“You’re talking about thirty miles before you see a smokestack,” said Lancey. “Trexler didn’t ski thirty miles through that storm. If he tried, he’s dead.”
“What would he do if he did get to some little burg?” Dryman said. “Nobody’s going anywhere. Two, three feet of snow all over the area, roads closed.”
“They just got the plows and sand trucks out late last night,” Lancey said.
“I’m telling you, he’s down there somewhere. Maybe he’s holed up, but he’s down there.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he doesn’t think anybody would believe he could make it. And besides, everybody thinks he went into Leadville. He probably figures he’s safe.”
Lancey sighed.
“Well, hell,” he said. “We got a four-wheel-drive with slug chains on it. C’mon, we’ll pick up the sheriff and see if we can make it up to Kramer’s cabin and take a look.”
The sheriff was an enormous man, over six feet tall and weighing about 225, with skin tanned the color of cinnamon. A soft-spoken man with a ready smile and alert eyes, he wore a plaid shirt and cord pants and a bulky sheepskin jacket that made him look even larger. A battered felt hat covered his bald pate. He climbed in the front seat next to Lancey and twisting around with some effort, offered a hand the size of a melon to Keegan and Dryman.
“Sidney Dowd,” he said softly. “I’m the sheriff hereabouts.”
Keegan shook the big hand.
“Francis Keegan, White House Security. This is John Dry- man, my partner.”
“White House Security, huh?” Dowd said. “You boys go in and check things out ahead of the president?”
“No,” Keegan said. “We’re in Special Investigations.” He let it drop there, hoping the sheriff would not pursue the point, but it was wishful thinking.
“What’d Johnny Trexler do?”
“We need to talk to him,” Dryman said. “Part of an ongoing investigation.”
“Took the liberty of callin’ the White House,” Dowd said. “Talked to a fella name of Smith who seemed a little surprised you were way out here, but he did say you were official and the investigation was highly confidential.” He paused for a moment and added, “Whatever the hell that means.”
“We just didn’t want him to get on to us and turn rabbit,” Keegan said. “But somebody tipped him off and that’s exactly what happened.”
“Don’t think there was anything suspicious about the call,” Dowd said. “Jesse out at the airport heard you mention John’s name when you landed and got all excited. He called to find out if Trexler was going to the White House for some reason.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” Keegan said. “I don’t mind telling you I was a little paranoid about that.”
“It’s a small town, gentlemen. Gossip is not uncommon.”
“I thought we might swing by Trexler’s place on the way up the mountain, just to check it out,” Keegan suggested.
“You think he went up to base camp and killed Soapie Kramer instead of going into Leadville?”
“Yes, we do,” Keegan answered.
“I really doubt that,” Dowd said and shut up.
They fell silent as they drove through the town and out the highway toward the base camp trail. Snowplows had piled snow deep on both sides of the road and the chains clinked rhythmically beneath them as they crunched over the road. Lancey could handle the vehicle. He wheeled into the mountain road that led to the Trexler and Kramer cabins, double-clutched down to first gear, and started up the trail at about ten miles an hour. The truck snaked up through the snow, its chains biting through the mud and slush into hard ground. Lancey kept a steady speed, made the turn into Trexler’s driveway and swung around in an arc so the pickup was facing back out on the road.
They got out and walked toward the cabin. Keegan took Dryman’s arm and held him back a little as they stomped a path through almost two feet of snow.
“Find a screwdriver,” he said. “And take the handle off the commode. Use gloves.”
“The
“Fingerprints, Dry. Nobody wears gloves when they take a leak.”
Dryman thought about that for a moment and nodded. “That’s right,” he agreed.
The cabin was clean and neat. Keegan checked all the closets. No suitcase. He checked the size of a pair of shoes. 10D. Pocketed a hairbrush with strands clinging to the bristles. Trexler’s skis and poles were leaning near the back door.
“Doesn’t look like he was planning to ski anywhere,” Dowd said.
“He wants this place to look like he went out of town for a couple of days,” Keegan said. “I’m sure he was planning to use Kramer’s skis. Notice something else? Not a picture in the room. Nothing personal.”
Dowd shrugged. “Well, Johnny’s a little eccentric, maybe,” he said. “But that still don’t make him a killer.”
“Come to think of it, he was real funny about photos,” Lancey said, going into the kitchen. “Never would stand still for a picture, said it was bad luck.”
Lancey looked in the refrigerator. Ice cream—strawberry. Several cans of smoked herring. Pork sausage.
