Chapter 21

The blinding fury of the blizzard struck Will as soon as he stepped out of the gas station Mini-Mart. Growing up in Northern New York, he had known blizzards before, but never anything like this. The wind beat at him from all sides, driving the scratching, sandlike snow painfully against his cheeks and into his eyes. He pulled up his purple polka-dotted scarf, and began to trudge through the thigh-deep snow back to the Wagons West Motor Lodge.

It was so unfair, he thought. After their good fortune at the Elks Club dinner in Iowa, they had sped west, across the plains and into the mountains, where Faye's aunt and uncle were waiting with news on the next Sooner Than Never clue. Will and Laura had almost made it to their destination--they were within a half a day's drive of Beaver Creek--when it began to snow.

It had now been snowing for almost three weeks.

Occasionally, usually in the late afternoons, the snow would stop briefly, and greasy sunlight would filter down through the low, fast-moving clouds. By nightfall, however, the wind would whip up again, and more snow would follow. One gloomy morning, the snow had been piled higher than the door of Will and Laura's room at Wagons West; by the next morning the wind had blasted the sidewalk clear. The road leading up to Beaver Creek was buried under nine feet of snow.

Will and Laura had exhausted the possibilities of their current town of imprisonment, Mountain Center, within the first three days of their residency. Two rickety motels, a gas station, a minuscule bar, and an "authentic" Indian trading post were all the hamlet had to offer. Will's jokes about the Donner Party had long since ceased to be amusing.

But Mountain Center was far from deserted. Since Al and Mary Lou Heligman's January 3 press conference, the town had become the primary repository for the reporters, tourists, souvenir sellers, and other assorted gawkers who were hell-bent on getting to Beaver Creek and the next Sooner Than Never clue site. Since the snow started, they had all been trapped in the town, in a sort of perpetual slumber party atmosphere of "fun."

Laura decided, shortly after their arrival, that they should have as little communication with these fellow treasure hunters as possible, and she had basically holed herself up in the hotel room. To amuse herself, she had decided to memorize as much of Sooner Than Never as possible.

Will, naturally impatient and lusty for adventure, had spent most of the dark, frigid evenings smoking, drinking, and generally making merry at the Squirrel's Nest Bar and Grill, much to Laura's chagrin. Her increasing paranoia and mistrust of strangers was truly starting to grate on him.

Will stumbled in the snow. Blind instinct briefly seized him, and he attempted to outstretch his casted arm. The pain which shot through his body somehow uprighted him. He clenched his teeth against it, refusing to give up on his mission. He pulled himself through the deep snow and back to the motel.

A swirl of walnut-sized flakes accompanied him into the room. Laura briefly glanced up from the month-old copy of Entertainment Weekly he had bought last week.

"Well," she said dryly, her eyes fixed on the magazine, "I certainly hope that was worth it."

"Oh, it was," Will said snidely, extracting a pack of Marlboro Lights from his coat pocket, and waving them gaily at her. He peeled off his coat and slung it into a chair.

"Risking breaking another limb, or even the one you've already broken, for the sake of lung cancer is terribly prudent," she said quietly.

"Now I'll be able to make it through the night."

"Faye called while you were out."

"Oh? Does Eileen still have the vapors?"

Since their arrival in Mountain Center, Faye and Laura had developed an irritating code language with which to discuss Faye's aunt and uncle, at Faye's insistence. "Eileen" was a blanket term applying to Uncle Al and Aunt Mary Lou, the "recipe" was the bogus clue Faye had written for them to read at their press conference, and "the vapors" referred to the ceaseless winter weather. It was all rather tedious to Will.

"Al and Mary Lou are fine, Will. Beaver Creek is completely snowbound, and as far as they can tell, no one has been able to get anywhere near Waterbury's abandoned chalet. They'll wait for us till we get there."

"Oh, goody. That should be sometime in mid-May."

She ignored him.

Will tore the cellophane wrapper off the pack of cigarettes and threw it to the floor. "I just don't understand why we have to go to Beaver Creek at all! We should just call them up and they can spill the beans to us."

"Will, we've been through this before. There's something up there that we have to see. Faye doesn't even know what it is."

"This cloak-and-dagger routine is driving me buggy."

In a fierce gesture of annoyance, Laura threw down the magazine. "May I remind you, dear Will, that someone put a bomb in our car this fall? Or that Chad Bismarck tried to have us arrested? Or that you're having psychic flashes that my dead mother sees great danger around me?"

"Oh, God, Will groaned. "Don't bring that up again. You are obsessed. Remind me never to channel for you again." He viciously struck a match and lit a Marlboro.

"Faye just wants to protect her aunt and uncle. Frankly, I don't blame her."

"Fiddle-dee-dee."

"If you're going to smoke, will you go outside?"

Will blew a geyser of smoke across the room. Laura hopped off the bed and crossed to the window. She tore open the curtains and pulled a pane to the side. A flurry cascaded in.

"You're acting like a five year old, Will."

"Takes one to know one," he answered, realizing just how very childish this response was. He leaped out of his chair, and awkwardly began pulling on his wet boots with his good arm. He hadn't shaved in days, Laura observed, and he was beginning to look like a latter-day Grizzly Adams.

"I'm going to The Squirrel's Nest, to drown my woes in cheap beer and bad conversation," he spat as he pulled his coat over his shoulders.

Laura ignored him.

He slammed out of the room. A sudden gust of wind banged the door shut with such force that the front wall shook.

Outside, Will smiled bitterly. Eat your heart out, Nora Helmer.

*****

The Girls with Glasses all had la grippe. Frigid temperatures and blizzard winds had pounded Chicago for two solid weeks, and shortly after the storms struck, Holly got the flu. It was only a matter of time before Christine and Faye were struck down. Now, their cozy apartment was filled with empty NyQuil shot glasses, the stinging smell of Vicks VapoRub, and the constant hum of the humidifier.

"Well," Faye said, putting the phone back in its cradle and wiping her nose with a crumpled Kleenex, "They're fine. Laura said the weather is supposed to break later this week. I guess Will is in a bitch of a mood, though."

"It's to be expected," Christine concluded, "it's the armpit of the year. Everyone's in a bad mood. I'm sure they have cabin fever."

"Faye," asked Molly tentatively, "why don't you just call your aunt and uncle, find out exactly what they found, and save Will and Laura the trip? That fake clue you gave them most certainly has thrown other would-be hunters off."

Wearily, Faye pulled herself to her feet. "I don't like discussing their findings on the phone," she sighed as she wrapped herself in an afghan. "Besides, Will and Laura's phone could be bugged. Or our phone could be bugged." She sneezed, and wiped her nose absentmindedly. "Mike said we would--"

She cut herself off abruptly.

Christine's eyes narrowed to slits. "Mike? Geologist Mike? Mike the liar?"

Holly leaned forward. "When did you talk to Mike?"

Faye's dark eyes darted about the room, as if she were searching for a convenient and easy means of egress.

"Faye," repeated Holly, "when did you talk to Mike?"

"Shit," Faye muttered softly, as she settled back on the sofa. "OK, girls. I've got something to tell you."

******

Will's final verse of "These Boots are Made for Walking" was greeted with thunderous applause, whistles, and catcalls. He bowed three times, curtsied slyly, and stepped off the miniature stage and into the crowded, smoky bar. Men in fringed coats and Stetsons, who looked like participants in a clandestine Sam Elliott look-alike contest, slapped him on the back enthusiastically. A white-haired grandmother type, wearing a sweatshirt which read "Happiness is Calling Bingo!" in silvery appliqué, planted a wet kiss on his furred cheek. He made his way to the bar.

The cultivation of his late-night Karaoke audience was paying off. Weeks ago, he had started by singing such innocuous standards as "In the Ghetto" and "Luck Be A Lady Tonight." Gradually, he had moved into more high-camp selections. By next week, he thought hopefully, he might be able to knock 'em dead with his stirring rendition of "The Man That Got Away."

Precariously perched on a barstool, he nursed his sixth beer of the evening, while simultaneously inhaling another smoky treat. He was getting very drunk, but it had helped to quell his vicious mood.

"You're quite a singer, Will Gilbert," a voice said at his shoulder. A deep and sonorous voice. With an accent.

Will turned around. Behind him stood a man. . .a gorgeous man. Shoulder-length, dark-blond hair, chiseled features, shining white teeth, and dazzling, almost unbelievably blue eyes. If he had been squinting, or perhaps if he had downed another beer, Will could have easily mistaken him for Ralph Fiennes.

Will's tongue wagged wordlessly. Pull yourself together, he thought, maddened by the haze of Coors Light fuzzing his motor skills. "Why. . .why thank you, kind sir." Damn, that was nellie. Tone it down, Gilbert. "Uh. . .have we met before?"

"I don't believe so, " the man said and then smiled. Will finally placed the accent. Dear God in Heaven, he's Australian Will's heart began to beat fast. "I'm Sebastian Moffat, from Melbourne. You've been in all the papers back home, and I saw the Barbara Walters interview a few months back."

"You did?" Will desperately wished he had shaved and showered. "Well. . .well it's nice to know that Laura and I have an international following. That's kind of exotic, don't you think?" Are you retarded, Will? Are you?

Sebastian dimpled. "I guess it is."

Will cleared his throat. "Laura and I have been here for a few weeks because of the weather. I don't think--no, I'm certain that I haven't seen you around here before." Careful, Chief, don't get too flirty. . .you don't want a broken nose tonight.

"Oh," said Sebastian. " I snowshoed up from Strawberry Valley, about twenty miles down the mountain. It's great exercise."

Will's eyes widened, and he almost fell off his stool. Saints preserve us, he thought excitedly, it's Crocodile Dundee. He had the distinct impression he was being flirted with. It was still too hard to tell. Men with accents always threw him.

Sebastian's voice broke his revelry: "How is your arm mending?"

"Oh, it's fine. It's fine. I'll be getting the cast off in another week or so, and--"

"You have really nice hands. My mum called hands like yours 'piano player hands.'"

Okay, Will thought, there is DEFINITELY something afoot. His mind raced for something witty to say, but Sebastian cut him off.

"Would you like to go to my room for a drink? It's awfully noisy in here."

"I. . .uh. . .yes." Will slid off the bar stool while finishing his beer. Laura would definitely not approve of this. Crocodile Dundee could be a reporter. He glanced at Sebastian again. The Australian's blue eyes sparkled warmly. Well, Laura's been bitchy for a month. She'll live.

Will and Sebastian crossed the crowded bar, and set off into the stormy night, Will wavering slightly on his feet.

*****

He held her face roughly to the cold, stony floor of the tomb. "No, Violet," he boomed maliciously, "your freedom has a price, and that price is yourself!"

Laura rolled her eyes, sighed, and put the battered copy of Sooner Than Never down. She had memorized the prologue and the first chapter, and was busily at work on Chapter Two. Their knowledge of Chapter Two would be crucial, whenever they made it to Beaver Creek.

She glanced at the clock radio beside the bed: 2:10. Christ, where was Will?

She chided herself mentally for worrying. Will had been a pill for the last few weeks. Besides, he was a big boy and he could take care of himself.

She climbed off the bed and peered into the parking lot. The wind had slowed, and a perfect MGM snow floated down. The motel was deathly quiet.

She paced the room several times, uncharacteristically wringing her hands. Suddenly, she pulled on her coat and boots, picked up the room key, and dashed out into the frigid air.

*****

"Takamoto."

Vesper cleared her throat. "Mr. Takamoto," she said gruffly into the phone, "Christian Redding."

"Ah, Mr. Redding. We were--"

"I can't speak long. I wanted to warn you. . .the clue the retired couple found in Colorado is a hoax. There is a clue in Beaver Creek, but the poem they read in their press conference is a red herring."

"But--"

"If your team is heading to Niagara Falls, they're going the wrong way."

"How do you know this?"

"An associate of mine spent the evening with a very drunk Will Gilbert. The retired couple is in cahoots with Waterbury's publicity stunt couple."

"Are you certain?"

"Absolutely."

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