equal to Peter Waxhill’s, he was not as impeccably attired, suave, or
well-spoken as that gentleman who had briefed them over breakfast. And
unlike the muscular Jim Lomar at John Wayne Airport * in Orange
County last night, he let them carry their own luggage to the green Ford
Explorer that stood at their disposal in the parking area behind the
hangar.
Spicer was about fifty years old, five feet ten, a hundred and sixty
pounds, with brush-cut iron-gray hair. His face was all hard planes,
and his eyes were hidden behind sunglasses even though the sky was
overcast. He wore combat boots, khaki slacks, khaki shirt, and a
battered leather flight jacket with numerous zippered pockets. His
erect posture, disciplined manner, and clipped speech pegged him for a
retired–perhaps cashiered–army officer who was unwilling to change the
attitudes, habits, or wardrobe of a military careerist.
“You’re not dressed properly for Mammoth,” Spicer said sharply as they
walked to the Explorer, his breath streaming from his mouth in white
plumes.
“I didn’t realize it would be quite so cold here,” Oslett said,
shuddering uncontrollably.
“Sierra Nevadas,” Spicer said. “Almost eight thousand feet above sea
level where we stand. December. Can’t expect palm trees, hula skirts,
and pin colds.”
“I knew it would be cold, just not this cold.”
“You’ll freeze your ass off,” Spicer said curtly.
“This jacket’s warm,” Oslett said defensively. “It’s cashmere.”
“Good for you,” Spicer said.
He raised the hatch on the back of the Explorer and stood aside to let
them load their luggage into the cargo space.
Spicer got behind the wheel. Oslett sat up front. In the back seat,
Clocker resumed reading The Flatulent Ferocity from Ganymede.
Driving away from the airfield into town, Spicer was silent for a while.
Then, “Expecting our first snow of the season later today.”
“Winter’s my favorite time of the year,” Oslett said.
“Might not like it so much with snow up to your ass and those nice
oxfords turning hard as a Dutchman’s wooden shoes.”
“Do you know who I am?” Oslett asked impatiently.
“Yes, sir,” Spicer said, clipping his words even more than usual but
inclining his head slightly in a subtle acknowledgment of his inferior
position.
“Good,” Oslett said.
In places, tall evergreens crowded both sides of the roadway.
Many of the motels, restaurants, and roadside bars boasted ersatz alpine
architecture, and in some cases their names incorporated words that
called to mind images from movies as diverse as The Sound of Music and
Clint Eastwood vehicles, Bavarian this, Swiss that, Eiger, Matterhorn,
Geneva, Hofbrau.
Oslett said, “Where’s the Stillwater house?”
“We’re going to your motel.”
“I understood there was a surveillance unit staking out the Still water
house,” Oslett persisted.
“Yes, sir. Across the street in a van with tinted windows.”
“I want to join them.”
“Not a good idea. This is a small town. Not even five thousand people,
when you don’t count tourists. Lot of people going in and out of a
parked van on a residential street–that’s going to draw unwanted
attention.”
“Then what do you suggest?”
“Phone the surveillance team, let them know where to reach you. Then
wait at the motel. The minute Martin Stillwater calls his folks or
shows up at their door–you’ll be notified.”
“He hasn’t called them yet?”
“Their phone’s rung several times in the past few hours, but they aren’t
home to answer it, so we don’t know if it’s their son or not.”
Oslett was incredulous. “They don’t have an answering machine?”
“Pace of life up here doesn’t exactly require one.”
“Amazing. Well, if they’re not at home, where are they?”
“They went shopping this morning, and not long ago they stopped for a
late lunch at a restaurant out on Route 203. They should be home in
another hour or so.”
“They’re being followed?”
“Of course.”
In anticipation of the predicted storm, skiers were already arriving in
town with loaded ski racks on their cars. Oslett saw a bumper sticker
that read MY LIFE IS ALL DOWNHILL–AND LOVE IT!
As they stopped at a red traffic light behind a station wagon that
seemed to be stuffed full of enough young blond women in ski sweaters to