secure.’” Gold mimicked.
“I think she sounds quite efficient,” said Cilla coolly.
“Let’s not pre-judge her,” urged Hudson. “She has John’s confidence.”
Conversation slowed. The snowstorm was gathering force, and the wind whistled around corners of the house and gusted down the chimney. The swirling white at the windows and the warmth within produced the feeling confirmed New Englanders call `cozy’ and drives the unconvinced to less awesome climes. Thirty minutes had passed when Krestinski emerged from the kitchen.
“It suddenly occurs to me we’ve been taking up one of the more valuable rooms in the house.”
“How about tea or coffee for everyone?” Cilla asked.
“We’ve got cookies and cake too,” said Hudson. “Why doesn’t everybody help themselves.”
The others joined the two agents in the kitchen. The sound of truck gears came from the road.
“Probably the plow,” said Gold. “My car’s on the street.”
“So’s my Pontiac,” said Krestinski.
“Let me have keys, and I’ll move them.”
Hudson grinned as he followed the rest to the kitchen. Bob: a good heart but one that never left the battlefield. He watched Gold collect keys - his own car was in his garage - remembering the first time he’d met the ex-Seal. What was the name of...Terry, who taught karate at the club, had a class of grammar school kids and went looking for someone bigger to demonstrate throws. Gold had been minding his business in the free weight room, when Terry grabbed him by the arm and half-pulling, half-coaxing led him to the mats they were using. Hudson was the only one in the Nautilus room next door. As the two went by, Gold gave him a broad wink. In front of the class, Gold let Terry get a grip, but when the throw came it was Terry who went sailing across the room. Later, over a beer, Gold chuckled and...Something was wrong, thought Hudson. The plow. It didn’t have the blade down.
“Bob!” He turned toward the swinging door Gold had gone through seconds before. He’d just reached it when the explosion nearly lifted him off his feet. He fell back into the kitchen. Dazed. An acrid smell and...Was he blind? No, the power had gone. “Cilla!”
“Everybody stay down!” bellowed Krestinski. Hudson could hear the FBI man crawling toward him. He turned back to the kitchen. Just then came the second explosion. And blackness.
Todd Seaver liked blizzards, and not just because they brought him money. As a small boy growing up on the coast of Maine his favorite spot was a tiny inlet, where - at flood tide - the surf channeled itself between two thick fists of rock to pound against a sea wall. There were attached cement steps leading to a small section of sandy beach that appeared when the tide ebbed. During storms, the water hit the sea wall with such force that waves sprayed the street just beyond, and it was those times Todd enjoyed most. The game was to get as far down the sea wall steps as you could before having to retreat to escape another wave crashing against the wall, and anyone caught on the stairs. Todd never was, but another boy hadn’t been so lucky or fleet afoot, and the stairs were now locked off during storms.
He could barely see through the windshield of the truck cab as he started up Ledge Road. The swirling white swallowed his headlights, cutting them off two feet in front of his plow. Damn! The town plow had been through. Some eight inches had fallen, and it would have been fun to challenge a good sock of snow on one of the steepest roads in town with his four-wheel drive, sand-weighted truck.
Todd plowed driveways for the four vacation homes at the end of Ledge Road. He didn’t really need to keep them open during the storm. It was a weekday and he knew they’d be unoccupied. But when the storm was over, it’d just be another chore, without the excitement of the blizzard and the chance to challenge Mother Nature yet again. Three quarters of the way up - where the grade dipped back below 10% - Swallow Hill Road split off to the right. He was twenty feet from it when he saw lights from a vehicle coming out. Fast. He braked, and through the gusting sheets of white could make out the familiar light green color of the town plow as it swung toward him, heading downhill at a pace even Todd would think twice about in those conditions. He turned the wheel hard to the right. The truck skidded to a stop with the right front wheel over a ditch. Shit! What the hell was Kevin doing! He spun the wheels angrily, then, realizing he was just getting himself in more trouble, stopped and started slowly, letting the tires on solid ground gain traction. Gravity helped, and he backed out down Ledge Road, pulling over to the shoulder. He stopped the truck and got out, leaving the engine running. Ledge Road from there up had nearly nine inches, as did Swallow Hill. Then where was Kevin going? Why didn’t he plow them? Both were town roads, having been accepted before regulations set eligible grades lower than 10%. An emergency? Bartlett plows didn’t have radios. An accident? Why didn’t Kevin stop?
Todd climbed back in the cab and turned into Swallow Hill Road. He could see the other vehicle’s tracks, one fresh set in and one out. There were two houses on the road, he remembered. Carter and Mooney. No, it wasn’t Mooney any more. Hudson something, a middle aged guy from Massachusetts. Married that Indian girl, Cilla Wheaton. He’d known her in school, after his Mom moved them both to Bartlett. That house came first, about a half mile in. He wondered if he’d be able to see its house lights through the snow. He kept his eye on the side of the road for tracks. Suddenly out of the white, the dark hulk of a car. Several cars, parked at the side of the road, with white blankets covering the roof, seeping down the sides. The plow tracks ended with sprouting arms on the snowy street, the proof Kevin had turned around in the driveway.
Todd followed the tracks in and stopped. There were lights, many lights but, as Todd came even with a car sitting sideways blocking the driveway, he saw it wasn’t the cheery glow of table lamps. Fire! He got out and ran toward a remembered porch door. There was no porch; in its place were scattered timbers and a gaping hole in the building through which he could see flames.
“Fire!” he yelled, feeling a bit foolish. If there was anyone in there - and there had to be from the number of cars around - they sure as hell knew it.
“Anyone here?” The wind carried much of the sound away before it reached the house.
“Here!” The voice was muffled, a woman’s.
Without hesitation, Todd scrambled across the porch remains as though up the sea wall stairs. “Where? Keep talking!”
“Back here! Hurry! There are six of us!”
Todd went through. He was in a bedroom, or what remained of it. He heard the voice again and hurried through a living room, over scattered embers from the fireplace, to a doorless kitchen. A woman was getting to her feet. In the smoky light from fires building in the living room he could see she had a gun in her hand!
“Hey! I’m help!”
“Okay,” said the woman. “Help that man to his feet.” She pointed to a figure on its knees. “Are you alone?”
“Yeah. Just me.” He put an arm under the man’s shoulder and lifted him to unsteady feet. The woman was kneeling next to a body that lay face down with torn pants and blood oozing through. In the flickering light he saw another figure stirring just beyond, a woman. He ran to her.
“Are you alright?”
She scarcely heard him. “Hudson!” She crawled to the body on the floor.
“He’s coming around, Cilla,” said the gunwoman. So this was the girl he went to school with. “I think he looks worse than he is. He took the second blast on his rear end.” Then to Todd, “You, what’s your name?”
“Todd. What in hell happened here?”
“Grenades, probably.” Said as though it had been a thundershower. “Todd, there’s an older man in the corner. You get him outside. Carry him if you have to. John, are you okay?” This to the standing man. Todd, moving to the other end of the kitchen, saw he too had a pistol. Grenades, people with guns, what the hell had he gotten into?
“I’m all right. Help the others.” The old man’s voice was strong and turned him back.
“Where are you hurt, Hudson?” Cilla had hands under his head.
