Next, I called Bobbie. As I expected, he was indeed thrilled. “A wire, like in Prince of the City?”
“I certainly hope not, Bobbie. They’re miniaturized these days, and can transmit video as well as audio.” We made arrangements to meet at my condo in the morning and rang off.
Time for some online homework. The Holy Hill National Shrine of Mary, Help of Christians, a Roman Catholic monastery, graces the peak of a deposit of retreating glacial gravel in Hubertus. Set within four hundred wooded acres, its twin spires are a landmark for miles. I remembered a field trip there when I was in grade school. The big basilica was majestic, but it was the small chapel which left a lasting impression. Pilgrims would go there to petition Mary for help. In the hall outside, a wall of discarded crutches testified to their healing. Little Angie believed the miracle stories the nuns told her. Big Angie wasn’t so sure.
The grounds of the church were open to the public, and many came there to hike or picnic. In mid-winter, at that hour, it would probably be deserted. There were few online pictures to help orient me to the areas outside the church, so I would have to figure it out as it unfolded.
My weather app forecasted morning temps in the teens. I laid out thermal underwear and warm clothes and prepared for bed, sure that I wouldn’t sleep a wink. When the alarm sounded at three-fifteen, I woke from vaguely disturbing dreams and groaned. Bobbie would arrive in thirty minutes for coffee and the drive to Delafield.
Being of small stature, I don’t generally wear clothes with oversize prints or features, but I did have a black-and-white plaid wool pea coat with two-inch fabric buttons. It wasn’t my warmest outerwear, but I hoped the other under-layers would suffice. When Bobbie buzzed, I wrestled into the coat and grabbed a bright red hat and scarf Aunt Terry knit for me, recalling how another of her scarves saved my life in the Johnson case. I might need the same good luck today, I reasoned, and the color would help Bram and Spider track me.
I did a double-take at the man at the elevator, who wore a black woolen overcoat, with a Homberg covering his graying hair. “What’s up with the silver fox look?” I asked Bobbie as we headed for the garage.
“Not many men my age go to church, Angie, so I decided to be a little older.”
“Very Richard Gere,” I said, handing him an insulated coffee cup.
On the drive to Delafield, we talked strategy. “Hank will be extremely wary,” I said. “I need to convince him that my only interest is in Marcy and the kids. If he thinks I might rat him out to Philly, he’ll disappear and we’ll never see him again.”
“Let your natural compassion come across, Ange. Not just for his family, but for him, too. After all, if it’s true that he went into hiding to protect them, he did a heroic thing, right?”
I pondered that for a few seconds. “I suppose … but I can’t help thinking about how much pain it caused. It won’t be easy to look at him and not see Marcy struggling to raise the kids alone.”
“I get that.” Bobbie glanced away as he spoke. “But we all do things that aren’t honorable, when we’re pushed to the limit.” His voice contained a memory that caused him pain.
Honor was a prime imperative for me. That might seem odd, coming from a woman whose job entailed spying on others and even breaking the law on occasion, but I only went to those lengths to establish the truth. Rationalization? I wasn’t sure. “That’s a good insight, Bobbie. I’ll remind myself of that.” Snow started to fall, and I concentrated on the roads.
At the farmhouse, Spider stood in an open bay of his huge garage/workspace, motioning us inside. “Hank might be savvy enough to notice if your car has more snow on it than a drive from Milwaukee would warrant,” he said as we approached the door to the house. “C’mon in. Magda made cinnamon bun dough last night. They’re almost ready to come out of the oven. We can add the icing once they cool.”
Bram York stood at the rustic wooden kitchen table, a steaming carafe poised over ceramic mugs. “Coffee for everyone?” he asked.
We nodded affirmatively and began to divest ourselves of the winter gear. When the Homburg came off, Spider grinned. “Good look, Bobbie. Nice touch.” Then he donned a hot mitt, took out a tray of delicious-smelling buns and carefully placed them on a waiting open wire rack to cool. We settled at the table, looking for all the world like a small group of friends who gathered for a very early breakfast.
Bram took the lead. “I ran recon last night, after Spider called me. Getting in after the brothers closed the gates for the night was no easy task. The land is full of physical barriers, mostly deep ravines cut by the glaciers. Add the trees and snow, and it could be a huge problem. No matter what Hank says, stay on the grounds proper, Angie, so we won’t lose you. Don’t go into the woods.”
“Got it,” I said.
“You carrying?” Spider asked me.
“My nine millimeter is in my purse. I can holster it under my coat, if you think it’s necessary, but Hank’s MO is to run, not to fight.”
“You never know what you’ll do when you’re backed into a corner.” Spider spoke in a matter-of-fact voice.
I was sure he’d been there and knew exactly what he would do. Me? I’d never had to raise my weapon, except on the practice range. “Okay, I’ll have it with me when I leave the car.”
Bram laid a hand-drawn map on the
