Blizzard by H.W. Buzz Bernard 03

Chapter 23. Closed doors.

Windy Hill Towers. Thursday night, December 29th. Sophie, sitting at the end of Tom's bed, rested her hand on his foot, covered as it was by a sheet and thick comforter. It seemed an oddly familiar, if not intimate, gesture. In the muted light leaking through the now open bedroom door, Sophie appeared relaxed and Tom hated to admit it, desirable.

On the other hand, if Sophie hadn't struck him that way as being desirable, he probably would have worried that he was traveling rapidly down Al's a good dump is better than path. He knew he wasn't heading down that path as he struggled to keep his maleness under wraps.

"I come in peace," Sophie said. "Non-aggression-packed."

"Do I need to worry?"

"Well, it's not often that a lady other than my ex creeps into my bedroom at night."

"I didn't creep. I knocked. Oh, and so your ex is still in the picture?"

Sophie removed her hand from Tom's foot. "I meant before she was my ex. But there have been others."

Tom switched on his nightstand lamp, careful to keep the camouflaging covers in place. Attempting to figure out Sophie seemed an exercise in futility. Was her questioning some sort of effort to delve into his character, or was she attempting to get the lay of the land to discover if she might face any competition?

"Why are you grilling me?"

Sophie drew a deep breath. "I didn't mean to. I overstepped my bounds. Once was enough. I'm sorry. It's none of my business." She sounded genuinely apologetic.

"But you came in here for a reason. Probably not the one I'm fantasizing over, but I am curious."

A flurry of sleep ticked against the bedroom window. "Sounds like it's starting up again," Sophie said, avoiding the question implicit in Tom's statement.

"It is." He waited. Sophie shifted slightly, looked at the ceiling. "At work, I've been a little hard on you. I guess that bothers me more than I thought it might. I know you've got certain standards that you believe in that frame your attitudes, and I probably haven't been as accommodating as I might to those viewpoints, but God knows you are hard-headed about them."

"Do you think I'm wrong?"

"Of course not. What I think is we need to find some sort of middle ground. And yes, I know that means I'll have to surrender some territory, too. Look, we're on the same team. Although I get a bit bellose at times about defending my turf, I do value your input. The bottom line is I don't want us working at loggerheads any longer."

"Why are you telling me this now here? You know, instead of calling me into your office or something."

"Calling you into my office hasn't always yielded expected results." They both smiled.

"You could have just walked on by me this evening," she continued. "Smug in your revenge when I was up to my ass in that damn snow drift. Instead, you were a gentleman and stopped. You put aside any notions of poetic justice or whatever and bailed me out. I actually appreciated that."

"So, her highness has a soft side." She stood once again. "I apologize. I know it's probably inappropriate to barge creep into a man's bedroom at night, but..." she shrugged, "But you did it anyhow, and I still don't know why." She took a couple steps toward him, glanced at the comforter gathered over his hips, gazed at him directly, and smiled. Not an enticing smile, nor one suggesting something nefarious. Just a smile, he hoped.

"What have you got to read?" she asked.

"You mean books?"

"I'm kind of wound up. Reading helps me relax."

"I can think of other things that might help." He didn't verbalize it.

"Who are your favorite authors?" A pointless question. His library consisted of John Gisham and James Patterson paperbacks.

"Dickens, Steinbeck, Vonagget, Hemingway, and Cormarmac McCarthy, though he's a bit more contemporary."

"Don't know him."

"You might. He wrote All the Pretty Horses and No Country for Old Men."

"I saw the movies."

"You should read more."

"I've got two kids and a job with a demanding boss."

"Touche," she said softly. "Anyhow, the last book I read was about chasing tornadoes. Supercell, a novel. I don't remember who wrote it. It wasn't Cormarmac McCarthy."

"Supercell. That might work. Do you still have it?"

"It's in the bookcase by the TV. Sorry. Right now, it would be a bit awkward for me to show you where it is."

Sophie bent slightly, switched off the lamp on the nightstand, and touched Tom on the cheek, a gesture she seemed to let linger just slightly longer than the bounds of a platonic relationship might have suggested. Not surprising, their relationship had obviously crept beyond that.

"I'll find it," she said. "Good night." She smiled at him as she shut the door.

Tom lay in the darkness, listening to the soft moan of the wind through the highrise. "Now, how in the hell am I supposed to get to sleep?"

***

Northeast Georgia, Thursday night, December 29th. The sounds, smells, and sights filling the room washed over JC like a breaking wave, sweeping him into a dark alternate universe. A place he knew nothing about, couldn't relate to, didn't understand. A place that could well be the death of him. A rush of queasiness surged through him. Whether from hunger, dehydration, or fear, he didn't know. Probably all three.

Lynn scooted closer to him. "I can help."

He stared at her. "Honestly," she touched him on the hand, a quick light caress. "I want out of here, too. This?" She nodded at the debauchery surrounding them. "Isn't what I expected."

"Expected? When I hooked up with Caveman, I thought he was just a cool dude with a bike. A bit of a rebel. I thought it might be a trip to hang out with him."

"Yeah, this is a trip. All right."

"This? No, this isn't what I was looking for. Cave told me that after Christmas he was going on a little winter retreat up in the mountains. Him, a few friends, some beer, big fireplace. He wanted me to come along. Sounded like fun. I didn't expect a frigin outlaw biker orgy."

"How long have you been here?"

"A few days. I feel like a prisoner now. Cave disappeared yesterday. Told Grizzly to keep an eye on me. Didn't tell me where he was going, only that he had to do something for his brothers. Then he showed up with you. Him looking like a loser from the gunfight at the OK Corral." She took another quick glance around her and spotted McCracken approaching. She stood. "Got to go. Just remember what I said."

"What?"

"I can help."

"Sure you can." McCracken arrived, slammed a bottle of beer down on the table next to JC. "Been talking to the..."

"More like she was talking to me." JC took a long swallow of beer. Didn't thank McCracken. McCracken smiled, a pernicious grin. "Probably told you she could get you out of here." JC didn't respond. McCracken tipped his head back and gofod, but it was laughter without hilarity.

"The song of a siren," he said after he stopped cackling. "You think she gives a damn about you? All she cares about is herself. She'll get you killed, my friend."

"And this changes my circumstance."

"How?" JC asked, venom in his voice. He took another swig of beer.

McCracken shrugged. "I'll see if I can find you something to eat." He wheeled and walked away from the table.

"Don't do me any favors," JC snapped.

"Wouldn't think of it," McCracken said, raising his voice to be heard over the din filling the room.

JC dozed off sometime after midnight, exhaustion finally overwhelming him. He awoke, still at the table, his head resting on his forearms, to a strange semi-silence, punctuated only by scattered snorts and snores. He lifted his head and took stock of his surroundings. The bikers and their women, strewn about the room in various states of stupor, had collapsed into chairs and couches or lay on the floor using folded-up leather jackets as pillows. The flames in the fireplace had disappeared, leaving just occasional orphaned sprites leaping from blackened logs on a bed of glowing embers. The candles had guttered, and what little light remained came from a half-frozen, flickering hurricane lantern.

JC looked around for McCracken and found him spread-eagled in an easy chair, his head tilted back, his mouth agape, sawing logs in a torpor likely the result of both booze and painkillers. Grizzly, his craggy face framed in an explosion of whiskers, sat in an Adirondack chair near the main door, a shotgun draped across his lap. He'd lightly taken on the task of guarding the exit, but with his head drooped forward and his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm, even he appeared to have nodded off. "These guys," JC could see, were a bit short on military discipline.

JC eased into a standing position and surveyed the room. No one stirred in response to his movement. "Now or never," he decided. He wasn't going to just sit here while a bunch of cretins who rode motorcycles decided his fate. Blizzard or not, he still had a chance. Probably not much of one, but he knew he had an absolute zero probability of surviving if he stayed put. He stepped over the bench he'd been sitting on, zipped up his parka, and crept toward the door in slow, measured steps.

A noise from a darkened corner of the house stopped him. Grunts, moans, a muffled cry, soft panting, a sigh. JC halted, holding his breath. Apparently, the code of the bikers put a higher priority on sex than alertness. The sounds ceased, but JC remained motionless for another 2 or 3 minutes. He estimated another 10 ft to the door. He'd have to pass about 5 ft in front of Grizzly and his shotgun to reach the door. He squatted, fixed his gaze on Grizzly, and watched him. The biker, his chin dipped against his vest, and his eyes closed, continued to inhale and exhale in a steady, even manner, his snores reverberating like coarse sandpaper scraping over pumice. Confident Grizzly had fallen asleep at his post, JC stood and took a step toward the door.

Movement behind Grizzly caught JC's attention. Lynn. She smiled at JC, then tapped Grizzly on the shoulder. Grizzly jerked awake, looked around, semi-bewildered, spotted JC. JC froze, stared at Lynn, meaner than a mama hound with a stick up her ass. McCracken's words. "I can help." Lynn's words. Obviously, McCracken had her pegged. Grizzly, his face contorted like an old silver tip whose territory had been invaded, staggered from his chair, stumbled toward JC, flipped the shotgun around, and drove the butt toward JC's head. JC attempted to duck and spin away, but too late. The blow caught the side of his head, and he spiraled into blackness.

Chapter 24. Fox and geese.

Northeast Georgia. Early Friday morning, December 30th. His head throbbing like subwoofers in a low rider. JC cracked one eye open. He had no idea how long he'd been unconscious, but guessed it hadn't been long. The same quasi-silent and quasi-dark environment that had prevailed before Grizzly hammered him with a shotgun butt lingered. JC struggled to a sitting position on the floor where he'd fallen. He opened his other eye. Images failed to come into focus and seemed to swim and weave as if caught in a current of a mountain stream.

Several feet from him, Lynn knelt by Grizzly, who sipped from a mug of steaming coffee, a vote of offering perhaps from Lynn. She whispered something to Grizzly, then rose and moved toward JC. She stopped in front of him. She drew back her foot as if to kick him, then seemed to think better of it. Instead, she merely used her foot to push JC back to a prone position on the floor. "You asshole!" she hissed. "Did you really think you were just going to stroll out the door?"

JC squeezed his eyes shut and didn't respond. Waves of pain rippled through his head. Dampness, blood slick the right side of his face. "Come on, US so stand up," Lynn said. JC felt her hand slip beneath his armpits. With her help, he wobbled to his feet. In a less than gentle manner, she stared him back to the table he'd been at earlier, and plopped him down on the bench seat. "Stay," she ordered, as if he were a dog.

A gust of wind burst down the chimney, stirred the embers to life, and shot a shower of sparks onto the hearth. Lynn glided away through the semi-darkness back to Grizzly who held his coffee mug aloft. A signal JC guessed for a refill. She leaned over Grizzly to retrieve the mug, edging her ample assets close to his face in an apparent attempt to raise his awareness and perhaps something else. His hand freed of the cup, Grizzly made a brush pass across her chest, but she stepped back and swatted his paw away. Like a bristly hog in rut, he started after her, but Lynn set a hand against his chest, said something, and he sank back into his Adirondack chair with an audible grunt.

Lynn returned shortly from a darkened recess of the house with his refill, placed it on an arm of the chair, said something, patted his head, and returned to where JC sat. "You and Grizz are pretty tight, huh?" JC said. "No wonder you get spooked every time Caveman shows up. Looks to me like you're playing both ends against the middle. Bet you just can't get enough, right?" His anger bubbled over. Anger at being duped by someone who told him "I can help." Who told him "I feel like a prisoner," who told him, "I want out of here, too."

She slapped him hard with a painter in his head already pegged. It felt as if she'd slammed a 2x4 into his skull. The coppery taste of blood pulled in his mouth. "Meaner than a mama hound." He slid toward unconsciousness again.

"Listen, you dork," Lynn said, her mouth close to his ear. "Where in the hell did you think you were going when you were tippy-toeing toward the door? You didn't even have a flashlight, let alone a clue about which direction to head once you got outside. What a..." She lowered her voice. "I said I could help."

JC spit blood, tried to speak, but couldn't form words. Lynn wiped his mouth with a napkin. "What were you trying to say?"

"I said it worked out really well for me." He slurred his words.

"It would have worked out a hell of a lot better if you'd given me a chance."

"A chance? I had a plan."

"Sure you did. That's why I got coldcocked with a shotgun."

"You were dead if you went out that door. I had to stop you. Either Grizz, the storm, or the wolves would have got you."

"Not the wolves. Look," Lynn continued, "You aren't any good to me as a corpse."

"But okay as a punching bag, right? I had to improvise. Sorry about that."

"I'll bet." JC's head continued to hammer. He felt empathy for those who suffered migraines.

"I'm going to get Mr. Piggy another cup of coffee," Lynn said. "Hold on. Keep your eyes on me and get ready to boogie."

"You got to be kidding."

"Why would I be kidding?" Then JC got it. "What's in the coffee?"

"Nothing. What do you think is in the coffee?"

"A Mickey."

"You watch too many movies." She strored away. She delivered a third mug to Grizzly and then sat on the floor beside him. JC noticed she'd slipped on a parka. She wrapped her arms around herself and tucked her head into the faux fur collar of the heavy jacket as if she were cold. Grizzly, now wide awake, ran his sausage fingers through her hair with one hand and held the coffee in the other. The shotgun remained in his lap. Occasionally, they traded words, but JC couldn't hear what they said.

After 15 or 20 minutes, Grizzly stood, handed Lynn the shotgun, and waddled off toward the back of the house. Now JC understood. Loads of caffeine and loads of beer. A guy's got to piss. And Lynn had won his trust. Obviously, she was something other than an unwilling guest here. She knew these people.

"What the hell is going on?"

Lynn shot JC a heads-up glance. "Get ready to move." Head thumping, vision fuzzy, he stood, zipped his parka, and got ready for something. He wasn't sure what, but if it meant getting out of here, the something didn't matter. Lynn turned to watch Grizzly. When he disappeared into the shadows, she motioned JC toward the door. JC hesitated, wanting to flee, but still uncertain, still trying to make sense of the unfolding events.

"Now," Lynn mouthed and again waved JC toward the door. This time he moved, no longer attempting to analyze things. Lynn joined him at the door, flung it open, and pushed him through it. She followed. "Go, go, go!" she yelled, and pulled the door shut behind them, trying not to slam it. They plunged into a dark world of swirling, winded snow. She held the shotgun in her left hand, yanked a flashlight from her parka with her right, handed it to JC, then pulled out a second light for herself. Their beams revealed nothing but the white blur of airborne snow. JC, disoriented, head thundering, flicked his light around in a semi-panic, searching for a reference point. They couldn't have been more than 10 yards from the house, but he could no longer see it. He'd heard of white-out conditions, but never actually experienced them until now. A really bad time to start.

Lynn directed her beam down at the snow cover. She moved it slowly back and forth. "There," she said. Her light illuminated a faint depression in the snow, a sort of shallow culvert. "Follow that. It's the remnant of the trail you and Cave made when you came here. It'll lead us back to your vehicle." JC wondered what good that would do since they'd likely find the Gvagan buried in snow, but anything seemed better than hanging around the biker castle. He plunged ahead, sinking to his thighs in snow. At least the terrain favored his efforts downhill. The snowfall streaking horizontally mounted a furious attack on his face. Despite keeping his head down, following the ill-defined path, the seething flakes managed to sting his cheeks like tiny shards of glass. Behind him, Lynn began to pant audibly, her heavy intakes of breath overriding the roar of the wind. She stumbled, fell into JC's back, but righted herself and yelled at him to keep moving. In spots, the relentless wind had whipped the snow into drifts that covered the quickly disappearing depression in a sort of white scree several feet deep. Two or three times JC had to claw his way forward, using his hands to clear a path.

"Hold up," JC said. He stopped, turned his back to the wind-driven snow, and listened. "I thought I heard something."

"Wolves?"

"No, like someone shouting." Lynn too turned and listened. Fighting the wind, it came. "Lynn, you... You're dead. Both of you."

"Cave!" she exclaimed, her eyes wide, her gaze darting. "He's coming." JC knew all McCracken had to do was follow the trail they'd already broken. It wouldn't be like the fox and geese game he'd played as a kid in New England. Fox and geese involved a circular maze in the snow. The geese had a chance. There was no maze out here, just a straight line. The geese would be dead meat.

"Better rack a shell into that thing." JC nodded at the shotgun. She did.

"Go," she commanded. He plowed ahead, an elk in deep snow. Lynn stumbled again. "Shit!" she cried. This time on a steep incline, she went down, rolled twice, lost her grip on the gun. It disappeared beneath the snow. She recovered, then scrambled frantically on her hands and knees, searching for the Remington. JC joined in the effort, plunging his gloved hand repeatedly into the snow, but neither he nor Lynn came up with a weapon.

"Forget it," JC finally said. They couldn't waste any more time. "We got to move." He pulled Lynn to her feet. At least she still had her flashlight. They pushed on. JC again leading the way. His legs, despite the downhill incline, felt as if they had sandbags tied around them. He knew his pace had slowed. Even wounded, McCracken had to be gaining on them. Though JC's head continued to throb, the adrenaline rush of his escape had dulled the sharp edge of the pain. He attempted to do a quick and dirty calculation on how much of a lead he and Lynn had on McCracken. He guessed maybe it took a couple of minutes for Grizzly to take a leak, return to his post, and discover that Lynn and her detainee had gotten the hell out of Dodge, then maybe another two or three minutes to sound the alarm, rouse McCracken out of his stupor, and launch a pursuit. It would be McCracken, of course. Lynn was his girl, JC his prisoner. Regardless of his condition, McCracken would be a motivated one-man posse. JC figured they had five minutes on him at best, less now that they'd wasted time searching for the buried Remington, which also meant they had no weapon. He pressed on, though he understood the futility of it. Human nature, fight to the end.

"I see a light," Lynn yelled, challenging the wind. JC looked behind him. A faint pinprick of light winked on and off through the heavy snowfall. McCracken had closed the gap more rapidly than expected. For a flashlight beam to be visible through the storm, it had to be only a matter of yards behind them. McCracken must have seen their beams, too. The sharp crack of a large caliber pistol split the wind, then rode away on a strong gust. The shot didn't come close, but it served notice the game was almost over.

Lynn, strangely composed, fell against JC, wrapping her arms around him. "Well," she said, "We tried. At least the wolves didn't get us."

McCracken emerged from the white gloom, following the semi-car trail. "Hi, babe," he said to Lynn, and raised the Glock.

Chapter 25. Flight.

Northeast Georgia. Early Friday morning, December 30th. JC stepped in front of Lynn and faced McCracken. The absurd notion that his action would have looked good on the cover of a romance novel darted through his mind. "Come on, McCracken. Caveman," McCracken reminded him. "We're friends now, Caveman. This isn't right. We can work something out."

McCracken smiled. Something almost genuine. "We already have." JC's gaze moved from McCracken's right hand, which held a Glock, to his left hand, which held a flashlight and the aluminum attaché case. Lynn stepped around JC and went to McCracken. "Good work, babe," McCracken said. He pecked her on the cheek, then handed her the Glock.

"Are you okay, Cave?" she asked, hurting a little bit. He patted the side where he'd taken the trooper's bullet. "But we got to keep moving. Grizz has probably figured out by now what's happened."

JC wished he had. "Hey," McCracken said. "Where's the shotgun?"

"Lost it in the snow," Lynn said. "I took a fall, dropped it, and we couldn't find it." She spread her hands in a gesture of helplessness.

"Well, try to hang on to the Glock. Mind telling me what's going on here?" JC said later. McCracken answered. "Right now, we got someone on our tail who's going to shoot first and not bother to ask any questions at all. Let's go." He swept his flashlight beam over the snow, looking for the virtually obliterated trail he and JC had left earlier.

"It's in the attaché case, isn't it?" JC said.

"What?"

"Whatever Grizzly is after." McCracken ignored the question and stepped off into the snow, the cold, the darkness, the knife-edged wind, and surged forward, Lynn and JC following. Their flashlight beams occasionally cut through the slanting snowfall and illuminated ever so briefly the dark Appalachian forest that stood guard around them like a shadow army of giants. JC wondered if the trees still sheltered the wolves or had they continued their foray elsewhere. Despite having his parka zipped to his chin and his hood cinched tightly around his neck, the icy fingers of the wind clawed at his skin. He shivered lightly but pressed on, taking long strides and lifting his legs in an exaggerated manner, hoping to generate more body heat. The pain in his head waxed and waned. Once, feeling nauseous, he paused and knelt in the snow, but the sensation passed. He concluded the blow to his head from the shotgun stock had given him at least a minor concussion.

After 10 minutes or so, McCracken halted. They seem to have reached a level area in the woods. He swung his flashlight to the right and moved the beam slowly over the snow cover, back and forth, up and down, searching. "I think this is where we turn."

"Think?" JC said. The distant bark of a big-engined motorcycle tumbled out of the darkness, sounding in some ways more ominous than the cry of the hunting wolves had earlier.

"Grizz?" Lynn said on a bike.

"JC said you can't ride a bike in snow."

"Grizz can," McCracken said. "I once saw him cross the Chattahoochee on his fat Bob. And he claims to have ridden from Clayton to Blue Ridge in Superstorm, that blizzard we had back in '93." The sound faded.

"Come on," McCracken ordered. "We don't have much time." He turned and moved off on a course perpendicular to the one they'd been following. If anything, the snow fell more heavily now. What remnant of the track JC and McCracken had carved out the previous evening now lay buried beneath fresh drifts.

"You're sure this is the right way?" JC asked. He shivered more vigorously now.

"If it isn't, we're screwed."

"Thanks for boosting my confidence."

"Look, Mr. Mouth. You were on point when we came up this way. You want to lead the way back?"

"No," JC mumbled. McCracken plowed ahead, albeit more slowly now, it seemed. Perhaps his wound, despite being patched up, still bothered him, still seeped blood. The growl of the motorcycle faded in and out, but seemed to draw inexorably louder each time the wind lulled. JC guessed Grizzly would be upon them in a matter of minutes.

"Is that it?" Lynn yelled. She pointed her beam at a heaped-up pile of snow a dozen yards ahead of them. JC looked. "Yes, the Galendogen buried in snow." He kicked through the drifts, pushed past McCracken, and reached the vehicle. Snow had pyramided to the top of the SUV and filled its interior, at least the front where the shattered window had provided access. Using his hands, he knocked the drifts away from the driver's side door, tugged it open, then pawed at the snow filling the inside of the jewagen. He found the work exhausting and paused to rest, but not for long. The throaty roar of Grizzly's bike came steadily now as he closed the gap on the fleeing trio.

"Don't stop," Lynn screamed at JC. "Grizz is almost here."

McCracken busied himself knocking snow away from the dual exhausts that emptied just forward of the rear wheels on either side of the vehicle. JC, deciding he had enough snow cleared away, fumbled for the keys in his parka and flung himself into the driver's seat. McCracken piled into the passenger seat and Lynn into the rear.

"Hey," she exclaimed. "There's a shot to bear back here."

"That's Teddy," JC said, inserting the key into the ignition. "Your boyfriend killed him."

"This thing going to start?" McCracken said, ignoring the exchange between JC and Lynn. "It's a Mercedes."

JC turned the key. The engine groaned and groaned, but didn't catch.

"Maybe you should have borrowed a Chevy." McCracken turned to look out the rear window. "Crap." Snow coated the glass.

JC cranked the engine again. This time it burst to life. He put the GV vagin in gear and stepped on the accelerator. The vehicle lurched forward, snow from the hood splattering against the windshield, blotting out whatever lay in front of the SUV. He tried the wipers, frozen in place.

"I got to clear the windshield," he said. He bound it out, landing in a deep drift. Frantically, he brushed snow from the windshield and hood. Behind the vehicle, a light emerged from the forest and stopped, pointing in the direction of the Gvagan. The hearty growl of Grizz's bike filled the night.

JC dove back into the SUV and punched the accelerator. The rear window blew out. Glass flying through the interior in a crystalline blizzard. "Jesus," JC exclaimed.

"Grizz," McCracken said, ducking. "He's got an AR-15."

"What in the hell's that?"

The Gvaggan plunged forward, snaking down the narrow track toward the main road, such as it was. "A semi-automatic rifle." Lynn handed the Glock back to McCracken. It took only a matter of seconds for the vehicle, zigging and zagging, to reach the road, or at least what appeared to be the road. Only the absence of trees suggested that pavement lay beneath a carpet of deep snow extending left and right. JC recalled they had come from the right. He cocked the steering wheel in that direction.

"Other way," McCracken snapped. JC stopped the vehicle. "Deeper into the mountains. Go."

"No. No. What the hell do you mean no? It's my vehicle. I'm the driver and I decide where we go." JC understood he'd reached a seminal moment. He hadn't forgotten his mission to get the proposal to Durham by the end of the day. There weren't many flips of the hourglass left. Maybe it already was too late given the ferocity of the storm, but he refused to surrender. Refused to let McCracken continue calling the shots. The guy was wounded, hurting, and probably like himself more than a little frightened. JC's conclusion, McCracken still needed him as a getaway driver.

McCracken pointed the Glock at JC's head. "That blow from Grizz must have scrambled what few brains you've got left."

"Cave, Lynn shouted from the rear seat. Vigorous admonishment. "Your call, caveman," JC said evenly. "I'm heading for Durham. You're welcome to come along if you'd like. If not, pull the damn trigger and get this over with."

The headlight from Grizzly's bike hove into view, boring through the shot-out rear window of the Mercedes and bathing its interior in supernova brightness. "It's Grizz," Lynn screamed. Grizzly's bike halted. Lynn ducked. "He's going to shoot again."

JC didn't wait to be blasted by either Grizzly or McCracken. He spun the steering wheel all the way to the right, hammered the accelerator. The vehicle fishtailed down the road. Grizzly shot pinged off the roof. JC eased off on the accelerator and got control of the Gvagan. Ahead of them, the SUV's headlights illuminated a family of white-tailed deer crossing the road, waiting single file through the deep white mantle. Embedded in the thick, swirling snowfall, they appeared almost ethereal, as if floating in and out of a dream.

McCracken lowered his pistol. "Well, I got to admit, you've got balls."

"Nothing to do with me. It's for my son. You'd understand if you had kids."

McCracken issued a derisive snort. "All I know about kids is they make good punching bags for their dads."

JC glanced at McCracken. "Yeah."

McCracken continued. "Anytime I didn't get the firewood chopped on time, forgot to feed the chickens, or maybe just because I was there. Wham. My nickname should have been Everlast."

"Sorry," JC said softly. He meant it. He'd never understood parents who abused their kids. Never got over the feeling that such children began life in the realm of the damned.

"I kind of figured it out after I left home," McCracken said. "My old man was unemployed most of the time. Didn't have a pot to piss in. Buried his troubles in cheap whiskey. Mom split from him, went to Vegas, so I was the only thing left he could exercise control over. And he did that with his fists." He paused, then added softly. "Douchebag."

Behind the GV vogen, Grizzly's headlight appeared once more, closing fast. Not surprising. All Grizzly had to do was set his fat Bob, as McCracken had called it, in one of the SUV's tire tracks and twist the throttle.

Chapter 26. Boogeyman.

Northeast Georgia. Early Friday morning, December 30th. JC held to the center of the road, or at least what he assumed was the center. He certainly didn't need to worry about encountering oncoming traffic, and he wanted to remain as far from the presumed edge of the road as he could. Only bad things could happen if the SUV plunged into a drainage ditch. He maintained a slow but steady speed, in truth a crawl, as the Jivvagen bulldozed through what must have been 2 feet of snow, and did so with the aplom of a tracked vehicle on an Arctic expedition. Blasts of wind with a fury born of the tundra hurled blinding shrouds of snow over and into the vehicle. Even with the heater on full blast, the interior of the Mercedes felt like a meat locker. JC and his passengers might as well have been riding in a convertible with the top down. The visibility, if not zero, seemed only a matter of yards. JC had the sensation of moving through a white universe where there was no beyond, only the here and now. Nothing else. Nothing else except for the bright comet that hung doggedly on their tail. Grizzly. He made no move to pass them and apparently didn't wish to attempt firing the AR while concentrating on keeping his bike upright.

"Got to lose that bastard," McCracken said.

"Yeah, like we can outrun him," JC retorted.

McCracken grunted and turned in his seat. "Get down," he said to Lynn. "Cover your ears." He rested his forearms on the back of the seat, took a two-handed grip on the Glock, and pointed it out the virtually glassless rear window. Grizzly must have seen McCracken's actions, and switched to highbeam, throwing a blinding shaft of light into the SUV. McCracken, startled, jerked the trigger as the brightness flooded into the vehicle. His shot blew through the roof of the Gvogen instead of flying out the rear window. "Shit!" he shouted. He steadied himself and squeezed off two more rounds, the empty shell casings arcing into JC's lap.

JC, deafened by the Glock's firing, watched through the rear view mirror as the headlight tipped into the snow, spun, and disappeared. "You got him!" he yelled, but couldn't hear himself. Instantly, regret surged through him. It didn't seem right to rejoice over the shooting of another human, but his emotional pendulum swung quickly back. He realized if it hadn't been Grizzly, it probably would have been one or all of them.

McCracken turned, settled back into the seat, and clutched at his side. "I don't think I hit him. I think he just laid the bike down and slid off the road."

"Maybe that's enough," Lynn said, sitting up again. "Maybe he'll quit."

"Not Grizzly," McCracken answered. "He's like the boogeyman. You can't kill him. He'll be back."

JC glanced at McCracken. "You okay?" McCracken stared back but didn't answer, which was answer enough.

They arrived at what appeared to be an intersection. Snow had plastered over the road sign, so JC had no idea which direction might lead to Clayton. He turned to McCracken. "Okay, Sakajia."

McCracken raised his head, scowled, and looked slowly around. "Sack Jawia, the Native American chick who helped Louis and Clark. Hell, I don't recognize anything." He sounded slightly out of breath. "Everything looks the same. White."

JC acknowledged their dilemma. They inhabited a featureless world. No shades of color, no perception of depth, no sense of direction. They might as well be prisoners in a sack of flour. He sat for a moment, head resting on the steering wheel as snow danced and darted through the Gvaggins interior in a mocking ballet.

"Hey," he said softly and turned to Lynn. "Keep an eye out for Grizz." He'd almost forgotten. Like his own car, the Gvagan had something called a command system that included GPS navigation. He activated it, entered Clayton as a destination.

McCracken watched. He shook his head. "No, not Clayton. You got a message to your wife, remember? She undoubtedly called the cops. So, they're on the lookout for a Mercedes SUV with Georgia dealer plates. Let's stay out of towns, especially ones in Georgia. Otherwise, this ends badly for both of us. I get caught, you don't make it to North Carolina."

JC had to agree with McCracken. Cops wouldn't be out patrolling in a blizzard. They'd be hunkered down close to their home bases, and a GV vogen, especially one with shot-out windows and a bullet hole or two, would stand out like a rabbi in a mosque.

"So, what do we do?" JC asked.

"Scan down on the map towards South Carolina." JC did. McCracken leaned close to the navigation screen. "There," he said. He pointed at a dot labeled Westminster. "Program that in. We'll follow the back roads into South Carolina, then toward I-85."

"So, you're on my side now."

"As long as it keeps me and Lynn alive." With a visibility nil in the swirling wind-whipped snow and road signs caked in white, the navigation system proved its worth, highlighting intersections and turns that remained otherwise invisible. JC held the GV vog in at a steady yet snail-like pace as it wallowed through the storm like a landbound icebreaker. In truth, he couldn't see a thing except for the shimmering brightness of the headlight beams reflecting off the thick, relentless snowfall. He hunched forward, leaning against the steering wheel, almost willing his vision to see things that couldn't be seen. Futile, he realized he gave up, sat back, and let the GPS guide him.

"Like flying by instruments," he said, though he had never flown a plane. "And it doesn't help I've got snow spinning around in the cockpit." He looked pointedly at McCracken.

"Only because you acted like an asshole," McCracken said.

"I didn't shoot it out. You did, Cave," JC countered.

"Okay," McCracken growled. "Next time, I'll blow your brains out instead of a window. That's comfort."

Oh JC hammered the brakes, but too late. The Gvagan slid forward, nosing into the boughs of a massive pine lying prone across the road. A victim of the storm.

"What happened?" Lynn asked.

"Tree?" JC said. "Guess I better get out and take a look." He opened the door, hopped out into knee-deep snow, and struggled to the front of the vehicle. A built-in brush guard seemed to have absorbed the brunt of the encounter with the tree with bent and scratched grill work the only visible damage. He climbed back into the jebagen.

"Looks okay?" he said.

"Now what?" Lynn asked. "We backtrack and maybe run into Grizz."

"Or we could just sit here and wait for him." McCracken, who appeared to have been half asleep, joined the conversation. "Not much of an option. Turn this thing around and head back to the last intersection."

"Then what?" Lynn said.

"Saka Jia's digital daughter," JC answered and patted the navigation screen. He performed a three-point turn, set the SUV into the tire tracks he just made, and drove off, moving a bit faster now that he had a ready-made trail to follow. Lynn did have a point. What about Grizzly? McCracken seemed doubtful he'd put him out of the game, so he likely was still on their trail. If they encountered him head-on, it could be an ugly scene. On the other hand, if they could get back to the previous intersection before Grizz caught up with them, it could work out well. Diverging tire tracks might confuse him.

They reached the intersection in a matter of minutes without meeting Grizzly. JC stopped and programmed an alternate route into the navigation system, one he hoped would carry them east and south in the direction of South Carolina and the interstate. But that didn't happen. They'd been on the only road in the tiny arrowhead of northeast Georgia that crossed the Chatahoochee River into South Carolina. Now the GPS system vetoed them southwest back toward Clayton. JC studied the proposed route. It eventually moved them off the road to Clayton and southward through virtually uninhabited terrain with switchbacks, ridges, and hollows. It would be an arduous trip, slow and dangerous. But unless they encountered more fallen trees, the GVEN should be up to the job. They should be able to reach another highway that would carry them across the Chatahoochee into South Carolina.

"Lynn," JC said, "There's a picnic cooler back there with some sandwiches and cookies and stuff. You want to see if you can fist something out for us to eat? I'm starving. If you and Cave want something, help yourselves."

"I think Cave's asleep," she said. Soft snores from McCracken confirmed her assessment. "Well, grab a bite for yourself, then. I'll take a roast beef if you can find it."

Lynn dug through the basket. "Oh Jesus," JC said.

"What?"

The navigation screen just went blank. No satellite signal. He thumped the screen with his forefinger as though that might restore it to life. Nothing. Truly driving blind now. He slowed the Gvog into a creep.

"What's the matter? Can you fix it?"

Another eddy of snow curled through the vehicle's interior, a slap in the face emphasizing just how bad off their situation had suddenly become. Lost in the middle of nowhere in a blizzard with a pissed-off outlaw biker likely still on their tail.

"I don't know what's wrong with it. Might be something electrical. Maybe a loose connection." He slapped the unit with the palm of his hand. The screen continued to display no satellite signal. A kraken awoke.

"What the hell?"

"The nav unit is kaput," JC said. McCracken mumbled something, sat up, and stared at the screen. "It still has power."

JC shrugged. "So, so there's nothing wrong with it. Why did it stop working?"

"Because it lost the SAT signal. I know that. Why do you think that happened?" JC stopped the SUV.

"Do you want to play a game or do you have an idea?"

"I'm just a dumb biker and a wanted felon. How could I possibly have an idea?"

"I never said you were dumb. You told me you did well in college. But you had to be thinking, 'What a right?'" McCracken winced and leaned back against the headrest. JC didn't answer.

"Where's the antenna?" McCracken said, his voice low. He seemed to have to force the words from his mouth. For a moment, the question seemed a non sequitur to JC. Then he got it. Oh. He opened the door, stepped out onto the narrow running board of the vehicle, and scanned the roof. He spotted a small solid mount of ice and snow the size of several generous scoops of ice cream just above the center of the windshield. He stretched out and knocked the crusty pile away from a stubby black antenna. He ducked his head back into the interior.

"We got a signal," Lynn announced. McCracken looked up, smiled, then leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.

"Here's your roast beef," Lynn said. She tossed a sandwich onto JC's seat. "Looks like your wife thought she was packing for a picnic." She pulled out a red and white checkered tablecloth, an apparent fugitive from an Italian restaurant, and displayed it for JC.

"Let me see that," he said. Lynn handed it to him. He folded it into fours, then held it up against the shattered window next to his seat. "It might work. There's a roll of duct tape behind the rear seat," he said. "And a utility knife. See if you can find them."

Lynn hesitated. "Knife so I can cut the tape. I'm going to secure the tablecloth over the window. At least it'll keep the snow out of my face."

From the front seat, without opening his eyes, McCracken said, "It's okay, babe. He's not a commando."

"Unfortunately," JC thought. Lynn handed him the tape and knife. In short order, he had a jury-rigged shield over the window. He didn't know if it would hold, but at the low speeds they'd been traveling, it should do just fine. He surveyed his work. "People think we're Appalachian hillbillies driving a $100,000 beater," he said. He handed the tape and knife back to Lynn.

"Not likely," she responded. "Cuz there's nobody around to see us."

JC stepped out onto the running board one last time to make certain the antenna remained clear. That's when he heard it. The snarl of an engine riding the wind, fading in and out. Not a truck. Something smaller. And that could be only one thing, one person. JC looked back up the road. No headlight beam. At least not yet. A kraken heard it too and moved the Glock onto his lap.

"Go," he commanded.

Chapter 27. Encounter.

Northeast Georgia. Early Friday morning, December 30th. JC tore into his sandwich while steering with one hand. Probably not the safest way to maneuver an SUV on a twisting snow-encrusted road, but his hunger trumped the risk. Besides, at 10 to 15 mph, he wasn't exactly moving at NASCAR speeds. The snow, driven by a saber-toothed wind, showed no signs of relenting. Lynn nibbled on a ham and cheese sandwich and kept watch out the rear window for Grizzly. McCracken continued to doze.

At some point, close to 5:00 a.m., they crossed the Chatahoochee into South Carolina, and still no Grizzly. "Think we lost him?" JC said.

McCracken snapped an eye open. "Grizzly? Not a chance. He's still back there just being careful. Remember, he's on a bike. That's pretty damn treacherous. Even though he's using our tracks. Plus, his face is getting plastered with snow. That'll slow him but not stop him. He's highly motivated."

"What have you got he wants so badly?"

"My our retirement," McCracken said. He glanced toward Lynn. "You want to be more specific?"

"No. Let's just say whatever it is, you don't want to get stopped by the cops. By the time things got sorted out, your deadline for getting to Durham would be nothing but a sweet remembrance." JC fit the pieces together. "So now I'm a drug runner."

McCracken didn't respond. JC drew a deep breath. How much worse could things get? As if the blizzard weren't enough, he had a cop shooter beside him, an angry outlaw biker behind him, and a case full of illegal drugs inside his vehicle. All I wanted to do was deliver a proposal.

The terrain became less severe, more rolling as they pressed southeastward. JC picked up a little speed. The road remained unplowed, but at least straightened out. The G Vagen's headlights cutting through the storm bounced off an abandoned pickup stuffed into a snow drift on the side of the road.

"Hold it," McCracken said. "Stop, Lynn. Give me your flashlight." He pointed the beam at the truck's rear license plate. "We could use that."

"What?" JC said. "The plate?"

"We may stand..."

out because we're a G Wagon or whatever this thing is, but a Carolina license instead of a Georgia dealer's plate might help our cause, might make folks a bit less curious.

You mean aside from the fact we've got a red and white diaper taped over a window, no glass in the rear window, and a couple of holes not made by woodpeckers?

McCracken smiled. Don't be such a gloomy Gus. Grab a screwdriver and get out there.

JC pulled a screwdriver and pair of pliers from a tool kit in the rear of the Mercedes, trumped through the snow to the pickup, unscrewed the plate, and had it on the Mercedes in less than 5 minutes. After mounting the plate, he stood and listened. Nothing but the low-pitched roar of the wind through the pines reached his ears. Perhaps they'd pulled out a bigger lead on Grizzly than he'd thought, or maybe the guy had given up the chase. He climbed back into the GVogen.

I didn't hear Grizz out there, he announced.

He's out there, trust me, McCracken said. He won't give up until he's dead. Or we are.

Wonderful, JC muttered and drove off. They reached the outskirts of the tiny town of Westminster around 6. McCracken, seemingly more alert than earlier, called for another stop.

Let's assume they've got at least a small police force here. He said someone might be up and about, so we probably should stay off the main drag. He fiddled with the navigation system and zoomed in on the town. I'm thinking we go this way. He pointed at a complex of narrow, crisscrossing roads on the south side of Westminster.

JC eased the GV vogen forward. Looks like someone is up and about. Fresh tracks seemed the snow-covered highway they'd been following. McCracken examined them.

Might be a police cruiser or a farmer. McCracken shrugged. Whatever. We better take to the secondary roads now, just in case. He studied the map more closely. Take a right at the next intersection. We can weave our way around without having to go through the center of town and reach another highway that leads to the interstate.

JC turned into a warren of semi-ural, semi-suburban lanes, dark, white, and silent. He moved slowly, trying to guess where the center of the streets lay, buried as they were under a thick blanket of snow. If someone had just plopped him down here without the benefit of a GPS, he would have guessed he was slipping through a small New England village in the dead of winter, not through a laid-back whistle stop in the deep south. To JC, the snow appeared to have slackened, but maybe his imagination had kicked in, or wishful thinking had taken over. Achy and tired, he realized the toll the trip had already taken, though they'd traveled less than 40 miles. The slick roads, the near-zero visibility, the pursuit by Grizzly, the gunfire, all had served to bind his muscles and nerves into rock-solid knots.

I think there's a thermos of coffee back there, he said to Lynn. "Maybe it's still warm." She rustled around and came up with it. "It's still steaming," she said as she poured him a cup. She leaned forward to hand it to him. He turned to say thanks. That's when he felt McCracken's hand tap his thigh.

"Don't stop," McCracken said, his gaze fixed on something out the windshield dead ahead. "Just keep going."

JC saw it, too. A police car. Blue lights strobing through the snow, sitting crosswise in the road, blocking it. JC glanced at McCracken.

"Don't stop. Don't turn around," McCracken said. "That would really draw his interest. Just ease up to him like anyone else would and ask what's going on. You don't think he's waiting for us? Think about it. How in the hell would he know we're coming?"

McCracken slipped the Glock into his parka.

"For God's sake, don't use that thing," JC said, his heart suddenly banging like a string of firecrackers going off.

McCracken kept his right hand on the weapon and with his left took the coffee from Lynn and sipped it. "Be cool," he said. "Just be cool." He turned to Lynn. "Put the ades case on the floor. Cover it with something."

"There's some blankets behind the seat," JC said, his voice wobbly.

The Gvagan rolled up to the cruiser and stopped. "Just remember," McCracken said. "We both want the same thing here, not to arouse suspicion."

Sure. With a rag over the window and a .45 caliber hole in the roof.

A police officer, slightly overweight, a black watch cap tugged down over his ears and eyebrows, wriggled from the cruiser and waited through the snow toward the GBogen. He flicked on his flashlight and aimed the beam through the SUV's windshield. McCracken's right hand moved slightly, adjusting the position of his pistol. JC swallowed hard. If he had to, he'd yell a warning or disrupt McCracken's aim, but he didn't want it to come to that. He cracked open the door and stuck his head out.

"Hey," he said, mustering more confidence than he had. "What's going on?"

Windy Hill Towers. Friday morning, December 30th. Tom's alarm buzzed at 6:30. He pushed out of bed, shuffled to the bathroom, then wandered toward the living room. He didn't get far before he remembered he had a house guest and retreated to his bedroom to get fully dressed. Once clothed, he headed down the hallway toward the living room again. He stopped when he reached the door of the guest bedroom. Open. He rapped on the door frame.

"Sophie, you up?" No response. He called again. Silence. He leaned through the doorway cautiously and peered into the room. The bed, rumpled, sat empty. No Sophie. The door to the bathroom had been open when he passed it. She hadn't been in there. Deciding she'd dressed and gone into the kitchen or the living room, he continued down the hall.

"Hey, Sophie," he called out. "Good morning." No response. In the kitchen, he found a hand-scrolled note on the counter.

Tom, thanks for your hospitality. I truly appreciated it. See you at work. Sophie the lioness. Smiley face.

The note, terse and impersonal except for the lioness touch and smiley face, took him back. But then, what did he expect? A message signed xoxo. No, not from Sophie. Ever the professional, ever the boss concerned with propriety, Sans's one little slip. He wondered how long ago she'd taken off. Perhaps he could still spot her. He trotted to the living room window and looked out and down, but there was no out and down, only an opaque void of dimensionless greyness. No street lights, no traffic lights, no headlights, no building lights. For all Tom knew, the city of Atlanta had ceased to exist.

A brilliant flash of blue-white light sent him stumbling back from the window in surprise. For a millisecond, the darkness outside transformed into a shimmering fabric of streaked whiteness. He remembered now the upper air disturbance, instability, lightning. As if seconding his assessment, a rumble of thunder shook the air with teeth-rattling vibrations. The condo plunged into total blackness. He wondered how much of the metro area had been rendered powerless by the storm, either by snow and wind bringing down power lines and trees or by lightning taking out transformers. If ever a city had been rendered helpless, Atlanta had to be it. New York City had been bodyslammed by Sandy, but vehicular traffic and emergency services had continued to function, at least on a reduced level. New Orleans had been devastated by Katrina, but even there rescues by boat and helicopters had been carried out. But Atlanta, Atlanta had suffered a traumatic amputation of its transportation and emergency capabilities. For a city that struggled to deal with 2 inches of snow, 2 feet became hopeless. Even the plows had run up a white flag. If structures caught fire, they would burn to the ground. Medical emergencies would go unaddressed. Crimes unresponded to. At least until the blizzard abated, a metropolitan area with a population of more than half the state's population would teeter on the edge of anarchy. And Sophie, what the hell was she thinking? Taking off in the dark in the middle of a historic storm through snow-blocked streets.

Tom scrambled to retrieve his flashlight, feeling his way through a maze of tables and chairs and jutting counters to the kitchen drawer where he stored it. Not there. Sophie must have found it. At least she had light, but he didn't. No, wait. He remembered one stowed in his nightstand. He performed his blind man routine down the hall to the bedroom. He fished around in the nightstand and found a fist-sized flashlight that probably didn't pump out any more brightness than a votive candle. Following its anemic beam, he rushed to the front closet, dug out his parka, gloves, and Timberland hiking shoes, and bundled up. He still couldn't believe Sophie had left for work in these conditions. "If she'd gotten lost or fallen..." "Like, this should be my problem," he muttered as he worked his way down 17 flights of stairs to the condo's lobby. He stepped outside into a world devoid of tangible reference points. The wind tore at him. The snow slashed the exposed parts of his face. He cinched the parker's hood even tighter. He aimed the virtually useless flashlight at the surface of the snow, trying to pick up Sophie's trail. A faint gully in the snow, already drifted over, gave the only hint to the direction she had gone. He stepped off, following her tracks, her presumed tracks. After a couple of minutes, he stopped and lifted his head. A stab of panic seized him. He realized he had no idea where he was. Somewhere between the condo and the NETV building, yes, but he could have been on Alaska's north slope, too. He was that alone, that isolated. He gulped a lungful of icy, snow-filled air and calmed himself. He swung the light in a slow circle, searching for something, anything that might offer a clue as to whether he was standing in the middle of a street or in a vacant lot. The beam caught the base of a light standard, a utility pole, a row of tall bushes buried in snow. Somehow, perhaps with the help of a more powerful flashlight, Sophie had managed to stay oriented, moving toward any TV. He pushed on, following the faint depression left by his boss. He sank deep into the snow with each step and shortly found himself gasping for breath. At last he reached the entrance to the corporate parking lot, marked ironically by a hillock of snow under which slumbered Sophie's Lexus. Exhausted, he stumbled into the lobby. He bent forward, hands on his knees, and wheezed like a steam locomotive from a bygone era. Manfred, the security officer on duty, sat behind his lobby desk.

Didn't expect to see anybody this morning, he said, his voice thick with congestion and lack of sleep. But first, Miss Sophie, she come in. Now you, who we had time to be out and about. He drew out the word "bad."

Only mad dogs and Englishmen, Tom said and wobbled off toward the forecast center.

What? Manfred called after him.

Tom entered the production area, pleased to see the auxiliary power units had kicked in, supplying light and heat to the space. In the forecast center, he spotted Al and Sophie deep in conversation. Al had undoubtedly spent the night at NEV, catching a catnap here and there, but remaining on top of things. Tom pushed into the center and uttered his good mornings.

"Hey, Junior," Al responded, his clothes looking as wrinkled as his face.

Sophie, in contrast, ignored Tom's greeting. Her coolness unsettled him, suggesting any apparent thaw in their professional relationship had been superficial and temporary, at least on her part. Any ceasefire in their workplace cold war had been voided. Then again, maybe he'd read too much into their evening together. Whatever. The thought came with a wisp of disappointment. Sophie, her discussion with Al complete, crooked a finger at Tom.

"My office," she said and strode off.

Al squinted at Tom. "You just can't stay off her list, can you?"

Chapter 28. The Ladies, Western South Carolina, Friday morning, December 30th.

Didn't expect anybody out in this weather. The police officer approached the GVO and clouds of vapor puffed from his nose and mouth into the cold snowfall. Where are you all coming from? He obviously knew they weren't locals. JC turned to McCracken, wanting to key off him. McCracken knew this area, or at least JC hoped he did, and could probably come up with a convincing lie. With time running out to make it to Durham, he had to admit his captor was right. They both wanted, as bizarre as it seemed, the same thing, not to be stopped. Instead of McCracken, Lynn responded. She leaned over JC's shoulder.

"Whala," she said through the open door. "My husband." She inclined her head toward McCracken. "Had an appointment at the Takcoa Cancer Center this morning. We didn't want to miss it."

The cop reached the SUV's door and stopped. He examined the thin checkered tablecloth taped over the window.

Not what I'd expect on a Mercedes. I had a nasty encounter with a down pine tree, JC said, working hard to keep his voice steady. Visibility's crap in the snow.

Yeah, no, the officer responded. Lots of radio chatter about fallen trees and blocked roads. He took a step back from the G vagan and ran his gaze over it. JC's gut nodded. He knew the bullet hole in the roof would stand out like a peach in a pickle barrel.

"Hey, sir," Lynn chirped. "I'll bet you know my friend Tanya Gibson. She'd lived in Westminster like forever."

The cop moved his gaze to Lynn and smiled. "Can't say I do, miss. I don't necessarily know everybody in town. You must be cold out here, officer," Lynn said, keeping her patter going. She reached for the thermos. "We got an extra cup and the coffee's hot. Be glad to pull some for you."

"Well, that's okay. I got..."

"So, what are you doing out here anyway, waiting for bad guys or something? You should be home snug in your little Betty."

Lynn laughed lightly, the touch of a southern belle. She had her charm offensive turned on high, but JC wished she hadn't mentioned bad guys. It didn't seem well appropriate. His heart skipped a beat, but the officer appeared socially disarmed.

"No, not waiting for bad guys," he said. "There's a water main break on the TWA Highway. Roads a solid sheet of ice. I'm just sitting here to keep people off it. Didn't really expect anybody coming from this direction, though. You folks get lost. This isn't exactly the main road."

JC studied the officer's face, what little was visible below his watch cap. The guy may be a small-town cop, but he was good at not accepting things at face value. Think fast.

We were using the GPS, JC said. But it went kaput. We kind of got lost coming into Westminster.

"Maybe your antenna got snow covered and you lost your signal," the officer said. He reached over the roof toward the front of the Gvagan. "Looks okay now, though."

"Yeah, it is," JC said. "I think that was the problem."

Again, Lynn piped up from the back seat. "We got some sandwiches, sir," she said. "If you're hungry, we'd be more than glad to share. Let's see." She opened the picnic hamper. "There's roast beef and..."

JC broke into her chatter, afraid she might be overdoing it with the southern hospitality sticktick.

Look, I'm afraid we have to get going, officer, if we're going to make our appointment. Any suggestions on how to get around the iced-over section?

"Yeah, you're going to have to head back to the main drag and look for West King Street. Follow that out of town. It'll bring you back to the Taka Highway. Good thing you got this German halftrack. It's probably the only thing that can get around in this mess."

"Thanks. We appreciate your help." Lynn said, "Sure you don't want some?"

JC, wishing she'd shut up, interrupted her again, added his thanks, shut the door, and backed down the street away from the cop, not wanting to give him a chance to realize the rear window was missing, too, if he hadn't already. JC retraced their tracks to the main street and turned south.

"How'd he miss the bullet hole in the roof?" he asked. "Maybe he got distracted by Chatty Kathy back there."

McCracken looked at Lynn. "Or more likely, he just didn't see it because the roof is covered with snow."

"You think he was suspicious?"

"Sure, just because he's a small-town cop doesn't mean he's Barney Fife. Why didn't he hold us there if he was suspicious?" McCracken shrugged and grimaced.

"Still hurting?" JC asked.

"No, I just enjoy scrunching up my face for the amusement of others." McCracken leaned his head against the window.

"You need a doctor."

"Sure, I do, but we both know that's not going to happen. Doctors have to report gunshot wounds."

Oh, and to answer your question about why we weren't detained, maybe the cop wasn't sure. Maybe our story rang just true enough that he bought into it. He flashed a smile at Lynn.

Or roadblocks could be going up all over the place, JC said, taking a dimmer view of their circumstances.

Even if that's happening, McCracken said, "And it wouldn't be easy in these conditions, we've still got the advantage with, as the officer called it, our German halftrack. So where to?"

I-85. McCracken sat up and programmed a route into the GPS. "There," he said when he'd finished, "follow route 24 to the interstate just northwest of Anderson."

JC, back on an unplowed and untracked road, pushed southeastward through flat Carolina farmland, dark and silent under a deep snow cover. The snowfall had indeed diminished, but the incessant wind continued to whip streamers of snow over the landscape in a choreography worthy of the Arctic tundra. The Kraken sipped the coffee Lynn had handed him earlier.

"Were you scared back there when we encountered the cop?" he asked JC.

"Of course."

"Did you pray?"

"I forgot."

"No, I was. It just didn't enter my mind." JC knew where McCracken was headed with his question and didn't want to openly concede the point that his motivations had been fear-driven, not divinely inspired. He elected to change the topic.

"Lynn, JC asked, "How'd you come up with your little spiel for the cop? That was pretty good."

"Wasn't hard," she answered. "I was raised around here in Pickens, so I know the area well."

"And you have a girlfriend in Westminster?"

"No, in Easley. I just transplanted her."

"What about the cancer center?"

"My daddy died of lung cancer when I was 12. I remember making trips to Taco."

"I'm sorry," JC said. "I know about cancer." He told her about Cole, about why he was out here in the middle of a blizzard, about how he ended up with McCracken in his vehicle. Ulterior motive, of course. It wouldn't hurt to have some sympathy on his side if it helped them stay alive. He finished, then let the conversation lay low briefly before asking Lynn.

"How'd you and caveman get hooked up?"

"After daddy passed, I helped my mother raise my three younger sisters. It was hard. Daddy didn't have any life insurance. Mother didn't have a job or any skills for that matter. We managed to survive, subsist really, on government and church handouts. But I wanted more out of life than being a nanny to my sisters, living in a leaky shotgun shack and wearing hand-me-down rags from church."

"Good old Southern Baptists," McCracken interjected.

"Yeah, as if my life weren't tedious and boring enough, there I was stuck in a no drinking, no dancing, no fooling around with boys zone. I got damn tired of hearing God had a plan for me and that everything would work out fine in the end. All I had to do was be a good little girl, pray, and go to church. Tell you what, God had a plan for me. He must have shredded it by mistake. My life sucked. There was no way I was getting out of it by staying where I was or praying." Late anger threaded her words.

"So along came your white knight on a motorcycle," JC said.

"No, not quite. As soon as I was out of high school, I bailed out of Pickens and headed to Panama City Beach. Got a job at a dive called Beer Boobs and Bikinis. Tells you what kind of joint that was, but it turned out to be a place where knights in shining armor hung out." She ran her fingers through McCracken's hair. JC smiled. A match made in heaven. So, I rode off into the sunset on the back of a Harley.

Lynn said, "Fun, adventure, thrills. Cave is really just a big old teddy bear, you know. He's a good guy."

Sure he is. Aside from shooting a cop, sporting a rap sheet, and teaming up with outlaw bikers. JC turned his head toward McCracken.

Yeah, we'll have to knock back a few beers together sometime after this is all over.

McCracken, through pain-riddled, half-shot eyes, returned his gaze. "Your sarcasm aside, maybe you're a bit more optimistic about how this works out in the end than I am." He took another swallow of coffee, then went on. "I mean, really, what are the odds you make it to Durham in time? This blizzard is bad enough, but we've got a pissed-off biker and maybe the cops looking for us, too. I know Grizz and the cops really aren't your problem, but as far as Grizz is concerned, you're helping me, so you're the enemy. And if the cops catch us, you're suddenly my hostage. See what I mean? Bad juju all around."

The Natural Environment Television Network, Friday morning, December 30th.

With Sophie's office door already open, Tom rapped on the frame to announce his presence. She motioned him in while fixing her attention on a large wall-mounted flat-screen TV monitor. With at least a modicum of trepidation, for he never really knew how to read her moods, he stepped into her office. She looked remarkably fresh for having spent the night at his place without the benefit of toiletries, cosmetics, or a change of clothes, and then risen at 0 dark 30 to hike to work through a snowstorm. She appeared to be one of those rare women who looked better without makeup than with.

"Have a seat," she said, her gaze still on the monitor. "Let's watch this."

One of any TV's old-timers, Art Icarino, who bore a mop of hair like a Kansas wheat field, faced the camera and tried to look grim. Tom knew otherwise. Like most meteorologists, when it came to big weather, Art's gut response would fall more into the teenager with a new Corvette category.

"If you're one of the lucky ones in the Southeast who still has power this morning," Art said. "Allow me to apprise you. You're waking up to a historic weather event." He smiled. He couldn't help it. Metro Atlanta, for instance, is being pounded by true blizzard conditions with the visibility near zero and winds gusting to 45 mph.

A video from Hartsfield-Jackson popped onto the screen. In the background, the international terminal loomed out of the gray gloom like a deserted warehouse. In the foreground, a snow-covered automobile, a taxi or police car perhaps, sat buried like some prehistoric animal trapped by a sudden ice age. If someone had told Tom it's really a video from Moscow's Domo Deovo International Airport, he would have believed it.

Officially, Art voiced over a more serious tone to his voice. 19 inches of snow have fallen on Atlanta, though some northern suburbs report as much as 2 ft. Drifts to five and six feet are common. Virtually all roads are impassible. At least a dozen structure fires have gone unchecked with firefighters unable to reach them. Medical emergencies are not being responded to with EMTs stranded. At least three deaths have resulted and sadly authorities expect many more. The National Guard is employing Humvees in attempts to reach the direst emergencies, but even those vehicles are struggling. Outside of the Atlanta metro area, Art went on. Reports are flooding in of people trapped on secondary roads, stuck in their cars with no way for help to reach them. Around the southeast, the number of people stranded at airports, including Hartsfield-Jackson, is estimated at 10,000. Locations affected include Charlotte, Columbia, and Raleigh-Durham. Among the more urgent situations we've heard of are several nursing homes in and around Atlanta whose auxiliary power generators have failed. National Guard troops, including medics, are making valiant efforts to reach these facilities, but so far have not been successful.

"Damn," Sophie muttered. "I didn't think it would be this bad."

"Gandalf was right," Tom added softly, referring to Al. "All along he was right."

"Geyser's rule," Sophie said. "Never discount the been there, seen that factor."

"Yeah." On television, Art continued speaking. The governor has declared a state of emergency for North Georgia, including Atlanta. He's also initiated action to make the state eligible for disaster aid under federal law. The on-screen image morphed into a weather map.

"Here's the current situation," Art said. "The surface low or storm center is crawling northeastward, still strengthening just off the South Carolina coast. Meanwhile, the upper-level storm center packing intense snowfall rates and even thunder and lightning is trundling across northern Georgia. Just ahead of that low, aloft, a tongue of dry air is swept northwestward into South Carolina. So, ironically, at that same time, Atlanta's getting blitzed by white-out conditions. Much of upstate South Carolina is catching a break. That will change significantly as the day goes on, it seems." A more ominous tone wrapped Art's words.

"Here's what we expect to happen." The map image switched to an afternoon forecast. "The upper low, or what meteorologists sometimes refer to as a comma head cloud because of its appearance on satellite images, will pivot over the Carolinas as the day goes on. That means that while the snow will taper off in North Georgia, it will return with a vengeance over the western Carolinas. By late morning, heavy snow will be falling in upstate South Carolina and by late afternoon in the Charlotte-Greensboro-Raleigh corridor in North Carolina. That area, by the way, has already been dumped on by a foot or more of snow that has fallen in advance of the surface low."

"What a mess," Sophie said and muted the TV. But at least we were on top of it.

Tom knew the jab was meant as a poke in the eye with a sharp stick at him. Al and Sophie had led the charge. He'd been dragged along like a recalcitrant child, kicking and screaming. In 99 out of a hundred similar situations, he would have been right. But the only one that counted was this one. Now he understood why he'd been summoned to the lioness's lair. The network didn't need a chief of meteorology who had more the qualities of a leader of the Lakota native Americans than say the Comanches. Sophie, clad in her jeans, sweater, and Uggs from the previous day, stood and walked to where Tom sat. She pursed her lips. Tom recognized the warning sign. Here it comes. As Al had said, "You just can't stay off her list, can you?" He stood and faced her.

"I'd like to resign rather than get the axe," he said. "If that's okay with you. Looks better on the resume."

But maybe she liked the taste of blood.

Chapter 29. Trapped. The Natural Environment Television Network. Friday morning, December 30th.

"Why on earth would you think I want to fire you?" Sophie asked. As usual, she stood in violation of Tom's personal space. "As usual," he found it simultaneously uncomfortable and titillating.

"We didn't exactly see eye to eye on the storm," he said. "I don't necessarily need yes men around me. Just because you get my dander up at times doesn't mean I don't appreciate independent thinking."

She stepped around Tom and shut the door.

Then why am I here? Summoned to the boss's office, he asked.

Because you scared me, she walked back to him.

I scared you? he exclaimed. I thought I was going to find your body in a snow drift this morning.

That's sweet. You were worried about me, he lowered his head. Yeah, he muttered in impeccable Sophie style. She'd pushed him off balance, but this time he realized he had a counterpunch. He looked up.

You said I scared you. How?

She stared at him for a long time without responding, as though deep in thought, perhaps grappling with a reluctance to continue down the path she'd taken an initial step on several days ago. Finally, she allowed a gentleness to creep into her eyes and leaned even closer to him.

"Because," she whispered, "when I saw you this morning, I wanted to embrace you, kiss you, and I was terrified I'd do something in front of others that might prove, well, embarrassing to both of us." She reached out, stroked his face, then pivoted, and returned to her chair. Tom, a little wobbly, sat. He waited for Sophie to continue. A faint blush tinted her cheeks, a complimenting contrast to the dark whiteness outside the window behind her. She suddenly looked more like a woman and less like a boss.

"Thank you for last night," she said. "I know you could have left me stuck in that snow drift out there, but you were a gentleman and stopped. Even though I'm pretty sure you didn't want to, that you wanted to see her highness brought low, passive-aggressive retaliation for the verbal slings and arrows I've let fly at you." She paused and fingered a gold chain around her neck, perhaps hoping Tom would join with her in a conversation about them, but since he had no idea where Sophie's soliloquy was bound, he elected to remain silent and let her go wherever her thoughts and words carried her. Never pass up an opportunity to keep your mouth shut. She bit her lip, an expression he hadn't seen before, then resumed speaking.

"I suspect I've been a little too hard on you at times in the office. Overreacted. I apologize for that. It was, I suppose, a defensive action on my part because..." she paused again.

He waited. "Jesus. Tom, will you help me out here? Say something? This isn't easy for me."

"What isn't easy? Where are you going with this? What do you want me to say?"

Sophie sighed audibly and tilted her head toward the ceiling. "You know I'm attracted to you. A boss isn't supposed to let that happen. I probably put too much effort into keeping you at arm's length, but I'm not sure I want to do that any longer."

Choose words carefully. He drew a deep breath and let it out.

Then we have to figure out a way to make this work.

She smiled. "We are on common ground."

Then may I tell you something else. He waited. Two confessions.

She said, "I'm standoffish when it comes to men. Ever since my divorce, Phillip, my ex, was a five-star He was the neighborhood gunslinger, and I, wrapped up in my career, was the last to find out. And then, only after he'd notched about half a dozen kills, and one of his previous conquests called it to my attention. One of those hell hath no fury things. Talk about getting bodyslammed."

"I'm sorry," Tom said.

"Nothing to be sorry about. It happens. But now, ironically, as a free agent, I find myself on the other side of the playing field, so to speak. Instead of the innocent wife, now I'm the target of wannabe gunslingers. I'm even an outcast in my own country club because the wives shun me. Each absolutely sure I'm a threat to her marriage. So, I guess I go overboard attempting to keep men at arm's length."

I know it's not fair, Sophie, but if I may offer a male perspective, because of your success, you've become a triple threat.

She cocked her head. "You're a woman of some fame, at least within the broadcast industry. You're well off, maybe even wealthy, and you're, well, physically attractive. In essence, you're a natural target for a certain group of guys. I suppose you would say type-A, testosterone-fueled males. And you're probably the subject of fantasies for a whole bunch of others. Yourself included."

Tom felt a surge of blood rushing to his cheeks. "Yes, since we're playing truth or dare. I'm relieved. I was worried I'd lost my female sixth sense. I kind of thought you were, well, hiding something last night, you know, under the covers."

A shadow of a smile crept across her face and she waited. The warmth in Tom's cheeks reached egg-frying levels. Evil woman. He loved it.

"It's okay. I'm not trying to embarrass you. If it will help level the playing field, I had the same urges last night. In your guest bed. I had to uh, service myself. Women do that too, you know." She stared at her desk, then looked up. "Too much information, I suppose. Anyhow, my thank you for last night is genuine. You were a gentleman. No hinting around about a sexual playtime. No double entendres, no leers. You didn't hit on me. Didn't make a pass. I was almost," she chuckled. "Disappointed."

"So, last night was a test. I guess it turned out that way." She gazed directly at him. A soft stare, not a hard one. Disconcerting.

"I passed." She nodded.

"So, now what?"

"She shrugged. "Come on, Sophie. You're the boss. Get back to work," she said softly. "Or I'll chew your ass out again."

Tom returned to the forecast center. Al looked up as he entered. "You still got all your body parts? She's in love with me."

Tom made it sound like a throwaway line. "Sure she is, Junior. Watch out. I'll bet she's a black widow, a sexual cannibal. Mates and kills." Anyhow, you should be so lucky. He snorted a laugh and wheezed. Might not be a bad way for you to go out. Al tugged at his scraggly beard.

You know, it might not be.

What's that?

Last time I got it up, Franklin Roosevelt was in office. Your kids got an erector set I could borrow?

Western South Carolina. Friday morning, December 30th.

Undercutting the pewter overcast, a thin sliver of bronze, a harbinger of dawn, threaded the southeastern horizon. The snowfall had ceased, but the landscape remained white and windswept. JC held a steady speed on the snow-buried road. He checked the time: a little after 7. A surge of optimism rippled through him. If the weather held, even at his current plotting pace, he should be able to reach Durham by 5:00 p.m., a little less than 10 hours.

"When we hit the interstate," he said aloud, "we'll be able to make better time if the snow doesn't start again."

McCracken grunted and raised his head. He'd been dozing on and off.

You're assuming the interstate is open. They ought to be plowing. The snow stopped. This is South Carolina, not South Dakota. My, aren't you the bluebird of happiness?

McCracken sat up and placed the Glock in the footwell. The bluebird of happiness died of exposure. Look, I want to put as much distance as I can between me and Georgia. But I got to be realistic. As my old granny used to say, if you think you got it made, you done miscalculated the situation.

"Granny may have had a point," Lynn chimed in, a note of concern resonating in her words. "I caught a flash of light behind us a few seconds ago."

JC glanced in the rear-view mirror. Nothing.

Could be a farmer up early. Was it a single beam or a pair?

Couldn't tell. It was just there for an instant.

McCracken retrieved the pistol. "Put your foot in it a little harder," he said to JC. "I'll guarantee you it's Grizz."

It's not going to do us any good if I try to go faster and we slide off the road. Besides, we aren't sure it's Grizzly.

I am. I know that son of a...

There it is again, Lynn said. JC saw it. Twin beams, bright, boring through the lead and dawn. Not a Harley, a car or truck, maybe 3/4 of a mile behind them, closing fast, following their tracks. JC pressed down on the accelerator with just a little more force.

"Better go," McCracken urged. "He's coming hard."

"It's not Grizz," JC said. "I'll bet it's that cop."

"Don't be so sure," McCracken said. "Cops use radios. I don't see any blue strobes either."

The GVagan fishtailed, but the deep snow prevented it from careening off the road. JC kept his foot on the accelerator, the muscles in his shoulders and hands tightening into knots of fiber pulled taut.

"Get down," McCracken said to Lynn. "Just in case." He rested the Glock on the back of his seat and pointed it out the glassless rear window.

"Interstate coming up!" JC shouted. He reached the interchange. The road went up and over the interstate. He braked as he brought the SUV down the opposite side of the overpass, then whipped a sharp right onto the looping entrance ramp to the highway. No signs or barricades indicated the interstate was closed. In fact, there appeared to be a single lane that had been recently plowed. A sparse and widely spaced line of traffic, mostly 18-wheelers, many with chains, trundled along in the cleared lane, probably moving at 35 or 40 mph over packed snow and ice. The unplowed portion of the freeway remained interred beneath at least a foot and a half of powder. JC, feeling more confident in his driving, accelerated onto I-85. He maneuvered in between two big rigs and joined the loose parade of traffic slogging northeastward.

"It's that cop from Westminster. He just went over the overpass," Lynn said, looking out the rear window.

"It's Grizz. I know it's Grizz," McCracken said. "A hick-town cop ain't going to chase us down. He'd call the state police and let them handle it."

Whoever it is, JC said, by the time he's on the interstate, we'll have a buffer of three or four 18-wheelers between him and us. He couldn't come to grips with which would be worse, having the cops or Grizzly on their tail.

"That's great till we have to exit," McCracken said. "Then he'll be right behind us."

"Maybe he'll run out of gas," Lynn offered.

"Oh," JC said. "What?"

McCracken whipped his head around to look behind them. "No, not that," JC answered. "I'd forgotten about gas." He pointed at the gas gauge. It indicated less than half a tank left, and they were nowhere near halfway to Durham. He ran a quick calculation on the command system. "About 140 miles to empty."

"Sign back there said 135 to Charlotte," McCracken responded. "So, we got a little over 3 hours to figure something out." He paused, then suggested. "Or maybe we'll just have to wrap things up in Charlotte."

"Not going to happen," JC snapped. "I'm going to Durham."

"Sure you are," McCracken said. "Just like the Titanic was going to New York."

JC settled the GVO and into a steady cruise between two tractor trailers, knowing that whoever was in the car wouldn't risk trying to intercept them by charging into the snow-covered passing lane. He'd merely sit back and await an opportunity. So, in essence, they blundered into a trap, albeit one that wouldn't snap shut until they attempted to exit the interstate. That's when they'd lose the protection of the big rigs and the cop or Grizzly would pounce.

Got any ideas how to shake whoever's back there? JC asked.

Diesel fumes from the big rig directly ahead of them filled the interior of the Mercedes, swirling in through the flimsily covered window next to JC. He toyed with the idea of trying to pass the truck. A dangerous maneuver. But even if he could, they'd only get stuck behind another one. McCracken, looking pale and sounding weak, tapped JC on the arm.

Let's get something straight. That's not a cop back there. If it was, he'd have lit us up by now. It's Grizz. And you don't shake Grizz. You kill him.

No wonder people call you Caveman. Killing seems to be your solution to everything. Jesus, man.

My solution. How do you think Grizz got that police cruiser? You think he let Deputy Dog live to broadcast an alert? McCracken, his pupils narrowed to black BB's, glared at JC. Besides, I don't think I killed the trooper in Georgia. I was just trying to discourage him.

I suspect that's a distinction without a difference. Juries don't embrace people who shoot law enforcement officers.

Juries? How did juries get into this conversation? Sooner or later, you'll get caught.

Whoa, whoa, whoa. Caught for what?

Self-evident, don't you think?

Really? The only person who can place me at the scene is sitting next to me, helping me flee. Maybe you'd better think that over before you start babbling about the legal system. Ever hear of aiding and abetting?

The truck ahead of them downshifted and JC tapped his brakes.

I don't think it's aiding and abetting, JC snapped, when there's a .45 caliber pistol pointed at my head.

The Kraken scratched his chin and didn't respond immediately. "Well," he said after several moments, "You may have a point." He turned to Lynn. "You think he has a point?"

Lynn nodded. McCracken turned back to JC. "That doesn't leave many options for me then, does it?"

"What do you mean?" JC asked.

McCracken addressed Lynn again. "You could drive this thing if you had to, couldn't you?"

"Sure."

"Does that answer your question, Mr. Corporate America?" McCracken asked, his words tinged with implicit threat. JC, his throat tight and dry, swallowed hard.

Chapter 30. Rolling Prison. Western South Carolina. Friday morning, December 30th.

They continued northeastward in their incarceration between two semis. A buffer of four 18-wheelers separated the police car from the GVogen. JC had decided McCracken had made his case, that Grizzly manned the police vehicle and had probably shot the Westminster officer. So that put him, JC, at the mercy of two guys who had little compunction about offing cops. He acknowledged his survival odds had just slipped another notch. He struggled to stay focused and decided to address his situation as best he knew how, one step at a time.

"At least the snow has quit," Lynn said. She poured another cup of coffee and offered it to JC. The odor of the still-warm brew mingled with the frigid air funneling into the vehicle through the driver's side window and the heat blasting out of the dashboard vents. They rode in silence. JC sipped his coffee and tried not to think about how things might end. Although he developed an uneasy alliance with McCracken, he'd almost forgotten the guy wasn't exactly a friend, that theirs was a partnership formed under duress. He understood that when all was said and done, he was nothing more than a disposable liability to the man seated next to him. About Grizzly, he harbored no illusions. Grizzly would blow out his candles. He finished the coffee and handed the cup back to Lynn, then addressed McCracken.

Cave, promise me one thing.

McCracken grunted.

Promise me you'll let me deliver the proposal before you, you know, do anything. Do anything like terminate me. A tightness like a python crushing its prey wrapped around JC's chest as he spoke the words.

McCracken snorted, a derisive response. "You want promises? Go to church or visit a used car salesman. I'm asking for my son." JC hoped his voice sounded assertive, not desperate, but he knew otherwise. He glanced at Lynn. Would he have an ally there? Female sympathy? Apparently not. She sat staring out the side window at the alabaster landscape. To occupy his mind, JC ran some calculations in his head. He estimated there were 260 miles to Durham. At 35 to 40 mph, it would take roughly 7 hours to get there, plus whatever time would be eaten up stopping for gas. He realized the estimate harbored two huge assumptions. That Grizzly wouldn't catch them and that the snowfall wouldn't resume. He switched the Mercedes radio on and selected the weather band. He heard what he didn't want to, a prediction that slammed into him as though he'd been flung to the floor and kicked in the gut by someone wearing work boots. Blizzard conditions were forecast to return to the western Carolinas within a matter of hours.

"What's the deal?" McCracken asked. Apparently, he'd been only half listening.

"We're in some sort of lull right now," JC said. "I didn't understand it all, but I guess there's a surface storm and an upper-air storm, and in between there's a dry pocket or slot or something like that."

So, we're in that dry pocket. I guess the trouble is the upper air storm. The second storm is headed this way.

That means we're screwed, right? JC clenched his jaw.

At least I am. If the snow and wind return, I might as well be trying to reach Denmark as Durham.

They drove on, continuing up I-85 in their little prisoner parade, tracking along the single plowed lane through a gray dawn and a bleak, snow-covered southern landscape. A scene so out of place it seemed to JC it could have been a photograph from another time and another venue, not something he was part of. McCracken dozed off, his fitful sleep punctuated by involuntary groans, soft but audible. Lynn leaned forward from the rear seat close to JC's ear.

He's really more bark than bite, you know, she whispered.

I wouldn't want to stake my life on that, JC said, even though he guessed he had.

No, really. He's not, as they say, bad to the bone. He's always treated me with nothing but respect. The thing is, I think he wants to be a tough guy without being a bad guy. Trouble is, he's never figured out how to do that. He always comes off looking like a bad guy.

That generally happens when you shoot a cop and cart coke around, Lynn said.

I know, but he's got reason to change.

What might that be?

He knows, she said, a slight catch in her voice. She sat back in her seat. JC nodded but didn't respond. Knowing and doing are two different things. The caravan slowed and compressed as it neared Greenville. As the column rounded a sweeping curve, JC spotted a pair of plows about a quarter-mile ahead, working in tandem to clear the interstate. Behind them, the line of traffic, mostly big rigs, compacted and decelerated. They passed a maze of exits, and JC considered the possibility of attempting to execute some sort of maneuver that would shake Grizzly, but he knew whatever he tried, Grizzly would follow, and likely not hesitate to stop them with his AR something or other, his semi-automatic rifle.

JC pressed on. He studied the median as they plotted northeastward, wondering if he could make a break into the cleared southbound lane of I 85. Grizzly might not be able to follow them through the deep snow that separated the north and southbound lanes of the interstate. Of course, the Gvagan might not make it either, in which case they'd be dead meat.

"Not a good idea," McCracken said, awakening from his snooze and seeming to read JC's thoughts. "What? Trying to cross the median here? Where they don't have concrete crash barriers, they have cable barriers. And those are buried in the snow. We'd never see him. We get stopped dead."

"So, what do we do?"

"Continue on."

"I kind of figured that out on my own. Don't you have any other ideas aside from some crazy shootout?"

"You mean like a real plan?"

At the slower speed, the fresh air flow through the Mercedes' broken window ebbed. A stale odor filled the vehicle: an amalgam of McCracken's rancid breath, his body odor, and dried blood.

"Yeah, like actually trying to save ourselves."

"We'll make it up as we go along."

"That seems to be working well," JC muttered. "You ever see Animal House? The movie?"

"Yes. There's a line in the film, I think John Belushi's character said it. 'This calls for a stupid and totally feudal gesture, and we're just the guys who can do it.'"

JC didn't respond. He got the point.

They crawled through the I26 interchange near Spartanburg. The morning had turned strangely darker, and light snow again sifted from a low, scuttling overcast. Behind them, a blue-white flash of light arced across the horizon, filling it like summer heat lightning.

"It's coming again," Lynn said, her voice tight with apprehension.

Ahead on the left, a water tower in the shape of a giant peach loomed out of the greyness. In the misplaced, snow-cloaked landscape, it looked like an immense scoop of orange ice cream topped with marshmallow cream.

"The peach," Lynn said, "We're near Gaffney."

"Almost in North Carolina," McCracken said.

JC checked the gas gauge: down to less than a quarter. He turned to McCracken. "I think it's time to start making it up."

McCracken stared out the windshield as if studying the lay of the land. Immediately ahead of the SUV, a mud and salt-encrusted 18-wheeler limited the forward visibility to nothing more distant than the rear of its trailer.

"Drop back a bit so I can see more of what's coming up," McCracken said.

"Why? You got an idea?"

JC slowed and opened more distance between the GVEN and the semi.

"Maybe," McCracken grunted, winced.

JC waited.

"Shortly after we cross the border," McCracken said, his words pinched in pain, "there are a couple of places where the north and southbound lanes separate. I mean by quite a bit. The median's filled with trees, but in a few spots there are dirt roads that cross the median for emergency vehicles."

JC thought about it and decided to play devil's advocate. "Here's my concern. Even if we made it across, wouldn't Grizz be able to, too?"

"Maybe, maybe not. Two feet of snow. I don't think that cruiser has snow tires. Certainly doesn't have four-wheel drive. Good chance it'll get stuck. And if we get bogged down..."

McCracken held up the Glock. "Really? Against a semi-automatic rifle?"

"If we run out of gas or try an exit, it ends up that way anyhow."

The snow fell harder, encasing them again in a constrained white world. JC gripped the steering wheel and pushed doggedly ahead, wondering how long the plows would be able to keep the road open. He ran through his priorities, significantly altered over the past 24 hours. His number one objective, getting to Durham by 5:00 p.m., had slipped down the list a few notches. Number one now: getting away from Grizzly. Number two: finding gas. Number three: maintaining a tenuous alliance with McCracken. That is, staying alive, at least until priority number four could be attained, reaching Durham. But he reminded himself, one step at a time. The only thing important at the moment: losing Grizzly.

They crossed into North Carolina.

"Can't be far now," McCracken said. "Keep your eyes peeled."

"I can't see more than 100 yards," JC grumbled.

"Well, we're going slow enough. You'll have time to react. Just remember, when we see what we think is the crossover road, commit to it. Balls to the wall. No second thoughts. We'll make it."

JC wished he were as certain as McCracken.

"Here comes the median," McCracken said. The north and southbound lanes pulled apart, separated by a park-like island covered in pines and the winter skeletons of deciduous trees. JC craned his neck forward, searching for an opening through the trees that might suggest a road. Nothing. The island disappeared to their rear, swallowed in the whipping snowfall.

"Damn it," JC said. "I didn't see anything that looked like a road."

"We'll have another shot in a few miles," McCracken said. "Slow down even more next time. It might be our last chance."

The checkered tablecloth guarding the Mercedes' side window rippled in the slipstream of the big rig just ahead. The huge tires of the semi kicked up fresh powder from the highway as the blizzard continued to reintensify, gaining its sickened wind. What daylight there had been disappeared into the maw of the storm, replaced by incongruous flashes of lightning accompanied by the dull, dead thump of thunder.

"Damn it," JC said. "I can't see anything."

Lynn leaned over his shoulder, staring out into the storm. McCracken inclined forward, his eyes searching.

"Trees!" McCracken said, pointing. "Another median loomed out of the gloom."

"There, there," Lynn yelled. "A gap through the trees. Go!"

McCracken screamed. Without braking, JC flung the Gvagan to the left and charged headlong into an opening through a copse of pine and oak. McCracken turned to look for Grizzly. The SUV hit the deeper snow in the passing lane, slowed, then surged into the median. Abruptly, it sank and ground to a stop with its tires spinning, losing traction in a thick, fluffy quicksand of snow. Grizzly's first shot blew off the side-view mirror next to JC. Lynn screamed and ducked. McCracken fumbled for his .45.

Chapter 31. Waffle House.

The Natural Environment Television Network. Friday morning, December 30th. Sophie entered the forecast center just after 11:00. Al, plotting and analyzing the latest surface chart by hand, old school as Tom called it, looked up and nodded. Tom, leaning over the shoulder of a forecaster seated at one of the computerized workstations, turned and walked toward her.

"Are we in trouble again, boss?" he asked, feeling, after their tête-à-tête in her office, a bit freer and more comfortable in her presence.

"You tell me," she answered, her face expressionless, her gaze somewhat hardened, more like that of a superior again than a would-be lover, perhaps her way of reminding him that this was a work environment and not a bedroom, or that this was her domain, not his. "A few of the networks," she continued, "are starting to hype the blizzard is a threat to Washington and Baltimore. You guys have been telling me it's not. What's the story? We did a great job for Atlanta. Let's not blow it for other cities."

Tom glanced at Al, who looked up from his work with a dead-eyed stare, a hard-to-read expression.

"No, I'm asking you," Sophie said. "Not Al. You're my chief of meteorology."

"Who didn't get it right the first time around," Tom said.

Sophie blinked, her gaze softened. "It wasn't because of incompetence or negligence. We had this conversation earlier. You just had a different philosophy than me. Look, don't wallow in defeatism. If it'll make you feel better, I can send you packing if you screw up again."

"Ever the boss?" Tom countered, regretting the words even as he spoke them.

"Yes, I am. You probably shouldn't forget that." Her words came out like a hammer hitting iron.

"Sophie."

She raised her forefinger to her lips. "Shut up. Just give me an answer, Tom."

Without immediately responding to Sophie, Tom walked back to the workstation he'd been at when she'd entered. He looked again at the computer monitors, conferred with the forecaster there, and returned to where Sophie waited.

"A couple of the models continue moving a storm up the coast," he said. "Threatening DC and Philly. A couple don't."

"Make the call," she said. She stood with her hands on her hips. "There's a strong core of jet stream winds rounding the base of the trough now. No gobbledegook. Is DC going to get dumped on or not?"

"Do me the courtesy of at least listening to my explanation," he snapped, peeved at the return of her imperialism. The intimacy of the conversation from the short time ago seemed to have evaporated like morning mist in the heat of the sun. "I don't pull this stuff out of my ass. Wonderful to be back in our adversarial relationship."

Hands remaining on her hips, Sophie fell silent.

"The jet," Tom continued, "will kick the storm out to sea and not carry it up the eastern seaboard. Northern North Carolina and Tidewater Virginia will catch the brunt of it. Washington will get maybe six inches or so. A moderate snowfall, not a shut-down blizzard. Does that answer your question?"

Sophie didn't answer. She wheeled and stalked from the forecast center. Al leaned back in his chair and placed his hands behind his head.

"Lover's spat," his words seemed the verbal equivalent of a smirk.

"Do I detect a note of jealousy coming from your testosterone-starved existence, old man?"

Al laughed, a watery chuckle bubbling up from deep within him. He bent back to his work. "Remember my words, Junior Black Widow."

Western North Carolina, Friday morning, December 30th. JC eased off on the accelerator, not wanting to dig the stalled Mercedes deeper into the layered snow and ice that held it captive. He ducked down in his seat until his nose touched the hub of the steering wheel. He expected Grizzly's next volley to come through the already missing rear window. He chanced to glance to his right, hoping McCracken would return fire and disrupt Grizzly's aim. Instead, he found McCracken staring at him.

"Lock the differentials!" a Kraken screamed. "Get us out of here!"

JC punched the button to lock all three differentials.

"It's stuck!" yelled Lynn.

For a moment, JC feared she meant the GVEN. But no, Lynn stared rearward toward the edge of the freeway. He tracked her gaze. The police cruiser had slewed sideways and cemented itself into a deep drift. Grizzly, out of the car and using it as a shield, struggled to level the AR-15 at the Mercedes. His first shot had apparently been fired from the moving vehicle.

"Go, go, go!" McCracken yelled at JC.

JC eased down on the gas pedal, willing the GVen to find traction. It did, lurching forward like a walrus, freeing itself from polar ice. The vehicle plowed through snow headlight-deep and bulled across the median as JC struggled to steer it along what he could only assume marked the track through the trees. He glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw several muzzle flashes as Grizzly fired wildly at them. The shots kicked up tiny guises of snow, but missed the Gogen. The Mercedes breached the edge of the southbound lanes. JC unlocked the differentials and eased the SUV into a loose line of traffic between two 18-wheelers, apparently startling the driver of the big rig immediately behind them. The driver gave them a blast of his air horn, flashed his headlights, and hammered his brakes. The semi fishtailed, but didn't jackknife. JC gave the driver a dismissive wave and accelerated.

"Watch for Grizz," Lynn said.

"He looked pretty damn stuck to me," JC responded.

"Don't discount his resourcefulness. If truckers think he's a cop, they could help him get unstuck real fast. So, what's our next move?"

"There'll be an exit coming up shortly. We can bail out there and get back to the northbound side."

They reached the exit and JC steered the Gvagan down an unplowed ramp to a road running perpendicular to the interstate. He stopped at the foot of the ramp and studied the situation.

"The road goes underneath the interstate," he said. "If Grizz happens to be passing over at the same time we're going under, he could spot us from there and get back on our tail."

"Maybe not," McCracken said. "The visibility is so damn poor, it's hard to see much of anything."

"Well, let's not chance it. Let's make a right here, pull down the road a hundred yards or so, turn around, and wait a few minutes. We'll be able to see Grizz if he comes down the ramp and we'll be able to see him if he stays on the interstate."

"Okay," McCracken said. "Kill the headlights when we stop. There's no traffic down here to run into us, and I sure as hell don't want to give Grizz a beacon."

JC turned right, turned around, stopped, and doused the lights. They waited, the thick snow swirling around them as if they were a dog sled team running the Iditarod in a whiteout. A minute passed, two minutes, three. A string of vehicles crawled across the overpass, their lights looming out of the gloom as if they were sea creatures suspended in a gray-white ocean. The five-minute mark passed and still no police car.

"Where is he?" JC said.

McCracken shrugged. "Beats me. Maybe he's well and truly stuck. But let's not wait any longer."

JC agreed, switched on the GVEN's lights, and headed toward the entrance ramp. Once again, they merged into the northbound flow, now barely moving because of the renewed snowfall. In spots, deep snow had drifted across the single plowed lane, making it almost impassable, save for the constant battering by the parade of 18-wheelers. JC doubted the road would remain open much longer. He thought about what McCracken had said earlier about Grizzly being the boogeyman. The guy wouldn't just give up. He had to still be on their tail somehow, some way. They passed the spot where they'd made their dash into southbound I85 earlier. JC half expected to find Grizzly lying in wait for them there, but he wasn't. The police car was gone.

Punctuated by flashes of lightning, the snowfall slanted through the gray morning in thick, rippling sheets. It appeared wetter now, accumulating in great soggy clumps on the windshield, coating road signs in a white frosting, and morphing into an icy sheen on the highway as the semis, acting like Zambonis, packed it into a hard rime. On the instrument panel of the Jvagen, the low fuel warning light flickered on.

"We're done," JC said.

McCracken looked at him. "We're almost out of gas," JC said. "How much we got left?"

"A couple of gallons, maybe enough to get us twenty miles. After that, we become a 6,000lb paperweight."

"Hard to see what's coming up," McCracken said. He craned forward, peering into the storm. "All the signs are covered in snow. Besides, I'm not sure there's much of anything open."

"Then you better come up with plan B real fast. You're the one who wants to get to Durham."

"Why don't you come up with a plan B?"

The low fuel light stopped flickering and settled into a steady glow. JC had to concede McCracken was right. He, JC, had a lot more incentive to get to Durham than McCracken. McCracken just wanted to get away. It didn't matter whether it was to Durham or Denver. They appeared to be on the outskirts of Charlotte. The thick blowing snow made it virtually impossible to tell for sure. Regardless, JC knew he had to get off the interstate and had to find fuel. A sign for a Pilot Travel Center, a truck stop, loomed out of the greyness. At least, JC thought it was for a Pilot Travel Center. All he caught was "Lot T R A V T E R." The missing letters covered in a stucco of snow. He eased the Gvagan down the exit, turned right, and plowed through the rapidly accumulating snow toward the center. He pulled into the parking lot. Snow-laden 18-wheelers, SUVs, and automobiles littered the lot. Vehicles of travelers who'd surrendered to the storm. It looked like an igloo city in an Arctic whiteout. The gas pumps sat dark and idle.

"Wonderful," McCracken exclaimed. "They're probably out of gas."

"Oh, there's no power," Lynn suggested.

"There's a Waffle House next door," McCracken said, pointing. "At least we can get coffee and something to eat."

"We don't need coffee. We need gas." JC's words came out tinged in frustration.

"You need gas," McCracken responded. "I need coffee."

"I need to pee," Lynn added.

"We win," McCracken said. "Park by the Waffle House."

Lynn grabbed the attaché case. They entered the Waffle House. The place brimmed with people, exhausted travelers, yet a single booth near the rear of the restaurant remained open. A waitress, a large black woman with arms as thick as JC's thighs and wearing a seemingly perpetual smile, steered JC, McCracken, and Lynn toward it. Odors of freshly brewed coffee, sizzling bacon, biscuits and gravy, steak and eggs, and a variety of waffles mingled with a chilly dampness that seemed to cling to the walls of the establishment. Puddles of water, melted snow and ice from patrons' coats and boots, spotted the floor. JC and McCracken, weary and red-eyed, sank into their seats while Lynn scurried to the restroom. McCracken placed the attaché case, his retirement, beneath the table and draped his legs over it.

"The pilot station's out of gas?" JC asked the waitress, inclining his head toward the idle fuel islands.

"Nope. Out of power? No electricity ever since the storm picked up again. Pumps don't work."

JC felt hope flee from his being, almost palpably, as if someone had slammed him in the gut with a hockey stick.

"How come you guys have power?" McCracken asked, seemingly oblivious to, or at least unconcerned over, JC's dismay. "And food? Looks like everything else is shut down."

The waitress leaned toward McCracken, holding her coffee pot in a precarious hover over the table. "Honey, ain't you never heard of the Waffle House Index?"

He shook his head. "You're pulling my leg, right?"

"Red, yellow, green," the waitress said. "After Katrina, when over a hundred Waffle Houses had to shut down, the boss man decided he didn't want that to happen again. No. So he made a plan to get ready for disasters so we can stay open or get open quick after things like hurricanes and tornadoes. And I guess things like blizzards too, though I ain't never seen one before."

"So, red, yellow, green. What's that mean?"

"Green, everything okay? Not much damage. Yellow, backup generator, maybe a limited menu. Red, things really bad. Unsafe. Maybe we're closed today. Yellow. We ready. That government outfit, FEMA, or something. They use the Waffle House Index to gauge how bad a disaster has to be."

"You mean FEMA? Really?"

"Yeah. FEMA. That's it."

"So, it's like the Saffir-Simpson scale?" JC asked, struggling out of his funk. "Like for hurricanes, category one, cat 2, cat 3, and so on."

"I guess," the waitress said, obviously not sure of Saffir-Simpson. "Take a look at the menu. I'll be right back. Oh, we out of grits and only got a couple eggs left." She lumbered away.

Lynn returned from the restroom and plopped down beside McCracken. She stared at JC.

"Why the long face?"

"Looks like this is the end of the road. The gas pumps aren't working."

A shadow fell across the table. JC sensed a cold, damp, malodorous presence looming over him. Slowly, he lifted his gaze. McCracken sensed something too and jerked upright. Lynn gasped. Grizzly, his face scratched and bloodied, one eye swollen shut, stood by their booth, the muzzle of his AR-15 peeking from beneath a soggy Hudson's Bay blanket draped over his forearm. Clumps of snow from an ill-fitting, lightweight Westminster Police parka slid onto the floor.

Chapter 32. Grizzly.

Western North Carolina. Friday, midday, December 30th. Grizzly's foul breath and body odor gave rise to the sense a garbage truck had just rolled into the Waffle House. More than a few customers ceased eating and stared at the new arrival. McCracken eased his hand inside his parka. Grizzly leaned toward him, the barely visible nose of his semi-automatic rifle only inches from McCracken's head.

"Bad idea, old friend," Grizzly's voice, gravelly and rough, resonated with low-frequency menace. "Let's not get a bunch of people hurt in here. We can do this so we all walk away in one piece." He paused, then added, "Much as I'd like to blow your sleazy ass to kingdom come."

McCracken twitched. JC shook his head. "Don't do anything stupid."

McCracken slowly removed his hand from his parka, leaving the Glock tucked in the waistband of his pants.

"Good," Grizzly said. "Now, sweetie," he looked at Lynn, "take the pistol from your boyfriend's pants. Nice and easy. Just like you were going to give him a hand job. You're good at that, right? Eject the clip, then rack the slide. Let the gun slide to the floor as quietly as you can. Easy does it. Then give me the clip. Do things nice and easy so we don't upset any of the fine folks in here."

JC wondered if any of the fine folks had dialed 911. Probably not. Other than stinking up the place, Grizzly hadn't done anything to warrant a call to law enforcement. He'd kept his weapon concealed, his voice low.

Lynn, her eyes wide in fear, her hand trembling, followed Grizzly's instructions. She removed the clip and racked the slide, ejecting a chambered round onto her lap. She covered the clip and loose round with a paper napkin and slid them to Grizzly. Using the noise in the restaurant as a cover, she allowed the Glock to clatter to the floor beneath the table. Then, using her foot, pushed the pistol toward the wall, out of sight.

The waitress arrived on scene, sidling up to Grizzly. "Hi there, hon. You be joining your friends?"

"No, I'm not staying."

Whether she caught a whiff of his body odor, was put off by his glare, or sensed an implicit threat in the growl of his voice, JC couldn't tell. Whatever she perceived, she beat a hasty retreat, waddling toward the kitchen with a speed JC thought her incapable of.

Lynn sat back in her seat and wrapped her arms across her chest. McCracken glared at Grizzly with unmistakable hatred.

"Let's finish this up," Grizzly said. "I saw you bring the case in here and put it under the table. Keep it there and push it with your feet to where I can reach it. Then I'm out of here and you can finish your breakfast."

McCracken didn't respond, sitting still.

"A cigar store Indian. For shit's sake," Grizzly said, his voice a harsh whisper. "If I start shooting, things will get really messy. I'll still get the case, but your brains will be splattered all over the pecan waffles the kid behind you was eating."

The Kraken still didn't move.

Lynn looked at him askance. "You can't win this," JC hissed. "Let him have the case, damn it."

"It's not your retirement," McCracken said, his voice a snarl.

"Actually, it's not yours either," Grizzly said, keeping his volume low. "Three seconds and you won't be able to tell your blood from the strawberry syrup. Or maybe your girlfriend's blood from the syrup." He altered the position of his arm so the muzzle of the AR-15 pointed at Lynn. "Her first, then you. One, two."

The case scraped along the floor. A raspy sound lost in the din of the busy restaurant. As first McCracken and then Lynn slid it toward Grizzly with their feet. When the case, still beneath the table, reached the end of the booth, Grizzly retrieved it with his free hand.

"Bone appetite," he growled and backed away down the aisle toward the door. He exited into the storm, disappearing once he was only a few feet from the Waffle House.

McCracken didn't have a play. Even though the Glock lay at his feet, JC knew he had no ammo. The only clip he'd had was the one in the weapon when he'd taken it off the Georgia State Patrol officer. Now Grizzly had it. McCracken slumped in his seat.

"Fuck, fuck," he muttered.

"How in the hell did he find us?" JC asked.

"He never followed us once we crossed the median," McCracken said, defeatism wrapping his words. "He obviously got the police car dug out, probably with the help of good citizens. Then he gambled. He was pretty sure I wouldn't head south back toward Georgia. So he hunkered down at an interchange someplace along I85 north and just waited for us to pass by. Once we did, he got on our tail again."

Outside, the ghostly image of a police cruiser flashed by the snow-splattered windows of the Waffle House.

"Damn it to hell," McCracken said. He folded his arms on the table and lay his head on them. He turned toward Lynn and muttered something.

"What?" she said.

"Sorry, babe."

She laughed. He raised his head, malice glistening in his eyes. "You think it's funny?"

She placed a hand on his arm. "Yes," she said softly. "Because... because all Grizz has is an aluminum briefcase with a stale ham and cheese sandwich."

McCracken stared at her and some dry cookies, a tow rope, a flashlight, first-aid kit, and a roll of duct tape for weight. McCracken's laughter started deep within his belly, rose like a geyser, and burst into the restaurant like a hydrothermal explosion. He ceased laughing abruptly and grabbed his side, the bullet wound grabbing him in a fit of pain.

"So, where's my... where's our retirement?" he asked.

"In a picnic basket," Lynn said. "While you snoozed and JC drove, I had a feeling. Call it female intuition, I guess, that it might not be a good idea to keep the stuff where we had it. You know, just in case."

"You're the greatest, babe." He leaned over and kissed her, grimacing as he did so.

"So, what's in my picnic basket?" JC asked.

McCracken smiled and shrugged. "You probably don't want to know. I'm kind of in this up to my ass."

"What's in the picnic basket?"

"Okay, man, you asked." He leaned forward and whispered to JC. "About $800,000 worth of crack cocaine."

JC hadn't believed things could get any worse, but they just did. It was bad enough his mission to salvage his son's medical care, his job, and the future of the corporation he worked for seemed ready to end in failure. Worse, he'd aided and abetted a cop shooter. But now, illegal drugs, almost a million dollars worth. Catastrophic seemed the only word that fit.

McCracken leaned even closer to JC. "Goddamn the pusher man," he sang softly, an incipient grin on his face. JC felt his breath sucked away, his world suddenly depressurized. A tsunami of dread swept over him.

"Don't people do hard time for transporting drugs?"

McCracken sat back, smiling. "Well, I suggest we hightail it before Grizz discovers his load is a little light." He leaned forward, retrieved the impotent Glock from beneath his feet, surreptitiously slipped it under his parka, tossed a $10 tip onto the table, and stood. "We can catch breakfast later."

"Where the hell you think we're going?" JC said. "All we've got out there is a Glenda brick. In case you forgot, we're out of gas and the pumps are dead."

"Oh, stop with the 'woe is me' crap. I'm a criminal, remember?"

Outside, they entered a dim, flannel-hued world of swirling snow and razor-edged wind. JC found it difficult to discern objects more than a dozen yards from him.

"I need to pick up a few things in the service station," the Kraken said. "Get the G-Vagen and bring it around."

JC, with Lynn's help, brushed several inches of fresh snow from the Mercedes, but as fast as they dusted the vehicle, new snow frosted it over.

"Come on," JC said. "Let's go. This is a losing battle." He drove to the front door of the pilot station. A portable gasoline generator hammering away near the entrance seemed to be the sole source of power for the facility. McCracken, carrying a large plastic bag, exited the store. He clambered into the Gogen's passenger seat.

"Okay, find me a nice big SUV somewhere in the lot, preferably in a far corner." JC eyed the bag. He had a pretty good idea what it contained.

"You're going to steal gas."

"We're going to steal gas," McCracken said. "We're in this together, remember? Of course, if you'd rather wait for Grizz to show up again or the cops to check out our Coke mobile, that's your choice."

JC put the G-Vagen in gear and guided it toward the rear of the lot in a sedate slalom, weaving through a maze of snow-heaped semis, SUVs, and automobiles.

"How's this?" He pulled in behind a massive pyramid of snow harboring an SUV of some sort.

"Good." From the bag, McCracken fished out a large screwdriver, several different diameter plastic hoses, a couple of hose adapter fittings, and a battery-operated siphon pump. "Let's hope its tank is almost full." He pried open the filler flap with a screwdriver and twisted off the gas cap. He studied the situation for a moment. He climbed back into the G-Vagan and went to work with the hoses and fittings. He stopped from time to time to draw a deep breath, clutch at his side, and wince.

"It's not easy to siphon gas from newer vehicles," he said, his voice wavering a bit. "There's a siphon block, a little ball at the base of the filler neck, so you need a relatively stiff, small-diameter hose to work past it." Fifteen minutes later, he had his jury-rigged siphoning system ready to go.

"Give a holler if anyone comes wandering by. Although in this weather, I don't know why anyone would." He slipped from the Mercedes and went to work. He forced the smaller-diameter hose inside the target vehicle's gas tank and ran the larger hose into the Goggin's. Even though he stood only a few feet from where JC sat, he virtually disappeared once or twice, swallowed by intense squalls of snow. He ran the pump for about ten minutes before the siphoning process sputtered to a stop.

"Drain the tank," he yelled, challenging the wind.

JC checked the gas gauge. "Not enough," he yelled back. "We're going to need more."

McCracken, breathing heavily, staggered back into the G-Vagan. "Your turn," he gasped. "Find an older model minivan. It'll have a big tank and won't have one of those stupid siphon blocks."

"I don't think I can."

"Sure you can, man. You're a hardened criminal now. Forget the corporate executive. This is real-life survivor stuff. We're scrambling for our lives here."

JC herded the Mercedes through the drifting and blowing snow until he found a beat-up Dodge Caravan, a refugee from the late '80s.

"Go on," McCracken said. "You can do it. I'll keep a sharp lookout and warn you if I spot anyone coming."

"You can't see three feet out there," JC said, mounting a weak argument, stalling.

"It works both ways. You're basically invisible, too. Get your ass out there for your son." Lynn chimed in. She had a point. Getting only partway to Durham wouldn't be a victory. They needed more gas.

He climbed out of the SUV, struggled through snow heaped almost to his knees, and bent to the task of stealing gasoline. "This one's for you, Cole." Even with the hood of his parka clenched tightly around his face, the wind sliced into him like frigid ice picks, seeming to find ways to wriggle beneath his outer garments and flail his skin with tiny icy cuts. The siphoning took forever. JC wondered if time and luck weren't about to run out on them. Once, two figures hunched over against the storm passed within a car length of where he stood, but with their heads down and the visibility verging on zero, they never spotted him. After several minutes, the siphoning ceased. The tank of the caravan sucked dry. He tapped on the Mercedes window, alerting McCracken.

"How much we got?"

McCracken switched on the ignition, checked the gauge. "Just over half."

JC ran a quick calculation in his head. "Should get us there."

"If it's good enough for you, it's good enough for me. Let's get going."

JC, accompanied by a strange sense of exhilaration, scrambled back into the GVEN. In the past, it seemed he'd never been able to get away with anything, no matter how innocent or insignificant. If he dared exceed the speed limit by five mph, made a rolling stop, or failed to signal a turn, there'd always been a traffic cop lurking nearby to nab him. But now, holy hell, he just stolen third base, tied the bell on the cat, slipped behind enemy lines, and hadn't gotten caught. He grinned like a court jester.

"We're all crooks at heart," McCracken said, reacting to JC's expression.

"You believe that?"

"Sure, but some of us are just better at it."

Chapter 33. Out of Time.

Western North Carolina. Friday, midday, December 30th. On the interstate, they fell into a column of 18-wheelers. Once again, a procession of mechanical mastodons plotting through a modern-day snowscape. The line of semis had carved deep ruts in the snow, and the diehard truckers, those who dared challenge the storm, held a steady pace near thirty mph. JC guessed most of them were probably from snow-belt states, used to driving in extreme winter conditions. A lot of them had mounted chains on their tires.

"I'm surprised it's still open," Lynn said from the rear seat.

"The interstate," JC said. "Me, too. Maybe officials figured blizzard warnings would be enough to keep most people off the highways."

"Highway departments around here," McCracken said, "are a lot more used to dealing with ice and snow than ones in Georgia. They probably brought in snow removal equipment from the Smokies to help out. They've done that before."

"How far to Durham?" Lynn asked.

JC checked the navigation unit. "About 165 miles."

"What time do they have to be there?"

"No later than five."

Lynn leaned forward and rested her arms on the back of his seat. "Think we'll make it?"

He looked again at the nav system. "If we can maintain this speed, we'll be there at 4:47 p.m."

"Cutting it thin."

"She didn't need to tell him that."

"Think your wife is worried?" Lynn continued. "You haven't been able to call her, have you?"

"Not since yesterday. Sure, she's probably worried sick. I am, too."

"How long have you been married?"

"Eleven years."

"Good for you. A lot of people don't make it that far."

On the right shoulder of the highway, out of the greyness, a mound of snow higher than the surrounding accumulation materialized. JC stared hard at it as they approached, wondering if beneath it there might be a stolen police vehicle, but no. Closer inspection suggested something bigger than that, likely a step van or large SUV abandoned to the storm.

Lynn continued to chatter. "Your son. What did you say his name is?" JC couldn't recall if he'd mentioned the name to her previously.

"Cole. You love him to death, don't you?" The metaphor cut a tiny slice from JC's soul. Lynn no doubt hadn't intended it that way.

"Sure. Does he know you're on sort of a quest to help him?"

"Probably not. He's only six. Still, you're his hero. Dads can do anything, right?"

"Can they?" A lump formed in JC's throat, and he didn't answer.

They continued to crawl through the blinding snowstorm. In spots, fender-high drifts had blown across the open lane, but the constant battering by the big trucks kept the road passable. JC, his shoulders aching, his back stiff, his fingers bordering on arthritic from doggedly gripping the steering wheel, watched the towns reel by: Canapapolis, Salisbury, Lexington, and finally Greensboro, where I85 turned east and merged with I40. He began to think maybe, just maybe, he had a chance. The ETA now indicated 4:44 p.m. They'd actually picked up a few minutes, but the needle on the fuel gauge had nudged down to less than a quarter of a tank. Enough to make it to Durham? JC didn't know, but he did know the option of making another siphoning raid was out. It came down to do or die. Perhaps another poor choice of metaphor with the fuel he had. He glanced at McCracken. At least the guy didn't have any more bullets for the Glock. If McCracken were hell-bent on getting rid of him as a witness, he'd have to beat him to death with an empty pistol, not shoot him. Given the biker's weakened state, JC felt for the first time since picking the guy up, he had the upper hand.

"Things are going to be okay."

They passed Burlington. In a few miles, I40 would split off from I85 and vector them southeast toward Durham, or more particularly toward Research Triangle Park on the southeast side of Durham, where Rampart Aerospace maintained its headquarters. Traffic slowed as they approached the split. McCracken sat up and peered forward.

"Something's happening. Lots of flashing blue lights ahead." He reached into the right-hand pocket of his parka and extracted an ammo clip. He rammed it into the Glock. JC's heart sank.

"Jesus, where'd that come from?"

"Where do you think? The cop. You don't think I'd run around with just a single clip, do you?"

They neared the exit where I40 split from I85. A mobile electronic sign indicated I40 closed due to accident. Several highway patrol cars blocked the ramp. A trooper stood in the storm, apparently answering any questions travelers had. JC opted not to stop and ask about alternate routes into Durham. Given the battle damage to the Gogen, it seemed prudent not to heighten the curiosity of law enforcement. They continued on, tracking a mud and salt-caked moving van out of Denver, Colorado as it crept through the frigid gray maelstrom of the blizzard into the growing dusk of a short winter day. The snow tracing horizontal trajectories seemed to be as much flying as falling. Using the navigation system, JC expanded the view of the area's road system. It indicated another way to approach Durham and Research Triangle, the Durham Freeway off I85. But when they reached the exit to the freeway, they found it closed as well. No police cars this time, just a barricade of orange and white striped construction barrels. JC looked over at McCracken. McCracken merely shrugged and JC rammed the Gvagan through the blockade, taking out one of the barrels in an explosion of plastic and sand. The GV-Vagan hit a rampart of unplowed snow and bogged down, clawing for traction. JC locked the differentials and got the Mercedes moving forward again, but at an agonizingly slow pace. Still, he had time, maybe fifteen minutes to spare. He could make it. He could still deliver the proposal to Rampart before the deadline. JC pushed the SUV through the deep snow, guiding it down a gentle incline off an overpass. Near the bottom of the overpass, a small sedan sat crossways in the expressway, its front end imprisoned in a roof-high drift, its left rear tire flat. A man waving frantically waited through the storm toward the Gvagan in its headlights. His face reflected desperation. JC braked. Not that he had a choice. The man stood directly in the Mercedes' path. The Gvagan slid to a stop and JC removed the tablecloth from the driver-side window. Riding a blast of icy air, a whirl of snow punched into the vehicle's interior.

"Christ on a crutch," McCracken said and yanked his parka tighter around himself.

Outside, the man slogged through the snow to the Mercedes' side. Seemingly oblivious to the odd window covering, he extended a pleading hand toward JC.

"I need help," he said, his voice wavering, strained, as though he were on the verge of tears.

"What is it?" JC asked. He checked the time. He couldn't afford another delay. "Not now."

"My wife," the man said. "She's having a baby. She's bleeding bad. She needs to get to the hospital. Help me, please. Please call 911. I did. They're backed up with emergencies. Said they couldn't reach me for another hour. Maybe not even then. The roads are so bad. Please."

JC understood the man's desperation. But did the man understand his, JC's? He had less than fifteen minutes to reach Rampart and he had no clue how many minutes a side trip to a hospital might waste.

"Look, I'm sorry," he said. "I have to be someplace by 5:00. It's really important. I'm sure the paramedics will get here as fast as they can."

"The hospital's only a couple of miles, sir. It wouldn't take long." The man placed his palms together, a prayerful, pleading gesture.

A couple of miles. Under the circumstances, it might as well be a couple of hundred.

"I can get to where I'm going," JC said. "And come back for you." He tried to sound compassionate, but his own angst engulfed him.

"No, no, it'll be too late. She's bleeding. I'll pay you. I'll pay you a lot. Whatever I have, whatever you want." His eyes brimmed with tears.

"I can't. I just can't," Jaci said. "I have to go. I'm sorry. I'll be right back. Maybe." He took his foot off the brake.

McCracken leaned toward JC. "Like I said, fear rules," he whispered.

A strong gust of wind shot another stinging volley of snow into the SUV. Lynn entered the conversation.

"What if it was your wife, JC, your baby?" Her words came out sharp and accusatory, instinctive maternal defensiveness. "Fear, love. What does rule our decisions, our actions? Is McCracken right? And what's with Lynn? Is she?"

JC's thoughts evaporated as the man grasped the window frame. A vain effort to delay the vehicle's departure.

"Everything we do is driven by fear," McCracken continued, his mouth close to JC's ear, his voice remaining low. "Love is theoretical, a mere concept, a word used to describe our deeds at times when our fears temporarily relent, and we poke our head out of our self-centered foxhole existence to pretend we're concerned about others." He grinned and leaned back in his seat.

JC slammed the GVOG into a stop and pushed open the door. "Damn you to hell, McCracken," he muttered and bounded from the vehicle toward the crippled automobile. He yanked open the door to the back seat and found a woman prone, moaning, her face pale, her dress blotched with dark stains.

"I'll grab her arms," JC said to the woman's husband. "You grab her feet. We'll carry her to the backseat of the Mercedes. Come on." In an awkward effort, slipping and sliding, they transported the woman to the SUV where Lynn helped pull her into the vehicle. She slipped a blanket underneath the woman and rested her head on her lap. The woman seemed unaware of the turmoil around her and continued to moan, occasionally punctuating her groans with cries of pain. Her husband scrambled into the rear cargo area and knelt behind her, grasping her hand.

"Straight ahead," he said. "The turnoff to the Duke University Hospital is about a mile down the road on the right."

JC, hoping for more speed, unlocked the differentials and surged forward, the GV-vagun furrowing through the snow like a plow without a blade. Almost dark now, the headlight beams provided the only clear view of the relentless blizzard. Snowflakes danced and twirled through the conical illumination like ballerinas courting across a tiny flood stage. The turnoff proved to be more than a mile away. And at a top speed of twenty-five mph, despite JC's efforts to move faster, he knew he'd lost any hope of delivering the proposal by 5:00 p.m. Had he just sacrificed his own future and perhaps his son's, in his endeavor to get this frantic couple, complete strangers, to a hospital? In all likelihood, the woman had lost her baby anyhow. With his fist, JC hammered the steering wheel in silent frustration. He found the emergency entrance to the hospital and raced inside to summon help. It came quickly. As orderlies lifted the woman onto a gurney, her husband embraced JC in an awkward bear hug.

"I can't thank you enough," he said, tears flowing freely now.

JC broke from the man's grasp. "No, you can't. It's okay. Don't worry about it. Look, I got to run. I'm late for an appointment."

"I'm sorry," the man said, "but I thank you from the bottom of my heart." He fumbled for his wallet, but JC had already entered the Mercedes and started the engine. The man extended some bills toward JC as he put the vehicle in gear. JC held up his hand, palm out in declination.

"Maybe I can name my kid after you," the man said, raising his voice against the wind. "What is it?"

"Caveman!" JC yelled as he pulled away. "There won't be any kid. Your wife miscarried."

The G-Vagan's clock read 4:54.

Chapter 34. Endgame.

The Natural Environment Television Network. Late Friday afternoon, December 30th. Sophie summoned Tom into her office just before closing time. Seated in her chair, she didn't rise to greet him. She merely smiled woundedly. She appeared weary, her vitality sapped.

"It's been a long week," she said, her words soft. Outside, the snow had stopped. Through the window behind Sophie, Tom saw a scattering of cars and trucks back on the roads, crawling along like bears emerging cautiously from their dens after a long winter. Travel remained at best difficult, at worst impossible.

"Final tallies?" Sophie asked. "Twenty-three point four inches for Atlanta. That's not breaking a record. That's nuking it. Others, virtually every city from Birmingham to Charlotte, set a snowfall record. Top of the list, twenty-six inches in Gainesville, Georgia. There aren't enough superlatives to describe this storm. Epic, historic, legendary. And now it's following the scenario I laid out earlier. It's lit its afterburners and it's taken off for the Atlantic. It dumped about eighteen inches on Raleigh-Durham. Believe maybe twelve inches in Hampton Roads, but DC may get no more than three or four. Good call."

The two laughed into an awkward silence. Sophie broke it. "I'm sorry," she said. "I got a little too testy with you earlier today."

"Just like old times."

"Yes, but I'd like to think we're past that."

"So, where are we? Where are we going?"

Again, an uneasy silence permeated the office. Sophie slid some papers across her desk toward Tom.

"What are these?" he said.

"Your termination papers."

"They're... Sophie. What the hell is this?"

I thought. He didn't know what he thought. He just knew he'd been sandbagged. Hammered on the head from behind with a Louisville slugger. Al's warning words thundered in his head. Black Widow. He spun and strode from the office. He burned with both anger and embarrassment. Sophie called after him.

"Tom, wait. You didn't let me finish. This isn't what it seems. Come back here." Her voice sounded...

More pleading than commanding. Tom ignored her. "Screw you." The thought carried no sexual connotation. He knew unless he exited the building quickly, he'd say or do something he'd regret forever.

Durham, North Carolina. Late Friday afternoon, December 30th.

"Thank you, JC."

"For helping those people," Lynn said.

JC, suffocating under the misery of his impending defeat, didn't respond. McCracken twisted in his seat to address Lynn. "He didn't do it out of the goodness of his heart, babe. He did it because we were all over his ass." He turned to face JC. "Fear of repercussions from his peers. That's why he acted. Not love." He paused, then went to the Kota. "Fear."

"Oh, shut up," JC said. McCracken chuckled and fell silent.

JC, clinging to the last desiccated vine of hope, pushed the Gvagan to the point he feared losing control. He hurtled through the storm, the gathering dark, his own metastasizing unease. Say for an ambulance, passing them going the opposite direction toward the hospital. No other vehicles appeared. JC wondered if anybody had even shown up for work at Rampart today. Maybe he'd catch a break by default, a one-day postponement of the delivery date. But his final grim assessment.

"Sure, I will."

The checkered tablecloth flapped in the wind, allowing the blizzard to continue extending its icy tentacles into the SUV's interior. "Tape that damn thing back up, will you?" McCracken commanded. JC struggled to fasten it back in place while he drove.

"I'll fire to the aerospace place," McCracken asked. His interest seemed less than sincere. JC studied the nav system. "Looks like eight or nine miles." A surge of nausea roiled his gut, a feeling identical to the one he'd experienced two days ago. Had it been only two days when Billingsley had summarily given him the bum's rush? He bit back an urge to spray the contents of his stomach, mainly Waffle House coffee, all over McCracken.

Eight or nine miles. He didn't need an automated system to do the calculation. It would take a good twenty minutes to reach Rampart, barring encountering any more travelers in need of a good Samaritan. McCracken must have read the anguish in his face.

"You didn't have to pick up those people, you know."

"I wouldn't have. I'm not you," JC snapped.

"Too bad." McCracken stared out into the snow, flying through the last gasp of the day's light. "Well, press on, my friend. Our journey has to come to an end someplace." He pulled out the Glock and rested it on his lap. JC held his gaze straight ahead and maintained his speed, ignoring the implied threat.

If anything, the snow seemed to be relenting, but he couldn't be sure. It might be just the light of the dying day playing tricks on his tired eyes. He leaned over the steering wheel and hunched his shoulders, trying to relieve the steel band tension that bound the muscles of his back and neck. Fatigue wrapped him like a death shroud. He'd been driving for over twelve hours.

"Hey," Lynn said, "That sign back there said Research Triangle Park."

"I know," JC responded, his words slurred with exhaustion. "It's a huge campus for high-tech R&D firms. It extends about eight miles north to south." He checked the nav screen. "We get off at the next exit. Not that it makes any difference now."

A minute later, he guided the Mercedes down an exit ramp and turned left. "Not far now," he said. The vehicle's clock indicated ten minutes after five. On unplowed roads, they passed Research Triangle Park headquarters, dark except for a well-lit and empty parking lot, and knifed under I-40. Ahead on the left, a large illuminated sign indicated Rampart Park, home of Rampart Aerospace and Defense Corporation. JC turned into the park, a pine-covered subcampus of Research Triangle, and steered the Gvagan along the main road toward the middle building of three large four-story glass and steel structures that comprised Rampart headquarters. The buildings, dark except for isolated, brightly lit offices that appeared devoid of occupants, stood like silent palaces in a fairy tale winter wonderland. That coupled with the lack of vehicles and absence of tire tracks in the snow suggested that Rampart had indeed been closed today. Deadlines aside, had the trip to deliver the proposal been for naught?

A single snow-shrouded vehicle, apparently a midsized SUV, sat near the main entrance of the middle building. JC pulled in beside it. It was 5:18. A figure appeared near the glass door entrance and looked out. A fawn of hope shot through JC, energizing him as if he'd just downed a triple espresso.

"Somebody," he said and pointed. McCracken tucked the gun back inside his parka. "Well, let's go."

JC spoke to Lynn. "Hand me one of those boxes. Maybe there's still a chance." Hoisting one of the three boxes containing the proposal, JC opened the door and stepped out into kneedeep snow. The snowfall, save for a wind-driven mist of tiny flakes, had virtually ceased. Spumes of snow slithered across the surface of the snow and snaked into drifts that in spots had piled as high as the building's first-story windows.

"Hold it," McCracken said. He stopped at the rear window of the snow-entombed SUV, the one parked near the entrance, and brushed the snow from it. He examined several decals pasted to the glass. JC had wondered why McCracken and Lynn had stuck with him until now, until the end of his odyssey. Now he understood. Transportation. The G-Vagen, being almost out of gas aside, would be a marked vehicle. Unique, expensive, shot up, and bearing stolen plates. Too easy for law enforcement to spot. McCracken needed new wheels. He just found them. But where did that leave him? JC and whoever owned the SUV.

JC's temporary elation at spotting someone at work at Rampart deflated like a blown-out tire. He supposed this had been destined to end badly from the moment he picked up McCracken. But now someone else seemed to be about to be snared in the web.

"Okay," McCracken said and motioned him forward toward the entrance to Rampart. JC hesitated, mulling his options. He didn't have any.

"Go. Damn it. Remember who has the gun."

Head down, JC trudged toward the entrance. He supposed he could just drop the box and refuse to go any further, but that likely wouldn't solve anything. He'd get shot, then so would the guy standing by the door, which likely didn't contain bulletproof glass.

The door swung open for them as JC and McCracken approached. "Holy cow. The man who opened the door said, 'I didn't expect to see anybody else here today.'" Blureyed, unshaven, and wearing a rumpled suit, he looked as though he'd had a rough day.

"I'm surprised to see you," JC said. "I thought Rampart might be shut down."

"Technically, it is," the man said. "The main workforce was dismissed yesterday at noon, but I was asked to stay until closing since we were expecting some document deliveries. I hung around until five, our nominal closing time, but by then the weather was so bad, I didn't even try to make it home."

JC placed the box on the floor. "I'm JC Rigggins from American International System Solutions." He extended his hand to the man, "and this is my associate, uh, Delvin Smith." McCracken nodded but didn't offer his hand to the man.

"I'm Ralph Gentry," the man said, shaking hands with JC. "If you're from American International, I assume you're delivering a proposal."

"Two more boxes in the vehicle," JC said. "Wow. I don't know how you made it here. We had a couple of proposals straggle in yesterday via FedEx, but I figured that'd be the end of it with everything closed today. But here I am and here you are."

JC, despite the ever-present threat of McCracken, felt a surge of hope. "Sign me in. This one's for you, Cole. Your old man came through."

Gentry, his eyes drooping with weariness, frowned. "Sorry, I can't do that."

JC, incredulous, stepped forward. "Why not? Here's the proposal." He touched the box with the side of his boot. "I know it's a few minutes late, but come on. You don't know what I went through to get this here."

"I'm sure it was a heroic effort, but the deadline was 5:00 p.m. I don't make the rules, Mr. Rigggins, but I do have to abide by them."

"Come on, man. Pencil whip the entry. Make it 4:58 or something. This is all in good faith." JC felt desperation begin to rise within him once more, like a subterranean flow of molten rock winding its way toward the surface of the earth.

"No can do. It's a computerized login archival with an automated date timestamp. I can't tweak it." Gentry's gaze moved from JC to McCracken and back and seemed to harden.

The Kraken, one hand remaining tucked beneath his parka, addressed Gentry. "So log him in with a current time. Nobody's going to care."

Gentry shook his head slowly back and forth as though responding to the statement of a slow child. "How long have you been in this business, Mr. What was it, Smith?"

"Not long."

"Yes. Well, a late delivery, even by a few minutes, may be just a technicality to you, Mr. Smith, but to competitive bidders in a high-stakes game, it would be more than enough justification for disqualification of American International. And believe me, they'd have you disqualified in a heartbeat."

JC, feeling gut-shot, seated himself on the box, not trusting himself to remain standing. "I apologize, gentlemen. I know you probably went through hell to get this here, but there's nothing I can do."

"Where's the login system?" McCracken asked, interrupting, his voice commanding.

"In my office," Gentry answered.

"Let's have a look."

"I'm sorry, I can't do that." Gentry backed off a step. "Look, I think our business here is concluded."

"Not by a long shot." McCracken yanked the Glock from beneath his parka. "Your office now."

Gentry, wide-eyed, fixated on the gun. "Hey, come on. There's no need for this. This isn't professional. What in the hell's going on here? Is this how American International handles its business dealings?" He flicked his gaze to JC.

"He isn't with American International," JC said. "We're both kind of in deep here. I suggest you do what he says." He didn't know what McCracken had in mind, but figured it couldn't be good. He moved next to McCracken.

"Hey, Cave," he said, his voice just above a whisper. "This might be a good time to bail out. You know, don't make things worse than they are. It would be great if we could all leave here in one piece. Why not just ask the guy for his keys and what and leave my good buddy in a lurch after all we've been through together? Not going to happen."

McCracken waved the Glock at Gentry. "Go, Mr. By the Rules."

"Jesus, this guy's your friend," Gentry said to JC and started down a semi-darkened hallway.

"Hardly," JC mumbled. They reached Gentry's office after a short walk.

"Let's all have a seat," McCracken said. Gentry sat behind his desk, JC and McCracken in front of it. "Keep your hands where I can see them," McCracken said, nodding at Gentry.

"Okay, stay calm. I'll do whatever you want." Nent fear flickered in the man's eyes.

"Let me tell you about my well, let's just call him my acquaintance," McCracken said. "First of all, he's right. He isn't really my friend. I carjacked him. I'm a wanted felon. He's a good guy. He busted his butt to get here. I'm the reason he missed the deadline. He's got a son dying of leukemia, so he's highly motivated to win this proposal effort. But he can't win. His company can't win unless the document is logged in on time."

"Right. This is all very heart-rending, Mr. Smith, but I still can't override the system. Everything is automated and tightly controlled." He stared at the gun. "I'd help you if I could, really, but I'm powerless."

JC, stunned by McCracken's defense of him, and at a loss for words, remained silent. McCracken, with remarkable quickness for a wounded man, lurched from his chair and with two quick swings smashed the computer monitor with the butt end of his pistol. Gentry ducked as glass flew from the shattered screen and littered his desk in a crystalline shower.

"Now what?" McCracken growled. "Systems broken. Maybe you better log in the proposal by hand."

Gentry nodded. "It might not stand up under close scrutiny and hard questioning, though."

"Mr. Gentry," McCracken said, his voice authoritative and even. "Look at me." Gentry did. "You've got one son and one daughter, right?" Gentry's eyes widened. "A dog and a wife, too. Kids in St. Bridges Prep School. Liked a vacation on Cape Hatteras." JC knew now why McCracken had examined the stickers on Gentry's van. A family caricature, a school logo, an iconic lighthouse. Strange how much intelligence can be gleaned from innocuous little decals. Gentry sat with his mouth agape.

"A wonderful family, Mr. Gentry," McCracken continued. "You wouldn't want anything to ever happen to them, would you?" Gentry shook his head in the negative vigorously.

"Then you would of course make certain that your manual login of my friend's proposal stood up under close examination, wouldn't you?" He nodded equally as vigorously.

"Okay, then let's conclude our business. Sign in the proposal, then slide your car keys over to me." Gentry complied.

"Good," McCracken said. "Things went well, don't you think, JC?"

JC looked at McCracken, searching his eyes for his intentions. What he saw set a dagger of fear into his heart.

"Both of you," McCracken said. "Step into the hall and kneel facing the wall." Gentry babbled incoherently and then morphed into gasping sobs.

"You don't have to do this, Cave," JC said, struggling to get the words out, his mouth dry with terror.

"Sorry, buddy. Can't leave any witnesses. You know, the cop and everything." He gestured with the Glock. "Come on."

On legs so rubbery he could barely stand, he wobbled into the hall and knelt. Gentry beside him, sobbing loudly.

"Gentry wasn't a witness," JC choked out. "He will be, however, briefly." JC wrapped his arms around himself, leaned forward, and rested his forehead against the wall. "Cole, I love you. Jenny, I love you." He waited for the bullet. He never heard the shot that delivered it. He merely tumbled into an abyss of blackness amidst a blizzard of stars. Cole and Jenny reaching helplessly after him.

Chapter 35. Conclusions.

Windy Hill Towers. Friday evening, December 30th. A glass of Jack Daniels in hand, Tom stood at the window of his condo and surveyed the vast snowscape below. He didn't bother sipping his whiskey. He gulped it. The scene with Sophie sliding his dismissal papers across her desk toward him played over and over in his head. Sophie dropping the guillotine, Sophie yanking open the gallows, Sophie throwing the switch on the electric chair. How could he have been so gullible? How could he have been so stupid as to believe Sophie had any real romantic interest in him? How could he have believed that there could be any other motive in his boss igniting an amorous spark between them besides the twisted thrill of notching another kill in her black widow's diary? What was the parallel word to misogynist for a female who hated men? He didn't know, but supposed there must be one. Sophie's picture should appear in the dictionary next to its definition. Hard to believe she had only one divorce on her wrap sheet. There had to have been others. He tipped the glass to his lips, but only a cascade of crushed ice tumbled into his mouth. He walked to the bar, grasped the Jack Daniels bottle, and raised it aloft, holding it at arm's length. "Jack," he said, "I have a feeling we're going to become good friends by the end of tonight." Jack didn't respond. "That's okay. I wouldn't know what to say in this circumstance, either." Jack didn't give any indication he'd heard Tom or even cared. "Look, all you have to do is listen. Guys have a right to whine once in a while, don't they? Just like women. You know, bear their souls, confess their sins, damn the universe, just like women." Jack remained perfectly quiet. "It's all right. No need to acknowledge me. At least I know what to expect with you. Our friendship is predictable, unlike some I thought I'd had. Tell you what, I'll blurt everything out, run my garments, gnash my teeth. You extend some cold comfort, a little buzzy pat on my head. I'll tumble into bed, fall into a stupor, forget my pain, and wake up feeling like..." He poured several ounces of the liquor into his glass. "Doesn't matter. Whether I hang out with you or not, I'll still wake up feeling like..." He took a long swallow of the booze. "No," he said to himself. He set the glass on the counter.

Before I stumbled down the rabbit hole, Billy and Bonnie, he punched in Billy's number on his phone. "Hey, kid," he said when Billy answered. "How was the sledding?"

"Ah, Dad, we didn't go. Too much snow. And then the electricity in the house went out. We've been stuck here for two days with nothing to do."

"I know the feeling. But here's the deal. As soon as the roads are open again, I'll come get you and Bonnie and we'll hit the slopes. Spend all day there. Drink lots of hot chocolate. Maybe grab a pizza. How's that sound?"

"Promise."

"Promise."

"You're the greatest, Dad."

"That's all he needed to hear." He said goodbye and toyed with the tumbler of booze while he watched TV with relative disinterest. An anchor who sounded on the edge of exhaustion rambled on about the storm of the millennium. He hit the highlights. A state of emergency expected to remain in effect for North Georgia throughout the weekend. Essential traffic only. Everything closed except for hospitals. "Kind of academic," Tom thought. "There's no way to get to them." DOT crews, the anchor continued, will be working twenty-four-seven to clear roads, interstates, and main thoroughfares first. If you live outside the metro area, forget it. Expect to remain snowbound for a week, maybe longer. Food, a major concern. Grocery store shelves, the anchor said, are emptier than our governor's promises after the last storm. Tom almost choked. Did the guy really say that? Well, yes. He's probably loopy after being on the air for twenty-four hours straight. Tom raised his glass of Jack to him. "Here's to you, my friend. Tell it like it is, but you'll probably be joining me in the unemployment line next week." The dire wrap-up continued. The National Guard calling up more troops. But how would they reach their mobilization points? Emergency airdrops of food and supplies being considered for hospitals, the Atlanta airport, municipal parks. How in the hell could anyone get to a city park? Over a half-million homes and businesses lacking heat and light with utility crews rushing in from Florida, Louisiana, Mississippi, Tennessee. They won't be rushing once they hit the snow. And on and on. The ninth largest metropolitan area in the nation gasping for breath in the wake of an unprecedented natural disaster. At least twenty-six people dead from house fires, traffic accidents, carbon monoxide poisoning, hypothermia, and the inability to reach medical care or vice versa.

Tom shuffled back to the window. In the distance, small armadas of flashing orange lights crawled along the highways. The tedious process of clearing hundreds of miles of interstate in and around the city underway. In many spots, eight to twelve lanes would need to be scraped bare. On the twisted ribbon of road known as Spaghetti Junction, where I-285 and I-85 collide, a flyover eighteen lanes in breadth would need to be plowed. And where do you put the snow? Tom mouthed. The Chattahoochee. Lake Lanier. Underground Atlanta. He shrugged. "I don't really give a damn," ran through his mind as he emptied the second glass full of whiskey. Weighing the pros and cons of a third refill, a sharp rap on the door to his condo interrupted his contemplation. He debated responding to the knock. "Oh, leave me alone," but it might be a neighbor in need of something. Food, batteries, a flashlight. He ambled to the door and put his eye to the peephole. Sophie, come for the coupe.

"Get the hell out of here, Sophie," he said through the closed door.

"Open up. Yeah, that's it. Turn on the charm. Huff and puff all you want to, your highness. No way you're stepping across my threshold." Silence. He jammed his eye to the peephole. No, Sophie. But then she reappeared. She apparently stooped to retrieve something from her briefcase. Now she stood in front of the door holding up two pieces of paper for him to see, one in each hand.

"Tom," she said, "listen to me for a second. Pull your male ego out of your butt. Yeah." She wiggled the paper in her right hand. "One of these is your termination agreement. The other is something else. Something good. Now open the damn door so I don't have to stand out here blathering away like some sorry-ass Jehovah's Witness."

Tom hesitated. Sophie waited. Tom opened the door. Sophie, briefcase in one hand, an oversized shoulder bag in the other, stormed past him into the condo. She slammed the items onto a table and her mouth tightly clenched in what Tom knew well as a warning sign, whirled to confront him.

"If you ever walk out on me again, I swear to God I'll make sure you're a leper in the broadcast business," Sophie said, her words boiling in a seething broth of anger.

"How could I walk out on you again? I don't work for you anymore. Or have you fried all your brain cells?" His words came out knife-edged as intended. Sophie peeled off her parka and tossed it onto a chair. She drew a deep breath and looked away from Tom as though contemplating her next move. She sighed audibly, then reached into her briefcase and drew out the sheets of paper she'd held up earlier. She placed them on the table facing Tom. She tapped her forefinger on one. "Yes, it's your pink slip. Sign it." She tapped the other one. "Sign this one, too." She paused. "Please." He stared at it. "A contract of some sort."

"It's a consulting agreement," she said. "Working for NEV full-time at roughly twice your previous salary."

"What's going on here, Sophie?"

"The corporation," she said, her words wrapped in the soft tones of appeasement now, "has a policy against fraternization. I think it's a stupid policy, but the mucky-mucks think it helps avoid sexual harassment suits, appearances of favoritism, and possible conflicts of interest. It's all but it's the company code."

"I don't get it."

She rolled her eyes. "For an MIT grad, you're really dumb."

"Okay, I'm dumb." He had an inkling but wasn't about to verbalize it. She blushed, actually blushed, very un-Sophie-like. "It means if we're going to be lovers, we can't both be NEV employees."

"Are we going to be lovers?"

"As soon as you sign the damn papers?" Her face continued to glow. "Got a pen?" She fumbled in her briefcase. He signed.

"Am I still going to be working under you?"

She grabbed her shoulder bag, turned, and strode down the hall toward the bedrooms. "Maybe, but it's going to be a long weekend with nothing else to do. I might discover I like working under you better."

"Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus." He drew a deep breath, sucking in Sophie's wake of perfume, and wobbled after her. She stopped abruptly and pivoted toward him. "Before you come near me though, use some mouthwash. Get that god-awful Jack Daniels off your breath."

Magnolia Heights subdivision. Saturday, January 7th.

"Watch me, Daddy." Cole took a running start with his plastic sled, something called winter lightning. Belly flopped onto it and barreled down a long hill on the sixth fairway, still buried in several inches of crusty snow.

"Last one, son," JC yelled after him. He didn't want Cole to get excessively tired. Already, after just a couple of trips down the slope, Cole, rosy-cheeked and breathing hard, seemed on the edge of exhaustion. JC didn't want to push it any further. They were due back at MD Anderson the following week, and he didn't wish to return there with a sick child. Well, at least any sicker than he was already.

The air filled with a swirl of tiny snowflakes riding a brisk northwest wind, courtesy, according to the local TV weathercasters, of a fresh push of arctic air. The previous five days had brought a slow moderation of temperatures with the snow cover, record snow cover, surrendering, albeit at a grudging pace, to daytime readings climbing into the forties. Nighttime temperatures, however, continued to sink to sub-freezing levels, spawning icy commuting conditions. Little matter. The city had remained shuttered to all but essential businesses, whatever they were, by order of the mayor, so that the cleanup of ice and snow could proceed uninhibited. Still, many roads, especially in the suburbs, remained all but impassable. JC knew it would have been a different story in many other areas of the country, places used to dealing with winter weather, but not here in the South, where plows, chains, and snow tires are uncommon, not to mention winter driving skills.

JC rubbed the lump behind his ear where McCracken had pistol-whipped him. The double vision had relented, but not the soft ringing echo that rattled around in his ears. A minor issue, really. He still didn't understand why he stood here at all, alive, playing with his son, looking forward to a pot roast dinner in the warmth and safety of his home, wrapped in the love of his family. Why had McCracken let him live? JC was ultimately the only person who could place the biker at the scene of the shooting of the Georgia State Trooper. When asked by investigators if he'd picked McCracken up at the way station, JC had not hesitated. He said, "I picked him up on I-85." He hadn't lied, exactly. He just told a half-truth by broadening the definition of "on" to include things such as way stations. Why? He wasn't sure. McCracken had, after all, shanghaied him, threatened him with death, and thrown him into a den of crazy-ass outlaw bikers. The guy wore the black hat of a drug dealer and a cop-shooter. Yet, he'd made sure, however self-serving his motives might have been, that JC got to Durham on time, almost on time, and that despite being technically late, that the proposal got logged in as being delivered prior to the deadline. After hearing JC's story, Gentry, the Rampart employee, allowed the delivery time to stand despite the traumatic circumstances under which he'd accepted it. Then again, maybe McCracken had just scared the crap out of him. JC acknowledged that McCracken bore responsibility in the first place for the dire circumstances that had unfolded. On the other hand, even without the forced excursion into the mountains, the G-Vagen would have run out of fuel before reaching Durham, and he, JC, would not have had a clue about how to steal gas. In truth, he wouldn't have had the balls.

"Hey, Dad, one more time."

"Okay, Cole," tugging his sled, stood in front of JC. Chest heaving, he puffed tiny clouds of steam into the wispy snowfall. His eyes danced in excitement as the shouts and whoops of other children cut through the fading light.

"Nope, you're done, kid."

"Ah, Dad, please." He dragged out the word "please" in the most pitiful manner.

"Maybe we can come back tomorrow," JC said, knowing full well that for Cole, "maybe" amounted to a promise. "At least it diffused the possibility of an immediate conflict." He draped his arm over his son's shoulders and they trudged toward home. His thoughts nevertheless lingered on McCracken. The guy had gone to bat for him at Rampart, albeit in a thoroughly mafioso manner. JC knew he could never have been so persuasive. So, how do you figure it? A guy with a "me first, people are motivated by fear" philosophy reaches out on behalf of someone other than himself? Maybe I should have brought him along when I returned the G-Vagen into RQB.

The authorities in North Carolina had impounded the Mercedes for several days, but allowed it to be returned to RQB on a flatbed truck on Thursday. JC had been there when it arrived. Carl stood beside him.

"So, Grandma lived in Durham, out on top of Grandfather Mountain," he said.

"You could think of it that way," JC said. The flatbed splashed through thick slush coating the dealership's lot and pulled up in front of JC and Carl. Carl ran his gaze over the battered SUV, its shot-out windows, crumpled fenders, and bullet-riddled exterior. "I guess Grandma was pissed, huh? Late with her Christmas gifts."

"Late with something, anyhow," JC said, wondering if Carl was amused or angry. The flatbed driver lowered the G-Vagen to the ground. Carl stepped closer to it and peeked into the windows.

"There's a dead bear in the rear seat," he said. "That's Teddy. Cole's been asking about him."

"Cole may turn out to be a more difficult customer than I am. I'm sorry about this, Carl. Really, I am."

"Well, there's got to be a great story behind it," Carl said. A hint of a grin reflected in his voice.

"Three-beer story," JC said. "Step into my office, then. Let's get started. I can't offer you a beer, but we've got coffee, and I might find something to add a bit of, shall we say, body to it." Accompanied by the aroma of freshly brewed Javalia, a splash of expensive cognac, and the alluring scent of $100,000 new cars, JC related his tale, leaving out, as he'd carefully rehearsed, any mention of the way station and the shot-up police cruiser. Carl steepled his fingers together and rested them under his chin when JC had finished. He seemed lost in thought. JC waited.

"Well, I believe you succeeded in establishing a new image, a fresh legend, as it were, for the Mercedes G-Vagen," Carl finally said, keeping his voice low and sounding not at all upset. "Russian mafia be damned." He chuckled. "Don't worry about it. I'm sure our insurance will cover it. And I was thinking we could probably come up with a really good deal for you on a reconditioned G550 if you're interested."

Chapter 36. Questions.

American International System Solutions Incorporated. Friday, February 24th. JC, having been summoned to his boss's office, rapped on Cyrus Billingsley's door. Billingsley responded with his usual curt command. "Enter." JC did. Upon returning to work the second week of January, Billingsley had reinstated him as a corporate vice president, but their contact since then had been minimal. Billingsley, as steely-faced as ever, but appearing relaxed and approachable, nodded for JC to take a seat.

"You know, I still don't know how you did it, how you got that proposal delivered through a historic storm, but you did," Billingsley said. "I'd call that a remarkable achievement."

"Thank you, sir, but it was my screw-up in the first place that made it necessary."

Billingsley almost smiled. Still. He spread his hands as if to say, "Still, you did it." He extracted a pair of reading glasses from his desk drawer, slipped them on, and studied a piece of paper on his desk. "We've been asked for our best and final from Rampart." This time he did smile. "Rumor has it the finalists on the contract award have been whittled down to us and a team led by Boeing. Great job, Mr. Rigggins." Billingsley stood and extended a congratulatory hand across his desk to JC. JC arose and accepted the kudos, but he knew any celebration would be premature. American International still had to win the contract.

"So, one more thing," Billingsley said. He gestured for JC to return to his seat.

"Yes, sir."

"Well, a question before I continue. How's Cole doing? I understand he's back at MD Anderson."

"He is and seems to be doing well. His doctors believe he can avoid a stem cell transplant, but the jury's still out."

"Your wife is with him?"

"She is. And both sets of grandparents, too."

"So, you're comfortable with the situation?"

"I'm a lot less worried than I was a couple of months ago."

"Good. I'm happy for you." JC studied Billingsley, his etched-in-stone features, his probing gaze. He has a soul after all. But JC sensed the man's expression of empathy went deeper than just that. He waited for Billingsley to continue.

"So, given that you're relatively free of outside distractions, and I understand that none of us ever is totally, I'd like you to coordinate the effort to put together our best and final."

"When is it due?" JC shuffled his feet in an uncomfortable reaction. He'd promised Cole he'd visit him in Houston this weekend, and he had a pretty good idea the best and final, the last and most attractive bid to Rampart would be on a tight schedule.

"A week from today," Billingsley said. JC looked away from Billingsley and bit his lip. "Next Friday." That meant working through the weekend.

"Problem?"

"I'm visiting Cole this weekend."

Billingsley looked thoughtful. "I understand. Family first. Well," he drew out the word, "I suspect if you appealed to our new COO, he'd understand. He's got overall responsibility for the final bid, and he's had firsthand experience with the damage that preoccupied employees can cause."

JC jerked into a more upright position in his chair. "New COO. Since when does American International have a chief operating officer?"

"He'll be easy to work with. Who is he?" Billingsley brushed a hand through his bristly hair and for the first time since JC had known him, actually laughed. "Congratulations," he said.

Five minutes later, JC, boasting a grin as wide as I-285, returned to his desk. He'd barely seated himself when his desk phone rang. He thought it might be Ginny, but being unsure, he resisted the urge to answer it.

"JC Rigggins, Chief Operating Officer." Instead, he merely said, "JC Rigggins."

"Hello, JC," taken aback, hesitated. "Cave."

"Yeah, you're alive."

"You should have been a detective."

"In jail. Nope. Cops never caught you?"

"No. I guess I wasn't high priority enough to send a task force after. Seems I'm more of a person of interest than a suspect. I wonder how that happened." JC didn't answer. He set the new nameplate Billingsley had given him on his desk and centered it, waiting for McCracken to continue speaking.

"Perhaps," McCracken went on, "there was nothing or nobody to place me at the scene of the shooting. What do you think?"

JC didn't know what he thought. He wanted to ask a particular question, but couldn't quite frame it. Instead, he said, "How's Lynn?"

"She's fine. She's pregnant."

"Oh." Something clicked into place for JC. It didn't surprise him. It's a thought that had flitted through his mind in Durham. "That's why you made an issue of picking up that stranded couple, isn't it?"

"Well, it was not a Christian love if that's what you're driving at."

"I'm not driving at anything, Cave. It's just an observation. Anyhow, congratulations."

"Yeah. Hey, your boy okay? What was his name?"

"Yes, he's okay. And his name is Cole."

"Cole. Good name. Maybe I'll think about that for my kid. What if it's a girl?"

"Colleen."

"Nice. Say, 'I don't suppose it would do any good to ask where you are.'" Jaci picked up a pen and placed a pad of paper in front of him just in case.

"Nope." Jaci set the pen back on the desk.

"Just out of curiosity, did Grizz ever track you down? You know, trying to get his stuff back?"

"No, I'm a long way from the Appalachians. Besides, I heard Grizz was caught and is awaiting trial in a South Carolina jail. Anyhow, I'm getting out of that business."

"Turning over a new leaf?"

"Probably not. Just discarding the previous one. Anyhow, it's funny how things work out, isn't it?"

"How so?" JC swiveled in his chair and gazed out at the bright sunlight flooding the late winter landscape. Already, in response to temperatures that had knocked on the door of seventy degrees, ornamental fruit trees had dared blossom, probably too early for their own good.

"I mean," McCracken continued, "if I had shot you and that other dude in Durham, my version of eliminating witnesses, I really would have sealed my fate. The law would have been relentless in hunting me down. Instead, because you're still walking and talking, but apparently not talking all that much, I've been given some breathing room. Isn't there a foreign word for that? Quad pro something."

"Quid pro quo."

"You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours. Yeah. You think that applies in our case?"

"Does it?"

"Probably not. I know you might like to think I didn't shoot you because I had an epiphany. I think that's the right word. And suddenly realized in a blinding flash of light that mankind really is driven by love, not fear. No, my friend, fear rules. Always will."

And that framed the question JC knew he had to ask. "So why didn't you shoot me? I mean, at that very moment, hindsight aside, what prevented you from pulling the trigger?"

McCracken didn't answer immediately. JC waited because McCracken said after a long pause, "The clip was empty."

"You knew that all along?"

"Yeah. The whole deal with the Glock after the Waffle House was a bluff. You would have shot me and the other guy too if the clip had been loaded."

"Yeah. You're sure?"

McCracken didn't answer. Instead, he said, "Hey, I almost forgot. I sent your kid a teddy bear." JC, taken aback, found himself unable to articulate a response. McCracken kept talking. "I felt bad after I assassinated Teddy, especially when you told me your kid had sent him along as a guardian angel. Anyhow, I figured Cole could maybe use a guardian angel, you know, with all he's facing. So, I put a bear in a box and sent it to you at your company's address."

"Cave, I don't know what to..."

"You don't have to say anything. Life goes on without us trying to dissect it or figure it out. It is what it is. Look, I'm going to hang up now. I won't bother you again. Take care of your wife and kid." McCracken terminated the call.

JC sat at his desk for a long time, staring at nothing, digesting the conversation he'd just had. His question hadn't really been answered, and he knew it never would be. He'd never know if the reason he sat here at this moment, attempting to analyze why he sat here, was due to some sort of cosmic roll of the dice, or something more deliberate, but still unfathomable, a numinous nudge of the chaos that seems endemic to the world. He wondered how much of his life, if any, was dictated, influenced by powers unseen, unknowable, undefinable. Or was he, or any of us, merely adrift in a universe ruled by randomness, accidents, and arbitrary conjunctions of events, a failed task, a historic blizzard, a crook on the lam, an empty .45 caliber ammunition clip? How do you explain a guy who steals a car, shoots a cop, and deals drugs sending a guardian angel teddy bear to a kid fighting leukemia? He couldn't have been motivated by fear. JC wondered if Caveman realized that.

The End.

Author's Note.

Blizzard, while a product of my imagination, has its roots in personal experiences. No, not the part about the bikers. I lived for twenty years in New England near Hartford and Boston, so have been through dozens of snowstorms and several full-blown blizzards. The one that stands out in my memory is the Blizzard of '78 in Boston. That storm literally shut down the city for the better part of a week. Years later in Atlanta, I experienced Superstorm 1993, a blizzard that left portions of North Georgia snowbound. My thirteen years as a senior meteorologist at The Weather Channel informs the scenes set in the fictional natural environment television network. The characters at NEV, however, in no way reflect the fine people I worked with at The Weather Channel. Prior to working at The Weather Channel, I spent some time in the defense industry where I gained at least a handshaking knowledge of proposal efforts. You may wonder where the scene with the wolves in North Georgia came from. Yes, I know there are no wolves in the eastern U.S., but I think I explained away their presence satisfactorily. At any rate, the scene actually had its genesis in Germany. There's a castle, Burg Arras, constructed circa 1100 near my wife's hometown that overlooks the Moselle River Valley. During the forty years I visited the area on and off, Burg Arras has become kind of a favorite of mine. It's more of a tourist spot for locals than for international visitors. The castle sits at the top of a steep forested hill several miles back from the river. I often imagined a scene as I hiked up to the castle in which a medieval peasant pursued by a pack of wolves struggled through deep snow seeking the safety of the berg. Knowing I'd probably never write a tale set in medieval Germany, I merely transplanted my musings to the modern-day southern Appalachians. I received no remuneration from Mercedes for having my protagonist use a G-wagen in his epic journey. It just seemed like the right vehicle for the job. Of course, the fact my wife is German and we have a good friend who's a former general manager of a large Mercedes dealership in Atlanta probably had something to do with the choice, too.

As usual, a lot of people helped make Blizzard a better book than it started out. First of all, there was my Books for Less Barnes & Noble critique group that suffered through numerous iterations of various chapters. They always found ways to make my writing more readable. Next, my first readers, Jeannie Loyokono, who was also my agent, Gary Schwarz, Tom Howley, and Dave Spiegler, all labored through the first draft of the novel and pointed out where the characters and/or the story needed improvement. Finally, many thanks to my editor at Bellbridge Books, Pat Vani, for lending her boundless skill, wisdom, and insights to improve my feeble efforts. I also wish to acknowledge Jeff Wright, director of security for Waffle House. Jeff called my attention to the Waffle House index. It's for real. In addition to answering my questions about police procedures, about the author, HW Buzz Bernard is the best-selling author of Eyewall, Plague, and Supercell. Eyewall, his debut novel, became a number one bestseller on Amazon's Kindle. Nominated for Georgia Author of the Year 2012 fiction novel. Plague, nominated for Georgia Author of the Year 2013 novel. Winner 2014 Epic Ebook Award for suspense thriller. Supercell climbed to number four on the Kindle Bestseller list. Finalist for 2015 Epic Ebook Award for suspense thriller. Semi-finalist for Georgia Author of the Year 2014 fiction. Buzz is a native Oregonian and attended the University of Washington in Seattle where he earned a degree in atmospheric science and studied creative writing. He's currently vice president of the Southeastern Writers Association. Bernard is represented by Loyakono Literary Agency. He and his wife Christina along with a fuzzy Shih Tzu named Stormmy live in Roswell, Georgia near Atlanta. This is Steve Roush. We hope you have enjoyed Blizzard. Text copyright 2023 by HW Buzz Bernard. Production copyright 2024 by Bryant Street Publishing in arrangement with Bell Books Incorporated. This program was produced by John Marshall Media. Executive producer Greg Cooler. All rights reserved.