16

Snow profited from the Weeder’s absence to use the phone. She had to call a friend in Providence to get the phone number of Michael Fargo’s parents. Mrs. Fargo remembered Snow very well from her son’s wedding and gladly passed on Michael’s home phone number in Georgetown. Snow pressed Mark’s wife, Sally, for Michael’s private number at the Justice Department.

Snow stared down at the slip of paper with the telephone number scrawled on it. She was sure Silas was dead wrong. There were people in high places whose moral compass still pointed true north. And Michael Fargo was one of them. Snow had known him since his law school days; Michael had been Jeb’s closest friend, and best man at their wedding. If there was one person in the world she would trust with her life it was Michael. She would sound him out, feel her way. Silas would see she had been right.

Snow reached for the phone and dialed the Washington number. A telephone rang. A man, all business, came on the line.

“Fargo.”

“Michael?”

There was a crisp “Who’s this?”

“It’s me, Snow.”

“Snow! My God. A voice from the grave!” Michael Fargo faltered. “I’m sorry I said that. I wasn’t thinking. It’s been three years, hasn’t it? Since we buried Jeb. I’m glad you called.”

“Michael—”

Snow hesitated. Fargo heard the hesitation. “Is something the matter, Snow?”

Tears flowed. Between them Snow managed to get out, “I need help, Michael.”