"And the third set of tracks?"

Again I got the dark eyes. "Nate's companion came back down. Running, from the look of the tracks. We never found out who he was. Or she. I don't know if anyone ever told Rorry about the second person on the" slope that day. Probably she knows anyway. So as I say, you might not want to talk to her about it." She strode away to admonish a skier who'd slammed into an entire family.

Openmouthed, I struggled to process what I'd just been told. Two sets of tracks up? One down? Did Rorry indeed know about Nate's companion? And who could it have been? Why hadn't that person ever shown up?

"Mom!" Arch was panting. His flushed cheeks were wet with melted snow. "Todd got hit by a lady skier. She bounced off him and crashed into me. Major yard sale and I'm not kidding. Then she yelled at us for getting in her way. I told her, 'Y'ever heard of Yield to the downhill skier?. and she shouted, 'You're not a skier!' "

I consoled him while he brushed clumps of snow from his shoulders and complained of prejudice against snowboarders. Poor Todd shuffled up and I asked if he was all right. His ambiguous I guess was followed by a request to take him back to his condo, which I did.

Arch fell asleep in the Range Rover within five minutes of our leaving Killdeer. By the time I pulled into High Country Towing in Dillon, he was snoring. A man in oil-splashed coveralls unlocked the gates to a lot crammed with vehicles, all of which had seen better days. When I caught sight of my ruined van, an unexpected lump rose in my throat. My trustworthy vehicle, its Goldilocks' Catering, Where Everything Is Just Right! now crumpled and illegible, had been my companion through years of catering. The van's sorry state seemed an omen of the loss of my business. I patted the bumper and bid it a silent farewell. Then, before the overall-guy could call the local mental health center, I scooped up Tom's skis - miraculously unharmed - as well as my own ski gear and my backpack, and roared toward home.

Arch woke up as we pulled into our driveway. I needed to talk to Tom about all I'd learned, about Barton Reed, the cancer-suffering convict; Jack Gilkey, the paroled chef; Arthur Wakefield, the wine-loving antiparole activist; and Boots Faraday, the savagely unfriendly artist who'd hated the town's art critic. But visiting time at the jail was almost over, and Tom had promised Arch he'd take him down to see his father. Before they left, Tom added that he wanted to help me: make dinner, so I should wait until he returned to start.