"Good idea," Dryman agreed.

"Mind if I drive with you?" Keegan asked. "I need to call the sheriff."

"Sure, but he ain't here. He's over at Glenwood Springs to talk to the sheriff there. I seen him at lunch just as he was leavin'. You might try Duane Harris, he's the forest ranger in charge, usually watches out for things when the sheriff's off somewhere."

"He'll do."

The ranger sounded friendly and a little awed by the fact that they had flown into Aspen in such bad weather. Manners provided hot coffee while they waited for Harris to drive fifteen miles from town to the airport. Keegan avoided Manners's questions while they waited and finally the youthful manager went into the hangar to help Dryman check out the AT-6. Half an hour later a husky forest ranger in a heavy sheepskin jacket entered the airport office. He was in his late twenties, a pleasant, shaggy-haired man with the beginnings of a beard and a quick smile.

"Mr. Keegan? Duane Harris, U.S. Forestry Station," he introduced himself.

"Good to see you," Keegan said. "I really appreciate your help in this. Meet my pilot, Captain Dryman, H.P. for short." He showed Harris his credentials and drew the ranger aside, speaking in a low voice. Manners, one of Aspen's most notorious gossips, appeared to ignore them but his curious ears were keened to the conversation.

"I'm looking for a man named Trexler, John Trexler? You know him?"

"Why, hell, everybody knows Johnny. He works ski patrol for Highlands Resort. Is there a problem?"

"Just need to talk to him," Keegan said. "I hate to impose on you, but the sheriff's out of town and I thought maybe you could help us out."

"Sure enough. Let's get trottin', though, this weather's not gonna get any better. How the hell did you get in here anyway?"

"A great pilot and the luck of the Irish," Keegan said with a smile as they went out into the storm.

Jesse Manners could hardly wait until Harris was on his way before he grabbed for the phone.

In his cabin, John Trexler was mentally tossing a coin. He had planned to drive the fifty miles into Leadville for the weekend but with the storm coming in he was having second thoughts. The phone rang. It was Jesse Manners at the airport.

"Hey, Johnny, you been holding out on everybody?" Manners asked.

"What do you mean?"

"About the White House?"

"What White House?"

"The White House. You some kind of big shot?"

"What the hell're you talking about, Jesse?"

"An army plane just put on one hell of an air show out here. Came in right under the storm. Two guys from the White House. They're comin' out to talk to you. What's goin' on, old buddy?"

"They're from the White House?" Trexler repeated.

"That's what they said. White House Security."

White House Security? Trexler's mind started racing. What could that be?

"It's a secret, kid," he said calmly. "Tell you about it later. And listen, Jesse, keep it under your hat for now, okay? It's a surprise."

"Sure, Johnny."

Trexler cradled the phone and stood motionless in the room, his mind bombarded by questions. What in hell would two men from White House Security want with him? What the hell was White House Security? Did it have something to do with immigration? Had someone accidentally stumbled onto his false identity?

Was there a breach in security?

Impossible! Vierhaus, Hitler and Ludwig were the only ones who even knew of his existence. And yet, of all the possibilities that ran through his mind, that one seemed the most logical. While a breach was remote, it was the only thing that made sense.

The question was moot anyway. He could not take a chance, he had to run for it. He needed time and a lot of luck for what was ahead. He had to create another illusion.

He had his knapsack ready. After the incident in Drew City, Trexler was always ready to make an immediate escape. He went into the bedroom and lowered a ladder leading to a storage space in the ceiling of the cabin. He went up with a flashlight, unlocked a footlocker stored there and took out a rucksack. He had everything he needed in it: identification, cash, his long knife, a .45 Colt automatic and clothes. He tied the SS dagger to his right calf and strapped on a money belt containing his cash.

As he outfitted himself, he was working out a plan, one of several options he had formulated through the years. He went back down and threw enough clothes in his suitcase to appear as though he would be away for a couple of days.

He returned to the living room and called the ski patrol office at the lodge. Wes Childress, the patrol captain, answered.

"Wes, it's Johnny," he said, sounding as casual as possible. "I'm heading out for Leadville. Just thought I'd check out. I should be back Monday if the roads are clear."

"You're not going to make it, kiddo," Childress answered. "This blizzard's on us already."

"If I hurry I can run down Route 82 and beat it to the main highway. Is Soapie still planning to make the run to Copperhead Ridge?"

"Yeah, I just talked to him."

"Does he need help?"

"Nah, you know Old Soap. He's used to this shit."

"Okay. See you Monday."

"You're nuts, pal. Good luck."

"Thanks."

Trexler looked at his watch. He had thirty minutes at best. He left the cabin, locked it, threw his suitcase in the trunk of his car and drove down the two-hundred-yard driveway to the mountain road leading back into town. But he didn't turn toward town, he headed up the mountain toward Soapie's cabin.

FORTY-FOUR.

On the way into town, Harris checked the ski patrol office at Highlands Resort, which employed Trexler.

"Hey Wes, it's Duane. Do you know John Trexler's location?"

"Yeah. He was in his cabin about ten minutes ago. But he's planning on trying to beat the storm into Leadville. I think he's got a lady friend there."

"How's he planning to go?"

"Route 82. It's still open. Why?"

"Got a couple of visitors want to see him."

"You may just miss him."

"Thanks," Harris said. He laid the radio mike on the seat beside him.

They drove through a small quaint village and a mile or so beyond it, Harris slowed down.

"This is the road up to his place," Harris said. "It's a mile or so up the trail. His cabin sits about two hundred yards off the road." He looked out the side window as he turned into a narrow lane that led up through the trees. Mounds of virgin snow outlined the narrow roadway.

"We're in luck," Harris said. "No tracks. He must still be up there."

"Any other road out of here?" Keegan asked.

"Nope, it dead-ends up at Soapie Kramer's ranger station."

"How far's that?"

"Four, five miles."

Harris dropped into low gear and turned up the road.

"How long've you known Trexler?" Keegan asked.

"Oh, Johnny's been around these parts for a few years now. He's worked for all the resorts through the years. Half a dozen companies have tried to make a go of it and failed. He's with the Highlands people now and it looks like they're here to stay."

"What's he like?"

"Just one of the guys. Everybody likes him. Helluva skier. He and Soapie saved a couple of climbers trapped up on Mount Elbert last year. They were almost to the top, fourteen thousand feet, in weather worse than this. When you said you were from the White House I thought maybe the president was gonna give'em a medal or something."

"I hadn't heard that," Keegan said sardonically. He reached under his arm, took out an army .45 and checked the clip. Dryman did the same. Harris looked over at Keegan with surprise.

"Hey," he said. "What's going on?"

"Duane, I'm going to level with you," Keegan answered. "If this guy's who we think he is, he's very, very dangerous."

"John Trexler!"

"That's right. This is the way we're going to play it. The minute he opens the door, we'll rush him and get the drop on him."

"What did he do?" Harris asked. There was alarm in every syllable.

"For starters, he's killed three people that we know about," Keegan answered.

"Sweet Jesus!" Harris said.

"What if he gets crazy?" Dryman asked. "What if he's got a gun?"

Keegan's heart was pumping overtime but he was outwardly calm. "Then I'll blow his brains out," he answered without hesitation.

"Maybe I better call my boss," Harris said nervously. "Maybe we ought to go back into town and get some help."

"Don't worry about it," said Keegan. "He's not expecting us. We'll just stay calm. Be pleasant as we approach the place. If he's outside, introduce us as a couple of rangers from the district office in Denver. Then we'll take him."

"I've never done anything like this before," Harris said.

"That's okay, neither have we," Keegan answered.

Harris expertly negotiated the snow-piled drive, the back end of the vehicle groaning as its four-wheel drive urged it up the lane. When they reached the driveway leading to Trexler's cabin, Harris stopped.

"Don't see his car," he said. He rolled down the window and checked the road.

The snow was falling harder and the wind was picking up. Harris knelt down and checked the tracks leading up the mountain.

"Funny, no tracks going down, they're all going up the slope," Harris said.

"What the hell's up there, anyway?" Keegan asked.

"Ranger station. Soapie Kramer lives up there. But he was planning to try to beat the storm and head up to Copperhead Ridge to the high station on avalanche patrol-just in case anybody gets lost on the mountain."

He's running, thought Keegan. Somebody tipped the son of a bitch off and he's running.

"How good's this Kramer?" he asked Harris.

"Twelve years in these mountains. Don't figure they get any better."

"How good are you, Duane?"

"Not that good. I'm good but I'm not old Soapie."

"How about Trexler?" Dryman asked.

"He's damn good, too," said Harris. "Could have been a real competitor but he wasn't interested. Likes the quiet life."

"Does he smoke?" Keegan asked.

"Smoke? Yeah. Rolls his own."

"Does he have a cigarette lighter?" Dryman said.

"Why, yes . . ."

"Gold lighter with a wolfs head on the top?" Keegan said.

"Yeah," said Harris with surprise. "You must know him pretty well."