "Her Highness the Lioness trapped in her car up to her ass in a snowdrift." "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't." He continued to claw at the snow. He found it difficult work with no shovel. His undershirt began to dampen with sweat. His chest heaved as he drew in cavernous breaths.

"Well, at least you aren't condescending about it," Sophie said. Then a bit louder. "Hey, you're a little out of shape, aren't you?" "Thanks for pointing that out," he gasped. He stopped digging. "Try the door now." She pushed. The door swung open. She stepped out into the snow up to her knees. Tom extended his hand to her. She reached for it but lost her balance and toppled forward, landing in a heap at Tom's feet. He pulled her up. "Well, that was graceful," she said. She brushed the snow off her coat.

The snowfall had ceased, but the wind continued to whip snow from the surface and twist into tiny white tornadoes that whirled like dancing ghosts through the parking lot. "Come on," Tom said. "I'll help you back to the building."

"Spongebob," Sophie grumbled and hurled her ground. "Look, what do you want me to do?" The eerie wail of a siren filled the dusk, an emergency vehicle slogging to a call. "Or maybe a Valkyrie riding the wind." Sophie stared at Tom as though expecting to answer his own question. "I'm not going there, Sophie. I'm not going to take the bait."

"Yes, I'm tempted, but your place is only a few blocks from here, isn't it?" she said. "Look, I just want a warm shower and a soft place to sleep overnight. If you've got a couch, I'm fine with that. I'm not in the mood to play footsies or anything else tonight."

Tom expelled a long breath, the condensation from his exhalation stringing into the frigid air like gossamer smoke. "I've got an extra bedroom." He wondered if his voice reflected the exasperation he felt. "You can shove a dresser against the door." She smiled. "I'm not worried about that, Tom. We may have our differences and scream and shout at each other at times and make snarky comments, but you've always been a gentleman and I respect that. You've never come on to me and I respect that, too. Yeah. Yeah, I know. I made a move on you, but let's kind of shove that off to the side for now. Just think of this as an overnight business trip, okay?" "I wouldn't have it any other way. Wow, how damn disingenuous can I be? Look, my place is a mess. We may have to dine on beer in Moren, but you're welcome." "It's got to be better than shacking up in the corporate lunchroom." "Follow me then. I'll break trail. Careful. It's icy underneath the snow. This is going to take a while."

Northeast Georgia, late Thursday afternoon, December 29th. Waves of blowing and drifting snow, like fugitives from an arctic steppe, continued to sift over the highway, but the snowfall had ended. JC recalled that Jenny had told him the snow had been expected to let up late in the day, then return in earnest tomorrow. Another reason for acting now, not later.

JC weighed his options, none of them good. A physical assault, while heroic, seemed foolhardy. He didn't have a weapon. McCracken had a pistol. In fact, JC concluded, he might have two. If the Glock had been taken from the trooper after the shootout, that meant McCracken probably had a gun of his own. So, where does that leave me, besides in deep [ __ ]? Maybe I can outwit him. Maybe.

JC tensed and glanced at his passenger. "What?" McCracken said, irritation threading his voice. "I need to phone my wife again." "You just called. I promised her once an hour." "Okay. It hasn't been an hour since you last talked to her. Think fast. Why so soon again?" "She's taking Cole to a doctor's appointment in about 20 minutes." "Kind of late in the day for that." "It's the only time the doctor could squeeze him in. It's important Cole be monitored closely, you know, with his leukemia and all."

McCracken sat up straight and looked around. "Okay, there's a turn-off to a campground coming up on the right. Pull over and call, but make it quick." He waggled the clock.

JC steered the Mercedes into the turn-off and stopped. He grabbed his phone and punched in Jinny's number. When she answered, JC said, "Hi, honey. I just wanted to touch base with you before you took Cole to his doctor's appointment." He pressed the phone hard against his ear so McCracken couldn't hear Jinny's response. "What? What doctor's appointment? I know. Just be careful. The roads are awful." JC hoped McCracken didn't deduce that the roads in Atlanta were likely as bad as they were here and that nobody was driving or that everything, including doctor's offices, was probably shut down.

"What are you talking about?" Jinny said. "Cole doesn't have an appointment." Pause. "Are you okay?" "Nope. Just getting ready to pull in for the night. Wishing I was back in Atlanta and sitting down to another one of your prime rib dinners. You know, like the one we had just before Christmas." "That was a pork roast. What in the hell's going on?" "Huh? Something's wrong." "Yes, that's true. Look, I got to get going. I'll call again after you get back with Cole. Love you, Jyn. Bye." She hated being called Jyn. He never used that name.

"No, wait. Tell me what." He removed the cell from his ear and simultaneously pressed the button that reduced its volume. He pressed it repeatedly, making certain no sound would be emitted, but he didn't disconnect the call. He hoped Jenny had caught on. She obviously had realized something was wrong. He could only hope she remained on the line listening. As McCracken watched, JC reached beneath his sweater and slipped the phone into his shirt pocket. His pulse rate quickened. A band of perspiration ringed his head. "So," he said, dipping his chin slightly, wanting to make sure Jenny heard his words if she'd remained on the line. "How much farther? Where the hell are we going? Isn't Clayton just up the road? Let's go."

McCracken said, gesturing him back onto the highway. He continued to stare at JC with the intensity of a bird of prey. It was as if he sensed something amiss. "Look, can't you even give me a clue about our destination?" JC pleaded.

"I'd like to." McCracken raised the pistol and pointed it at JC. "Put the phone on the console."

"What?" "You aren't hard of hearing. You got three seconds." JC fumbled for the phone, yanked it from his pocket, hit the disconnect button, and placed it on the center console. McCracken looked at it. He shook his head in a slow, almost sad motion. He pulled the trigger on the Glock. The explosion rang through the SUV with deafening resonance. The vehicle swerved, plowed through a drift, and nosed to a stop in the snow-filled culvert at the edge of the road.

Chapter 19. End of the road. Northeast Georgia. Thursday evening, December 29th. JC slumped over the steering wheel, his ears ringing from the reverberation of the gunshot. McCracken yelled something at him, but JC couldn't hear the words, only saw the guy's mouth moving. JC sat back in his seat, thankful the airbag hadn't deployed. Thankful he remained alive. Frigid air swept in through the shattered driver's side window, the one McCracken had shot out. Better the window than me. His heart hammered in a wild staccato beat, his chest heaved as he gulped great lungfuls of air.

McCracken, given over to a visage of fury, continued to yell. After he expended his anger, he leaned down to retrieve the cell phone from the footwell where it had tumbled when the SUV careened off the road. He placed the phone on the center console and with the butt of the Glock hammered it into a tiny heap of glass, plastic, and metal debris. Finished and using his forearm, he swept the mess into the rear of the SUV. The effort seemed to exhaust him. He grimaced, clamped his hand back inside his parka, and sank into his seat.

The ringing in JC's ears subsided, at least partially. He noted McCracken's breathing had become labored. "There's a first aid kit back," JC said. A gust of freezing wind flung a stray flurry of snow into the G-wagen. McCracken glowered at him. "What, you're going to make nice now?" he said, his voice a low rumble. "After that [ __ ] move you tried with a phone. How [ __ ] dumb do you think I am?"

"I don't think you're-" "Shut up. Let's get out of here. We'll worry about first aid later."

JC put the Mercedes into reverse and with a feathery touch pressed the accelerator. The SUV found purchase in the snow, wallowed slightly, and backed out of the culvert. Slabs of snow sliding forward off the hood like downhill skiers. The highway remained virtually deserted as JC again pushed northward, climbing now in deepening dusk. In the G-wagen's headlight beams, the windswept snowscape shimmered like the white metallic finish of a high-end automobile.

JC wondered if Jinny had remained on the line after he'd said goodbye. She knew something was wrong, but had she picked up on the reference to Clayton, heard McCracken's command to put the phone on the console, called the police? Or had she become so rattled, so upset by their conversation that she'd plunged into some sort of catatonic state and become immobilized? Unlikely. She'd always been able to perform in a crisis, but he realized he could have shoved her close to the edge on this one. Her ongoing concern over Cole put her under tremendous stress to begin with. But then to get a confusing call from her husband from somewhere in the middle of a blizzard, well, perhaps all that was of no consequence now anyhow, since McCracken would have to assume he'd been busted and would get off 441 as quickly as possible, distancing himself and JC from Clayton. So even if Jinny were able to alert the authorities and assuming resources were available to check out her report, probably a poor assumption given the storm, McCracken would make certain they ended up far from Clayton.

A scattering of vehicles, pickups, farm trucks, vans appeared on the road, crawling over the hard-packed snow. On the right, JC spotted a high school. A short distance later, a Walmart. A plow passed by heading south. JC gathered. They must be almost to Clayton. The road narrowed. Still four lanes, but no longer separated by a median strip. Now just turn lanes, or so JC guessed. The snow cover obliterated any traffic arrows that might have been on the road. Even with his stocking cap pulled over his ears and the collar on his parka turned up, JC shivered as polar gusts licked at his face through the blown-out window. He turned the heater on high. He slowed the SUV to just over walking speed as they eased through Clayton, a typical small town with one- and two-story buildings, banks, shopping centers, restaurants, motels crowding the sides of the highway. All of them, save for one or two service stations and a small restaurant, appeared closed.

A city police car approached from the north. For a fleeting moment, JC allowed himself to hope. Hope that an alert had been sounded and disseminated. Hope that law enforcement might be on the lookout for a Mercedes Galenda G-wagen with Georgia dealer plates. Hope that his deliverance was imminent. But the cruiser passed by without reducing speed. No interest in an expensive SUV with a missing window. McCracken, pistol on his lap, watched the patrol vehicle pull away, continuing southward. No U-turn. "Tough break, Mr. Well, you didn't want to become a hostage anyhow, did you?"

He leaned forward, staring intently out the windshield. "Up here, take a ride." JC turned onto a road between a Days Inn and an off-brand gas station. Signs on either side of the road advertised a Wendy's and a Burger King. He tried to catch the name of the road, but snow plastered over part of the sign. Maybe Brickman or Dickman or Rickman. The road proved to be unplowed with only faded snow-filled tire ruts marking single lanes in each direction. A pair of headlights turned behind the Mercedes and followed. A free song of renewed hope exploded in JC as he tracked the lights in the rearview mirror. Police. The beams alternately faded and brightened as waves of blowing snow tumbled through the darkness, challenging the lights. Then, as quickly as the beams had materialized, they vanished into a driveway. His expectations suddenly roadkill. JC's gut churned. He found McCracken watching him, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

A minute or two later, they reached an intersection. "Right," McCracken ordered. "Warwoman Road." In short order, they left behind Clayton's small-town environment. Now just occasional farmhouses and scattered crossroads appeared. Then nothing, only winter woods in deep snow. The G-wagen downshifted and began to climb. McCracken peered ahead intently, calling out turns—left and right, right, and left—until JC had no idea of his direction of travel. He might as well have been lost in Germany's Black Forest. Twice they overshot a turnoff, McCracken apparently failing to recognize a landmark camouflaged by the snow. They would then backtrack, turn, and continue navigating switchbacks, climbing hogbacks, dipping into hollows, once fording an ice-encrusted creek. Overall, they gained altitude, scaling the terminus of the southern Appalachians. It was in these mountains, or at least in their North Carolina cousins, for all JC knew, they might well have crossed into North Carolina, where the Atlanta Olympics bomber Eric Rudolph had gone to ground for over 5 years before he'd been captured. JC understood he could well disappear forever up here. This could be his abandoned warehouse in the South Bronx moment. A bullet in the back of his head, a shallow grave deep in the forest, gone for good. Strangely, he found himself at peace with that notion, accepted his fate. It wasn't that he'd given up. No, no way. It's just that he understood and acknowledged the cost of whatever action he'd need to take. What nodded at him with almost palpable intensity was the realization he might be unable to deliver for Cole, to fight for him, to help defeat his leukemia, to rejoice in victory, and once that battle was won, to fish, play ball, and joke with his son, to hug him, to watch him mature into a young man, to see him off to college. JC sensed his dream shattering, falling in shards around his feet to be shoveled up like nothing more than roadkill. And Jinny, as much a part of him as Cole. While JC could acquiesce to his own demise, he understood it would be crushing for his wife. An amputation of her heart and soul. Not right. Tears welled in his eyes, clouding his vision, but not his resolve. A small herd of deer, probably a family, broke from the woods and bounded across the road. They appeared oblivious to the headlight beams and wind-blown snow curling around them, intent on their mission, whatever that was. Survival, perhaps. The same as mine, JC thought.

"You ever loved anyone?" JC said. "What?" McCracken responded as though he hadn't heard the question. "Have you ever loved anyone?" An eddy of snow scooped off the ground by the wind, scurried through the G-wagen's shattered window. The vehicle's engine continued to rumble, pushing the SUV ever deeper into the mountains, steadily and slowly toward JC's

Fate. McCracken shrugged. "What's your point?"

"No point. I ask a question."

McCracken grunted. "You aren't going to preach to me about Christianity or some silly [ __ ] are you? 'Love your neighbor.' 'The greatest of these is love.' I've read the Bible."

"Do you believe it?"

"What part?"

JC thought for a moment. "Greater love has no one."

"Oho. Is that what you plan to do? Lay down your life for someone? Your kid, your wife, maybe motivated by love?"

"That's where you're wrong, my friend."

"Wrong about what?"

"Being motivated by love."

McCracken, the Glock still on his lap, removed his hand from it and massaged his temples. JC glanced at the gun. McCracken moved his hand back to it. "You'd be dead before you could touch it," he warned in a matter-of-fact tone.

"I wasn't going to try," JC said. "Why am I wrong about love?"

It had begun snowing again, but only lightly. A gust of wind rocked the Mercedes and hurled another mini blizzard of snow into the vehicle. JC tugged on the hood of his Parker so that it covered his left cheek, the one most exposed to the elements.

"Why are you in this SUV driving a guy you don't even know to god knows where?" McCracken asked, not directly answering JC's question.

"Because the guy has a gun," JC snapped. "Stupid question."

"Precisely. That's my point. People are motivated by fear, not love."

"That's [ __ ]."

"Is it? You told me you were out here possibly in the worst snowstorm in the history of the South because of your son."

"Well, at least he's one of the factors."

"And you're going to tell me that's because you love your son, right?"

"Of course. But what motivated you wasn't love. It was fear."

"Fear? Come on, Butch. That's just goofy."

"Fear of what?" McCracken smiled, his face like a cheap Halloween mask glowing blue and white in the interior lighting of the Gvagan. "In your son's case, fear of him dying. I'm sure you love your son, but what spurred you to action was fear. Look around you, man. Every endeavor you undertake is triggered by fear. Fear of failure, fear of rejection, fear of consequences, fear of death, of dying, of disease."

JC stared into the darkness and flying snow. Maybe McCracken has a point. Maybe not. "I take care of my family because I love them."

McCracken chuckled. "You take care of your family because if you didn't, they'd leave you. You fear being alone, having to fend for yourself. We're all alone, my friend. We all live in fear."

"I love God."

"You love God because you've read the Old Testament. You know what happened to people who didn't love God or at least didn't obey him? Zap. And it's burnt offerings for supper. Or church. Why do you attend church? Here's why. Because your friends do and you're afraid of being ostracized if you don't. Or maybe you're just afraid of going to hell if you don't show up every Sunday to worship or Saturday if you're Jewish or Muslim. Love God? Get off it. You're terrified of him. You see, even love is driven by fear."

"People do good all the time. Kind gestures aren't driven by fear."

"No. What would happen if you didn't perform, as you call them, kind gestures? What would people think of you? A paper tiger, or more to the point, a paper Christian. You're afraid you wouldn't measure up, that you'd be a fraud in the eyes of God, the eyes of your friends."

"Come on, Butch."

"Oh, call me caveman. We're friends now."

"Really?" JC said, the word riddled with skepticism. "You're going to kill me."

"Yeah, probably. But who knows? Maybe I'll grow to love you." He smiled a crooked smile, then leaned forward, groaned, and clutched at his side. He sat up, still smiling. "Or maybe, if you're lucky, I'll bleed out before I have to kill you."

The snow depth now reached to the bumper of the Mercedes with deeper drifts to headlight level. Progress had become laborious, the vehicle creeping, at times struggling along an ever narrowing, ever steeper track. McCracken leaned forward in his seat, staring at the road ahead as though expectation.

"There," he said. He pointed at a tight passageway into the forest on their left. "Go past it, then back into it. I won't be able to see it."

"You've got backup lights."

He passed where McCracken had pointed, stopped, slipped the Mercedes into reverse, and backed up. He stuck his head out the fractured window and in the glow of the backup lights attempted to gauge his turn. Though the track into the trees appeared barely wide enough for the Gvogen, he hit it almost perfectly. The SUV engine growling turned backward. Geysers of snow flew forward from underneath the fenders, but the vehicle eventually lost traction and stalled.

McCracken studied the dashboard. "Try locking the rear differential," he said. He nodded at three buttons on the dash in front of the gear shift lever. JC punched the button on the right. The Gvagan dug in, found traction, and clawed its way up the narrow path. Not for long, however. In short order, the snow became too deep, and the track too steep for even fine German engineering to overcome.

"I guess that's it," McCracken said, resignation in his voice. "Get out."

JC pushed open the door of the G Vagen and stepped out into calf-deep snow. McCracken did the same on the opposite side of the SUV. The vehicle's headlight beams pointing down toward the road reflected off the snow and cast a diffused light back up the slope. JC wondered if anyone would ever find his body up here in the wilderness of wherever they were.

My body? All that will be left will be bones. Picked clean by scavengers, by time, by eternity. He closed his eyes, leaned into the wind, and said a silent prayer, asking God to care for his wife and son, asking for forgiveness for his failures as a man, as a husband, as a father, asking why his destiny couldn't have been different, why his life had to end in a cold, snow-covered forest so far from those he loved. He paused, arrested his emotions, then closed his petition to God with renewed resolve, asking for strength, wisdom, and courage. Courage to avoid going gently, to avoid being a passive victim. Courage to go down fighting, taking his enemy with him. Strange, he mused that he felt no apprehension, no fear, no sense of terror, only disappointment mixed with determination.

He opened his eyes and found McCracken standing beside him, the Glock dangling from his left hand. His eyes appeared unfocused, his stance unsteady. JC gauged the distance from himself to McCracken. Better to go out with violence than kneeling in the snow.

"Don't," McCracken said. He raised the pistol. "Don't."

"Why not?" Kraken, his arm fully extended, pointed the weapon at JC's head. "Back there on the road after we left Clayton when you asked me if I'd ever loved anyone. You were going to make an appeal to my humanity, assuming I have any, weren't you? You know, let me live. 'I love my kid.' 'Let me live.' 'I love my wife.' But admit it, I'm right. You're driven by fear, not love. Fear of leaving your family alone. Fear of failing them. Fear of the guy with the gun standing here." The fingers twitch from blowing your brains into the next county. "Okay, you're right. What difference does it make?"

A strong gust of wind ripped through the tops of the trees and blew a cascade of snow like a white waterfall from the higher branches of a cops of lobly pines. JC tilted his head back as the swirling crystals settled around him. He opened his mouth and caught dozens of the tiny tumbling flakes on his tongue. He thought of Cole and wondered if people ever heard the gunshot that killed them.

Chapter 20.