Mason said, "We'll take I-70 east to I-435 south and get off at Gregory Boulevard. Maybe the snow plows have kept one lane on the highways fairly clear."

Tony sat in front next to Mason, leaving Mickey and Fiora in the back. Road conditions were treacherous, even for the Jeep. The wind blew snow across the highway in ground-level clouds, making it nearly impossible to see headlights or taillights.

Salt trucks outfitted with snowplows plodded along Interstate 70, clearing the outside lane while depositing a layer of salt in their wake. In spite of the conditions, eighteen-wheel trucks charged past them, their drivers pushing to deliver their loads. A few had pushed too hard and their tractor-trailer rigs had jackknifed, sliding down embankments along the highway, scattering their cargoes.

Some drivers had been caught too far from home, and had been forced to abandon their cars after they had spun out of control or gotten stuck. The Highway Patrol had spent the day and early evening rescuing stranded motorists.

Mason crept steadily along, occasionally reaching speeds of thirty-five or forty miles per hour when he hit a stretch of clear tire tracks. The exit ramp from I-70 onto I-435 was like a black ski ran, forcing Mason to fight for control of the Jeep as it shimmied and fishtailed before straightening out.

Mason took the Gregory Boulevard exit westbound from the interstate. The two-lane road ran ahead of them flanked by snow-laden trees that loomed like ghostly sentinels in the darkness. Irregularly spaced streetlights pointed the way, adding a halo to the falling and blowing snow. A concrete railroad bridge arched overhead as the boulevard funneled them into the park.

Colonel Tom Swope had donated Swope Park to the city in the early 1900s. The largest green space in the city, it was home to the zoo, an outdoor theater, two golf courses, and enough trails for anyone to get lost in. The lagoon was near the center of the park along Gregory Boulevard. Over the years it had been stocked with fish by the city and, occasionally, dead bodies by the less civic-minded.

Mason eased to a stop along the curb where a bike path intersected with the road, and turned off his lights.

"Why are we stopping?" Fiora asked.

"The lagoon is around the next curve. If we go all the way in and Zimmerman is already in place, he'll see us."

"Tony." Fiora spoke his name as a command.

Tony grunted as he opened the door, and disappeared without a backward glance.

"Where's he going?" Mickey asked.

"For a walk, Junior," Fiora answered.

Mason turned onto the bike path, keeping the Jeep at a slow crawl and his headlights off. Driving through the woods with no lights in a blizzard, Mason thought to himself, was the automotive version of blindman's bluff. The bike path emptied onto an unmarked service road that Mason followed another half mile before picking up the bike path again. This time, he backed the Jeep a hundred yards down the bike path and turned off the engine.

If he was lucky, he had made it to his hiding place without being seen. Mason looked at his watch. It was seven-thirty.

"What now?" Mickey asked. "It's cold enough to freeze-dry my nuts."

"Here," Mason said as he handed Mickey the keys. "You can turn the heat on if you have to. Just remember, Zimmerman can find you a lot easier when the engine is running."

"Hey, where are you going?" Fiora demanded.

Mason took his gun from the glove compartment. "For a walk."

"That's not our deal," Fiora said.

"Mickey will keep you company, but don't play gin with him. He cheats."

"Like hell I'm waiting here," Fiora said. "Zimmerman is expecting me and if I don't show, you guys shoot craps."

"Suit yourself," Mason said, knowing there was no way to make Fiora wait in the Jeep.

"Wingman on your flank," Mickey said to Mason as he climbed into the front seat long enough to grab his gun from the glove compartment before joining Mason and Fiora.

"Give me that," Mason said to Mickey, pointing to the gun.

"Are you kidding me?" Mickey asked.

"You don't know how to use a gun. You'll shoot yourself or one of us. Give me the gun."

Mickey held the pistol up with both hands and, before Mason could reach for it, he unloaded it, disassembled it, and put it back together. "Oh, ye of little faith," Mickey said.

"That's pretty good, kid," Fiora said. "Where'd you learn to do that?"

"Video games-the perfect home-schooling curriculum," Mickey answered.

Mason, Fiora, and Mickey hugged the edge of the woods as they briskly walked single file alongside the service road back toward the lagoon, satisfied that the storm made them virtually invisible. Before reaching the lagoon, they stepped into the woods. Mason took off the thick glove on his right hand, put his hand in his pocket, and wrapped his fingers around his gun. The steel was icy and refused to warm against his hand. He found the safety with his thumb and switched it off.

"Let the games begin," Mickey whispered.

If Fiora had insisted on being early, Mason had to assume that Zimmerman and Toland would do the same. Mason knew without asking that Blues would not be the last one to arrive. Tony had gotten out of the Jeep twenty minutes ago. No one was going to be late for this party. It suddenly occurred to Mason that everyone was probably already there, each man fighting off the wind chill, waiting for someone else to make the first move.

"Why in the hell would Zimmerman set the meeting out here?" Fiora asked.

"Look around," Mason answered. "It makes sense. The interior of the park is isolated but accessible. There's not much chance of other traffic on a night like this. The shelter is out in the open. The nearest woods are far enough away that under these conditions you'd have to be an incredible marksman to shoot someone from the trees."

Fiora wasn't convinced. "You think Zimmerman had that all figured out. How would he know about this place?"

"He's a cop who knows where bodies are dumped. Plus, he's a Cub Scout den leader," Mason explained. "He's probably brought his troop here."

"You're shitting me? This hump is a Cub Scout leader? I oughta pop him myself," Fiora said, "except I don't kill people."

Mason studied the wind-driven waves breaking along the snowpacked shoreline of the lagoon, moving his gaze outward to the road. There were no tire tracks, meaning that everyone else either had walked in or had yet to arrive. Mason bet on the former.

The shelter stood twenty-five feet from the southern edge of the lagoon. There was a streetlight close enough to outline the shelter, but too far away to illuminate what was beneath it. The shelter was little more than a roof supported by four stout poles; a shelter from sun and gentle rain, but no port in a snowstorm. A bright light came on at the center of the shelter's ceiling, startling Mason and the others. Neither Zimmerman nor Toland was camped out beneath the shelter.

The light turned off a few minutes later, only to come on again in an irregular cycle. Mason could make out an electrical line that ran from the roof of the shelter to a utility pole to the west. The line bowed, heavy with ice.

"It's a motion light," Mason said. "It's for security. Any movement near the light turns it on for a preset period. Then it goes off. If the wind blows hard enough, that will turn it on. We'll be able to see Zimmerman and Toland when they get close enough to activate the sensor."

"Then what do we do, Counselor?" Fiora asked.

"I don't know," Mason confessed.

"In the meantime," Fiora complained, "I'm freezing my ass off. Where the hell is Tony?"

Mason ignored Fiora's complaint and his question. Fiora was used to running the show, and didn't like being a spectator. Though Mason wondered where both Tony and Blues were waiting. Fiora had been standing on Mason's left. Mason turned to his right to talk to Mickey, only to discover that Mickey was gone.