“I know: There will always be moments. But fewer of them, I hope-. Days, perhaps, where you don’t feel it.”

“Yes,” I said. “There are days when I don’t.”

“We’ve got a very good lead on the group responsible. We think we know who placed the bomb.”

We raised the tips of our skis and leaned forward as the lift eased us out like baby birds nudged from the nest. My legs were stiff and cold from the ride, and trails in the shade were treacherous with ice. Wesley’s long white skis vanished against the snow and caught light at the same time. He danced down the slope in dazzling puffs of diamond dust, pausing every now and then to look back. I waved him on by barely lifting a pole as I made languid parallel toms and floated over moguls. Halfway into the run I was limber and warm, thoughts flying free.

When I returned to my room as it was getting dark, I discovered Marino had left a message that he would be at headquarters until five-thirty and for me to call ASAP.

“What’s going on?”

I said when he answered..

“Nothing that’s going to make you sleep better. For starters, Jason Story’s badmouthing you to anyone who will stand still long enough to listen - including reporters.”

“His rage has to go somewhere,” I said, my mood darkening again.

“Well, what he’s doing ain’t good, but it also ain’t the worst of our problems. We can’t locate ten print cards for Waddell.”

“Not anywhere?”

“You got it. We’ve checked his files at Richmond P.D., the State Police, and the FBI. That’s every jurisdiction that should have them. No cards. Then I contacted Donahue at the pen to see if I could track down Waddell’s personal effects; such as books, letters, hairbrush, toothbrush - anything that might be a source for latent prints. And guess what? Donahue says the only things Waddell’s mother wanted were his watch and ring. Everything else Corrections destroyed.”

I sat heavily on the edge of the bed.

“And I saved the best for last, Doc. Firearms hit paydirt and you ain’t going to believe it. The bullets recovered from Eddie Heath and Susan Story was fired from the same gun, a twenty-two.”

“Dear God,” I said.

Downstairs in the Homestead Club, a band was playing jazz, but the audience was small and the music was not too loud to talk over. Connie had taken Lucy to a movie, leaving Wesley and me at a table in a deserted corner of the dance floor. Both of us were sipping cognac. He did not seem as physically tired as I was, but tension had returned to his face.