I decided to give it a while longer. If I crunched the car up backing down that access road, I wanted to have something to show for it.

My radio crackled to life. "Comm, Nation County Cars, radio check…"

Every hour, on the hour, after 9 P.M., they checked. The patrol units gave their current location as a response. On the OPS channel, where all ears could hear them. When she called my number, I responded with a simple "Three, ten-four…" on Info. The other cars couldn't hear me, but they would know I was still out.

I looked at the house again. Nothing. Now, that was weird. I mean, it wasn't that big a house, and with two pickups in the yard, that meant that they had company. It was likely that they would all be on the ground floor, with the possible exception of little Carrie. But there was no movement, and most of the lights were on in the kitchen, which I could see pretty clearly.

I put the binoculars down again, and sat. What were they doing? Watching TV as a group? I rolled up my window. If I didn't, I was going to start to shiver, and shivering makes it impossible to use binoculars.

I unrolled the window after a few minutes, and thought I heard a popping sound. I switched off the ignition, and in the silence, could hear a roaring that seemed to be coming from near the farm.

Suddenly, two farm tractors emerged from Grossman's backyard, and began heading up the valley toward Borglan's. Neither had their headlights on, and both seemed to be pulling something. In the dark it was very hard to tell, but it looked like they each had a large, flat object behind them. About the size of a barn door, but it looked like they had stuff piled on top. Like hay bales.

I was surprised. No doubt. I was even more surprised about a minute later, when they both turned as a group, lined up side by side, and began to slowly traverse the valley about a quarter mile above the house. As I watched, they went about 100 yards, turned, and went back. What the hell?

They did the whole routine again. And again. And I became aware that they were slowly working their way back to the Grossmans', combing the field as they went. It took quite a while, but when they finally got back to Grossman's yard, they both turned around and went right back up to where they'd started the back and forth trips. Were they looking for something?

Then, they turned again, and this time made about fifty trips up and down the valley. Not moving over ten miles per hour.

Then it occurred to me that the sons of bitches were obliterating all the snowmobile tracks between Grossman's and Borglan's. That had to be it. And that meant that we had missed something really important in those tracks. Damn.

It took them about an hour and a half. Then, they returned to Grossman's, packed up their sleds, and left. Just like that. Two minutes after they had gone, everything looked absolutely normal.

I finally got turned around, and got back down to the road. I turned south, to avoid Grossman's place.

I saw headlights in front of me, approaching. They were about half a mile off. Crap. I was about to be discovered by a neighbor. Although theoretically unmarked, my car was pretty easily recognizable as a cop car without decals or top lights.

Nothing for it but to get moving, and pretend I was just passing by. Whoever I met would just assume I'd been traveling all along. I hoped.

We met when I was about half a mile south of Grossman's drive. Red pickup, towing a snowmobile trailer with two snowmobiles on it. BHK 234. Minnesota. Red pickup.

I waited until it was out of sight in the rearview mirror, then spun around and followed it north. I had to know.

It turned into Grossman's drive. Damn. I hastily tore off my glove, and reached inside my vest for a pen. Guiding the car with my knee under the steering wheel, I hastily scribbled the plate on the back of my hand. Damn. A late arrival?

A few minutes later, I called dispatch. "Comm, Three, I'll be ten-forty-two. Mileage 31566." That meant I was done with my shift, and the mileage was to make sure I wasn't using the car to vacation in Florida. Department rules. I'd give the mileage again when I went to work. Of course, having written it on my log, I could easily fake it. But, then, most county rules were like that.

As soon as I got to the house, I phoned Dispatch, and ran that plate. "Yeah, it's Houseman. Could you give me a twenty-eight and twenty-nine on Minnesota Passenger Boy Henry King two three four, run the twenty-seven, get a twenty-nine and Triple I on that." The registration came back to Timothy Frederick Olson, twenty-two, of Brainerd, Minnesota. No wants. No warrants. The criminal history would come back a little later.

"Would you just leave all of it in my box? I'll pick it up in the morning."

"Got it. Sleep tight."

"Thanks." Well, that had likely accomplished very little. They used to tell me that you couldn't ever have too much information. Maybe so. But you sure could have too much to process in the allotted time.

I'd made it out of bed at 0702. Nearly a record. After a quick shower, I'd pulled on sweatpants and a shirt, and made a pot of fresh coffee. The Weather Channel gave me a new shot of my blue and pink worm, coiling through North America. The upward bump was edging closer and closer. Ah, warmth was on the way. Soon.

Sue didn't flinch when I got up. Still mad about Madison, I guess. I promised myself that I'd make it up to her somehow, but then thoughts of the "five banks" took over. I decided to go see Hester again and get her thoughts before hitting the office. I called George and he agreed to come with me. He must be as addicted to the buffet as I am.

The three of us sat looking out at the red-neon-framed Beau, glittering in the clear morning and reflecting on the small patch of liquid water that surrounded her. The Mississippi, except where the slight heat from the Beau's pumps and disturbed water flow kept it from freezing, was covered with a thick coat of ice. Hester told us that she'd seen cars carrying ice fishermen on it as late as yesterday. It was warming a bit, though. I would hesitate to drive on the stuff myself, now.

"So," said Hester, wistfully, "things looking up?"

We brought her up-to-date on the interviews, and the "five banks" business.

"Five?"

"Yeah, five. Why five? We don't have the foggiest."

"Does Gabe have access to a good safe man?" asked Hester.

"Not that we're aware of," said George. "But with his training in explosives, he probably could do it very well himself."

"Daylight," said Hester. "I'll bet on daylight. He can't be in five places at once, and explosives require a high level of competence."

"That's true." We'd spent the better part of the afternoon on it, and Hester had just zipped in with an excellent point we'd overlooked. Another reason I liked her so much.

"How much cash you got floating on the old Beau out there?"

"Oh, maybe thirty to fifty thousand at any given time. They use some tokens, coins, and cash, but it's hauled to the banks very regularly…" She grinned. "You thinking piracy?"

"Well, I was…"

"They keep the cash on hand to a minimum, just for that reason." She suddenly got very serious. "They might have a lot more than that in the local bank," she said. "Especially on a weekend…"

"'Bank'?" It was George's turn to look concerned. "We considered this one, but felt that the cash flow would be small. You know. The workers here wouldn't get that much cash on a payday…"

"They take it off the boat," said Hester. "It's gotta go somewhere. I think I heard they distribute it between several banks, but I'm not really up on this operation yet. Want me to check?"