Chapter 37

I woke up Saturday morning to snow. Not just a little of it, a lot. It appeared that my quiet sojourn at the lodge (notwithstanding the hunters, who'd left the afternoon before) was over.

And in their entrepreneurial way the resort's management, apparently not satisfied with what God was providing, was helping nature along. The snow-making machinery I'd glimpsed along the edges of the hitherto barren ski slopes was now blasting away at full force. By the time this early-season arrival of winter chill was over they'd have a "base" on their hills sufficient to withstand all but the most severe of unwelcome thaws, and keep their business humming until spring arrived.

I smiled to myself at the lodge's sudden turn of fortune—until it occurred to me that their good luck might not bode so well for me and my plans. I'd called the night before to make plane reservations for Monday morning, after checking Sen. Golden's own legislative Web site to make sure he was scheduled to be in his office Tuesday. But it belatedly occurred to me that, while the precipitation at lower elevations, where planes took off and landed, was going to be nothing but rain, I did have the problem of getting back to those lower elevations in my definitely not-all-terrain rental.

Not to worry, though. When I anxiously expressed my concern to the inevitable prom queen at the front desk she assured me that forecasts were for the current storm to pass over by sometime that night.

"We'll be plowed out by early in the morning," she said happily, quite cheery at the prospect of opening their season. "They're very good about that around here," she added earnestly. I'll bet they were in an area that clearly depended heavily on accessibility to the tourists to keep their economy rolling.

The girl was surprised and disappointed when I told her I'd be checking out Monday morning. "But our season's just getting started," she protested. "I'm sure the lifts will be going tomorrow." Nevertheless, I told her.

Actually, I expected her disappointment was more than made up by management's prospective glee at my departure. They wouldn't have been very happy honoring my fat negotiated discount, or my gratis upgrade, with full-price business looming on the horizon. Not just on the horizon; my brief chat with the girl was twice interrupted by phone calls asking if they'd be open the next day.

Breakfast was as sparsely populated as it had been. Two off-season guests had joined me the day before, but the three of us were the only ones in the place. The lone waitress, though, was as bouncy as the desk clerk had been about the white stuff outside, which kept falling heavily with no sign of let-up; they liked their high season, did these people.

As we had the past few days, Susan and I spent the day holed up in my room, mostly watching the snow accumulate out my window. It was a big storm, alternating all day between heavy and very heavy; the forecasts said accumulation would be between 12 and 18 inches. But as the girl had said, it would end that night. Another, somewhat less enthusiastic squall was expected to blow in sometime Tuesday, but I'd be long gone by then.

Between gazing at the mesmerizing build-up mounting outside Susan and I talked in desultory fashion about my coming confrontation with her Senator. Neither of us had any clear idea of what to expect, beyond our shared confidence that he'd see me. From there on it would be up to me to inveigle him into as much disclosure as possible.

"All we really need is his confirmation that the files are his, right?" I asked her. "Once he does that, it's the files that nail him, huh?"