“Holly! I need a phone number!”

7

Todd Schneider is in, and affable. “I understand you folks are in for quite a storm, Mr. Hodges.”

“So they say.”

“Having any luck tracking down those defective consoles?”

“That’s actually why I’m calling. Do you happen to have the address that consignment of Zappit Commanders was sent to?”

“Of course. Can I call you back with it?”

“How about if I hang on? It’s rather urgent.”

“An urgent consumer advocacy issue?” Schneider sounds be­mused. “That sounds almost un-American. Let me see what I can do.”

A click and Hodges is on hold, complete with soothing strings that fail to soothe. Holly and Jerome are both in the office now, crowding the desk. Hodges makes an effort not to put his hand to his side. The seconds stretch out and form a minute. Then two. Hodges thinks, Either he’s on another call and forgotten me, or he can’t find it.

The hold music disappears. “Mr. Hodges? Still there?”

“Still here.”

“I have that address. It’s Gamez Unlimited—Gamez with a Z, if you remember—at 442 Maritime Drive. Care of Ms. Frederica Linklatter. Does that help?”

“It sure does. Thank you, Mr. Schneider.” He hangs up and looks at his two associates, one slender and winter-pale, the other bulked up from his house-building stint in Arizona. Along with his daughter Allie, now living on the other side of the country, they are the people he loves most at this end of his life.

He says, “Let’s take a ride, kids.”

8

Brady turns off SR-79 and onto Vale Road at Thurston’s Garage, where a number of local plow-for-pay boys are gassing their trucks, loading up with salted sand, or just standing around, drinking coffee and jabbering. It crosses Brady’s mind to pull in and see if he can get some studded snow tires on Library Al’s Malibu, but given the crowd the storm has brought to the garage, it would probably take all afternoon. He’s close to his destination now, and decides to go for it. If he gets snowed in once he’s there, who gives a shit? Not him. He’s been out to the camp twice already, mostly to scope the place out, but the second time he also laid in some supplies.

There’s a good three inches of snow on Vale Road, and the going is greasy. The Malibu slides several times, once almost all the way to the ditch. He’s sweating heavily, and Babineau’s arthritic fingers are throbbing from Brady’s deathgrip on the steering wheel.