Free Snowman by Norman Bogner Page B

she'd read about.
    "I'm Daniel Bradford," he said affably.
    "The bank manager can count the money, Dan," Ashby said. "Let's all get out of the sun and have a beer."
    There was a small cantina at the end of the street. It was cool and dark inside. An old fan droned monotonously, and the radio was tuned to a Mexican station. The bartender brought them bottles of Dos Equis, which he kept on a block of ice; they dripped on the scratched wooden table when he set them down. Bradford was seated next to Cathy on a rickety backless bench, and she felt his leg touch hers. She and Monte listened to his account of his search for the Snowman; then Ashby pulled out the newspaper articles, which were impossible to read in the dark bar. What impressed her about Bradford was that combination of sincerity and fanaticism that she had encountered only at school in Marymount. The religious zeal of the nuns had oppressed her. Bradford's gods were dark, and he was ruled by an obsession. He was not really interested in the money and she regarded this as a sign of arrogance.
    Ashby was more transparent. He wanted a story and he didn't care who he had to sacrifice for it. The ruthlessness of small-town provincials had an element of corruption about it that was more insidious than the big-city variety, since it had a single source. What troubled Cathy was that a pattern of conspiracy was emerging in which she would have the central role. Bradford might go up the mountain, but she would be the one to perpetuate the big lie. Others might die later or even now, and she would cover it all with a web of deception.
    "If we accept this story about a Snowman—and you've got to admit it's a lot to accept," Monte began, "how can we be sure you'll succeed this time?"
    "What's your option?" Ashby asked.
    "They could call in the National Guard," Bradford said. "Just imagine a division of them in Sierra."
    "The. . . . evidence is all circumstantial," Cathy interjected. "We've handed over a quarter of a million dollars in good faith, and Mr. Wright doesn't care whether you find a Snowman or not. The story's got to be buttoned up. Contained, Jim. And I don't know that I'd take your word on anything."
    "You can have your money back," Ashby countered. "I'm not getting any part of it. I can't afford a leak either. If we're all being selfish, my best interests are served by keeping the media out of it. Which is why I just threw the story away in two lines. I don't need anyone asking questions about a mystery death."
    "What about the sheriff?" Monte asked.
    "He's in my pocket," Ashby replied. "Now, if you're satisfied that this isn't some rip-off, Bradford and I ought to get started."
    Monte nodded to her. As they got up to leave, she could not refrain from asking, "What made you ask for that precise amount of money?"
    "Ashby asked for the money."
    "What are you going to do with it?"
    "Split it five ways. I figure that's a reasonable price for a man's life."
    When they were outside, he opened his shirt and pulled down part of it, exposing the scar on his shoulder.
    "Does it look familiar?" he askecl Cathy.
    The sight of it shook her, and she defensively put her hand up to her eyes. What she had seen on the mountain would live on within her.
    "Why are you going?"
    "I want to kill the Snowman," he said with profound conviction, as though this was his quest, his passion.
    The savagery of his reaction was virtually sexual. She had never encoutered a human being with such a finely tuned attitude of naked violence. It took her out of her own corporate sphere, where men were just as dangerous but were capable of modulating their desires, finessing their enemies by the astutely planned maneuver. Daniel Bradford stood exposed, baring his teeth and carrying a spear for the world to see.
    "You coming in to count your money?" Monte asked, thrashing the air at mosquitoes. Bradford shook his head. "Well, are you going to deposit it?"
    "No, why bother."
    "Do you mean to say that you're