Concerned over Harrington’s health, Leopold called again Saturday morning. “Thanks, Arch, I’m feeling much better,” he answered. “Any news from the Midwest?”
“No sir. How about D.C.?”
“Longbridge has invited me to a White House celebration next Saturday for Lamp. He wants me to set the spiritual tone for the new court. With friendly journalists on hand, we should get some favorable press for a change.”
“Longbridge seems confident about the confirmation vote.”
“As he should, Arch. Senator Fulton’s private poll indicates a 73-27 majority in Lamp’s favor. I doubt next week’s floor debate will change those numbers significantly.”
“And your heart, sir; have you made that doctor’s appointment?”
“No, but I intend to this afternoon.”
After checking in with Nicholas, Leopold headed north on Route 49. With the primary routes blocked, the fugitives were most likely traveling this desolate stretch of 49 or else 51. He called George, who was scouting the latter. “Ain’t seen nothing, Arch, and I’ve been out since nine.”
“Then start hitting the road at eight like the rest of us. Where are you?”
“Between Wausau and Merrill.”
“Maybe the fugitives were, too —at eight.” The line suddenly crackled. “What’s that?”
“A monster truck. They blow by every five minutes or so.”
“I’m getting them, too. Those big Duluth shipping operations must be responsible.” He pulled off at a convenience store. “George, you better be checking everything on the road.”
“Arch, there ain’t much to check. Since Wausau there’s been a half-dozen shanties, a feed store and a mini-mart... Ah, make that two. Catch you later.”
Hanging up, Leopold limped into the store. The proprietor, a a bald, stocky man, eyed him intently as he approached the counter. “You a ballplayer?”
“No, why?” he asked.
“Because you’re so big. We get ‘em in here a lot; Packers, Vikings; some with bad knees like yours.”
He scanned the store. The midday traffic was considerable. “I’ll have some coffee,” he said as he nodded at the pot. “And a pack of Marlboros.”
“My brand, too,” said an old woman who set her carton on the counter. “You play for the Packers?” Her eyes scaled the dark giant. “If so, go easy on them things. They cut your wind... What do I owe you, Jerry?”
He rang up her merchandise. “Reese, are you stocked for the blizzard?”
“Have been since Thanksgiving. Let it fly.” She grabbed her bag and walked out.
“They’re calling for snow?” Leopold asked.
“Say it’s gonna be a doozie, too.” Jerry rang up a young couple’s merchandise. “The store fills up quickly when snow’s coming. It’ll be like this all day.”
Others soon came up with their merchandise, but nobody claimed the Jordan Almonds and Jawbreakers resting on the counter. The almonds suddenly scratched at Leopold’s brain. Idly, he scanned the store. “Is there a truck stop nearby?”
“Callahan’s,” Jerry nodded. “Just north at the 107 junction. So if you don’t play football, Mr....”
“Navros.” He handed Jerry the pictures. “I’m an attorney with Lieber Allen, a New York law firm.”
Nearby, a young man suddenly froze as he studied the giant’s reflection in the cooler glass. A stocking cap covered his gold hair, shades concealing his blue eyes. But nothing hid his evenly featured face. Anxiously he glanced at his cart full of groceries.
“These are the fugitives?” Jerry studied the pictures. “I’ve seen ‘em on the news a hundred times.”
“Anywhere else?” Leopold asked. “Like here in your store?”
He shook his head. “If they’re around here, I haven’t seen ‘em. Lieber Allen, sure.” He made the connection. “That’s the firm... Hey!” he yelled at a young man suddenly streaking out. “Don’t you want... guess not.” He glanced at the candy. Smiling, he watched the young man quickly pull away in an old Nova. He’d had one just like it thirty years ago.
Leopold wrote down his phone number and gave it to him. “If you see or hear anything about the fugitives call me. There’ll be a fat reward.”
“Sure thing.” he said as Navros left.
“Jerry!” A heavily bundled woman approached. “Some guy just left a full cart back there.”
“Probably the same one who left the candy. Cap and glasses?”
“That’s him,” she replied.
They turned as an agitated Navros limped back into the store. “You seen a ‘63 blue Chevy Nova?”
“One just left,” Jerry answered. “The boy driving was in such a hurry he forgot his candy there.”
Leopold’s looked at the unclaimed Jordan Almonds. Now he remembered the box from the Naples hotel room. The one flimsy clue in an otherwise spotless room, and he’d forgotten it. Waddill had just been here; the realization sickened him.
Jerry had figured it out, too. “That was...?” He stopped as a furious Navros limped out, the door rattling behind him.
Phone in hand, Leopold sped north.
“Arch, they’ve picked up Waddill’s trail again,” Harrington reported. “A Madison car dealer...”
“Johnson Motor Sales. I know, sir. Waddill’s latest heap is a ‘63 Nova.” Reaching the 107 junction, he passed Callahan’s with a morose glance. The fugitives no longer needed a truck stop. They had a new car. “Sir, Waddill was in Eau Claire, just minutes ago.”
“How do you know?”
“I was in the store at the same time.”
A pained silence gripped the line. “That was before you knew about the Nova?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you couldn’t have made a connection.”
“At least we’re closing the gap, sir. I plan to move my men north, and establish new positions closer to Snow Peak, while Nicholas seals off Wisconsin and Minnesota. Don’t worry.” He pulled into the next service station. “We’ll nab them soon.”
The new northern positions were established over the afternoon, effectively cutting the fugitives off from the east at Manitowoc, from the south at Eau Claire, and from the west at Ortonville. Heavily blanketed 149, at its Snow Peak junction, became the new point, north.
With everything in place, Nicholas left Bingham in St. Paul and Cooley in Madison to coordinate with local authorities as he established his new command post in Snow Peak. Leopold, meanwhile, relocated to Duluth, moving men north to Benidi and Rhinelander, while keeping George in Stevens Point and Frankie in Mankato. Now they had only to wait — again.
The first lead came as the storm’s first snow fluttered from the evening sky. A roving chopper spotted the abandoned Nova behind Callahan’s Truck Stop. Within minutes, a dozen Wisconsin units were on the scene to inspect the car, and question people inside Callahan’s. None had seen the fugitives.
They could be looking for any of a hundred trucks now... And factoring in the last fugitive sighting, six hours earlier with travel time on a tractor-trailer quickly doubled the cordoned-off search area.
The operation’s response was predictable — and for Leopold, agonizing. Hold your ground, and wait. Again.
The storm buried the Midwest in two feet of snow before ending late Sunday. A bone-chilling cold settled in. No one needed to hear that another storm was on the way.
The storm in the nation’s capital proved much milder, depositing but a modest, silky-white dressing on the Potomac’s banks and the nearby District. That Sunday afternoon, Senator Adamley received an unexpected caller at his Georgetown home. He knew the young man’s face as that of a recently hired staff member.
“George St. Martin,” the visitor identified himself. “I’m sorry to bother you on the weekend, Senator, but there’s an urgent matter to discuss, if you have the time.”
Curious, Adamley showed his visitor into the study, where they were soon drinking his wife’s freshly perked coffee while St. Martin offered his account of the anonymous Truitville letter. Adamley looked dumbfounded.
“Then Lloyd never showed you the letter, sir?”
“No.” He remembered the mysterious call during Friday’s recess. Tamrack had taken it, then returned to the hearing to explain: a real crackpot. The guy swears Lamp is an intergalactic alien sent here to destroy our justice system. Had that caller also been the anonymous Truitville letter writer, attempting to publicize his fantastic charges? Not about intergalactic aliens, but an ancient Tennessee murder?
“I saw Lloyd on his car phone minutes after giving him the letter,” St. Martin added. “He read it over the line.”
Adamley envisioned Tamrack’s shiny BMW, tailored suits, and ritzy Georgetown condo. “I suspect he was handsomely paid for that information by a Lamp sympathizer. Do you think the letter has any merit?”
“That’s hard to say. But I have a good idea who sent it.”
“Who?” Adamley’s brows arched.
“Tyler Waddill. Reportedly, he mailed a letter from Truitville on Tuesday. I doubt seriously that’s a coincidence.”
He agreed. “Waddill must hate Lamp for helping the FBI expose his actions.”
“But he had no reason to hate the other two. The Chief Justice gave him his first job.”
Adamley was impressed. “You’ve obviously done your homework.” Springing up, he grabbed the phone.
“Who are you calling, sir?”
“Senator Banyon.” Pausing, he studied the bright-eyed messenger responsible for his new vigor. “You better run along now, St. Martin. You have a lot to do, especially with your new job.”
“My new job, sir?”
“As my chief legislative aide. Take Tamrack’s office; I’ll have his things moved out in the morning.”
At the opposite end of Georgetown, an elegant, silver-haired woman gazed out her study window at the falling snow. The fine homes were dressed in white, their lanterns aglow, chimneys smoking. Two storms in as many days, she marveled. But they were mere dustings compared to the several feet dumped on the Midwest. How was the young man she worried about managing under such extreme conditions? And his female companion on crutches, for heaven’s sake! Shouldn’t they surrender and let the legal system straighten this mess out? They were lawyers. Didn’t they know this better than anyone?
Worry surrendered to reflection as she envisioned the children sledding down their York estate’s snowy slope, the adults roasting weenies by the fire. They’d had a wonderful time, including the young man she worried about now, and his girlfriend, who’d clung to him as they raced down the hill. Snowstorms had been rare events in Tidewater. And their last white Christmas? Yes, she remembered. It had been spent at Castlewood — such a noisy, cheerful place, especially at Christmas. But not that year. The girl on the sled had just died. And Castlewood had become a tomb.
“Betsy Culpepper.” Her husband’s comforting hand settled on her shoulder. “You’ve worked yourself into one of those moods, haven’t you?”
Smiling, she slipped her fingers through his. “I was just thinking about our last white Christmas. Six years ago. Can you believe it’s been that long?”
Travis gazed at the confetti-like snow littering the sky. Four inches on the ground, and several more expected. “It was snowing like this on that Christmas Eve at Castlewood. Only it was much colder. The coldest night I ever remember.”
“Travis, what would you think about asking Matt and Harrison to bring their families to York this Christmas?”
“I don’t suppose this came up in your earlier conversation with Hunter Leigh, did it?”
“Well, I confess it came up. But I didn’t make any promises.” She sighed. “Hunter Leigh seems more despondent each time we talk. She says Schuyler just sits by the phone. Yet he won’t turn the TV on. He’s frightened to death of the news. And poor Stafford’s taking it just as hard. Dr. Brannigan has them all on tranquilizers. Honestly Travis, it’s like they’re trapped in a nightmare, unable to do anything but wait.”
“Unfortunately, it’s been that way for the last six years,” he said. “Tell you what — let’s call the kids, and see what they think about a York Christmas.”
“I’ll tell Hunter Leigh we’re coming. And good heavens, we need to make plans quickly. Maybe Tyler will even be home by then.”
“I wouldn’t count on it.”
“Why won’t that imbecile in the White House listen to you? How can he possibly believe Tyler committed those terrible crimes?”
“Because he doesn’t know him like we do.”
“He knows you, Travis. And if he was as holy as he pretended, he could recognize another principled man besides himself.”
“He must think I’m principled to some degree. You’ll recall, I’m the only one from Arnold Westbrook’s...” He stopped at the ringing phone.
“That’s probably Harrison,” she said as hurried after it. “Jordan’s leaving for a medical convention in Tampa tonight.”
He turned back to the window, when she suddenly shouted, “Good heavens! Where are you?”
Turning, he found her anxiously clenching the phone. “What in Sam Hill is wrong?”
Her eyes glistened as she handed him the phone. “Tyler wants to speak with you.”