I nitially, the idea of a getaway weekend with her boss had appealed to Sara Sidle, for all kinds of reasons. But somehow in the thirteen hours between when she’d left her apartment and fallen gratefully onto this cloud of a bed in a posh hotel, she had gotten lost in some newly discovered circle of Hell.

Grissom had picked her up just after 10 P.M., the time they normally would have been heading into the lab. Instead, they drove to long-term parking at McCarran and schlepped into the airport with their carry-ons as well as two suitcases of equipment for their presentation; the attendees would mostly be East Coast CSIs with the instructors flown in from around the country. Typically, the boyishly handsome, forty-something Grissom wore black slacks, a black three-button shirt, and a CSI windbreaker.

“That’s the coat you’re taking?” she had asked. Sara had a Gortex-lined parka on over her blue jeans and a plain dark T-shirt.

He looked at her as though a lamp had talked. “I’ve got a heavier one in my bag.”

She glanced at his two canvas duffels, both barely larger than gym bags, and wondered how he got a heavy coat into either of them. Deciding not to think about it, she got into the check-in line right behind her boss. Both were using their carry-ons for clothing, and checking their suitcases of equipment on through. No need to freak out the security staff, who would not be prepared for X-ray views of the sort of tools, instruments, chemistry sets, and other dubious implements that the CSIs were traveling with.

Sara spent the flight from McCarran to O’Hare squashed in the middle seat in coach—Grissom took the window seat, not because he was rude, she knew, but because it was his assigned seat, and Grissom never argued with numbers.

Sara dug into an Agatha Christie mystery—the CSI could only read cozy mysteries, anything “realistic” just distracted and annoyed her with constant inaccuracies—and Grissom was engrossed in an entomology text like a teenager reading the new Stephen King.

The whole trip went like that—the two of them reading their respective books (Sara actually went through two) with little conversation, including an O’Hare breakfast that killed some of their four-hour layover in Chicago. Then it was two hours to Dulles in D.C., another forty-five minutes on the ground, and a ninety-minute flight to Gordon International, in Newburgh, New York. Grissom was better company on the trip than a potted plant—barely.

They were met by a landscape covered with four or five inches of snow that, judging by its grayish tint, appeared to have fallen at least a week ago. The cold air felt like the inside of a freezer compared to what they’d left behind in Vegas, and as the pair stood outside the airport waiting for the bus that would haul them and their gear the twenty miles from Newburgh to New Paltz, Grissom glanced around curiously, as though winter in upstate New York was one big crime scene he’d stumbled onto.

Sara, on the other hand, felt at home—spiritually at home, anyway. The temperature here, just above thirty, took Sara back to her days at Harvard; the frigid air of winter in the east had a different scent than the desert cold of Vegas.

At the curb in front of the New Paltz bus station, an old man in a flap-ear cap, chocolate-colored Mackinaw, jeans, and dark work boots, waited next to a purring woody-style station wagon, the side door of which was stenciled: MUMFORD MOUNTAIN HOTEL.

Carry-ons draped over them like military gear, Grissom and Sara made their cumbersome way toward their down-home chauffeur. As soon as the codger figured out they were headed his way, he rushed over and pried one of the suitcases from Sara’s hand.

“Help you with that, Miss?”

But he’d already taken it.

“Thanks,” she said, breath pluming.

The Mumford man was tall, reedy, with wispy gray hair; his hook nose had an “S” curve in the middle where it had been broken more than once.

After slinging Sara’s bag in the back, he turned and took one from Grissom and tossed it in. The man’s smile was wide and came fast, revealing two rows of small, even teeth.

“Herm Cormier,” he said, shaking first Grissom’s hand, then Sara’s. “I’ve managed the hotel since Jesus was a baby.”

“Gil Grissom. Honor to be picked up by the top man himself.”

“Sara Sidle. We’re here for the forensics conference…?”

“Course you are. You’re the folks from Vegas.”

Grissom smiled. “Is it that easy to spot us?”

Cormier nodded. “Your coat’s not heavy enough,” he said, with a glance toward Grissom’s CSI windbreaker. “And you both got a healthy tan. We got nobody comin’ in from Florida or California for this thing, and I knew two of you were coming from Vegas…. Plus which, all but a handful of you folks won’t be in till tomorrow.”

Grissom nodded.

“You, though, Miss,” Cormier said, turning his attention to Sara, “you’ve been around this part of the country before.”

Though anxious to get into that warm station wagon, Sara couldn’t resist asking: “And how did you reach that conclusion?”

The old man looked her up and down, but there was nothing improper about it. “Good coat, good boots, heavy gloves—where you from, before you lit in Vegas?”

“San Francisco.”

“No, that ain’t it.” His eyes narrowed. “Where’d you go to college?”

She grinned. “Boston.”

Cormier returned the grin. “Thought so. Knew you had to’ve spent some time in this part of the country.”

The driver opened the rear door of the wagon and they were about to climb in, when another man sauntered up. A husky blonde six-footer in his late thirties, the new arrival had dark little eyes in a pale, bland fleshy face, like raisins punched into cookie dough. He wore a red-and-black plaid coat that looked warm, aided and abetted by a black woolen muffler. In one black gloved hand was a silver flight case—this was another CSI, Sara thought, and that was his field kit—and in the other a green plaid bag that jarred against the competing plaid coat.

“Gordon Maher,” he said to all of them.

Cormier stepped forward, shook the man’s hand and made the introductions, then said to the new arrival, “You must be the forensics fella from Saskatchewan.”

They piled into the station wagon, Grissom and Maher in the back, Sara and Cormier in the front. Despite the snow blanketing the area, the roads were clean. As the station wagon wended its way through the countryside toward Lake Mumford, Sara allowed herself to enjoy the ride, relishing the wave of nostalgia she felt, watching the snow-touched skeletal trees they glided past.

Harvard had been where Sara first took wing, first got out from the shadow of her parents. She sought out kindred spirits, overachievers like herself, and soon she was no longer seen as too smart, too driven, too tense.

The very air in this part of the country smelled different to her now—like freedom, and success. She didn’t know when she fell asleep, exactly, but suddenly Cormier was nudging her gently. The car was parked on the shoulder and, when she looked around, Sara realized that Grissom and Maher had gotten out.

“Thought you might like to catch the hotel and lake,” Cormier said, “from their best side.”

Slowly, Sara got out of the car, the chill air helping her wake up; she stretched. Grissom and Maher stood in front of the car, staring at something off to the right. Going to join them, she looked in that direction as well, shading her brow with her hand as she gazed down the hill through the leafless branches at an ice-covered lake surrounded mostly by woods.

In preparing for this trip, Sara had understandably assumed Mumford Mountain Hotel would perch atop a mountain. Instead, the lodge hunkered in a valley between two mountains, overlooking the lake—and from this distance, situated as it was on the far side of the frozen expanse, the sprawling structure brought nothing so much to mind as a gigantic ice castle from the fairy tales her mother had read to her as a child.

It wasn’t beautiful, really, more like bizarre—and mind-numbingly large, which was especially startling out here in the middle of nowhere. A hodgepodge of five interconnected structures, Mumford Mountain Hotel might have been a junkyard for old buildings: in front, near the lake, sat a squat dark-wood ski chalet; to the right and behind the chalet, a huge gray castle complete with turrets and chimneys rose seven stories. That gothic monstrosity was flanked by two functional-looking green four-story buildings that might have been the boys’ and girls’ dormitories at an old private school.

The one on the right had a deeply sloped, gabled roof, while its fraternal twin at the other end had a flatter roof with a single sharp point rising like the conical hat of a Brothers Grimm princess. If those buildings didn’t supply enough rooms for Mumford’s guests, a last building—what looked like a two-story gingerbread house—had been cobbled together on the far right end. The whole unlikely assembly seemed to shimmer under a heavy ice-crystal-flung dusting of snow.

“The Mumford Mountain Hotel,” Cormier said, pride obvious in his voice.

“Can’t say I’ve seen its like before,” Maher admitted, arms folded against himself. “What’s the story on the various building styles?”

“Well, that castle part came first—then wings were added, to suit whoever was running the place at the time. The hotel just sort of grew over the years. It’s hard for people to get an idea of how big she is, when they’re up close. I like to give folks the chance to see it from a distance, get a little perspective.”

Sara said, “You could get lost in that place.”

Cormier nodded, breath smoking. “Over two hundred fifty guest rooms, grand ballroom, complete gym, meeting rooms, tennis courts, golf course.”

“The lake get any action in the winter?” Maher asked.

Again Cormier nodded. “They’ll clear the snow off and play hockey on it when the weather gets a mite colder.”

Soon they were back in the car and following the narrow road that wound down the mountain and ended at the check-in entrance of the hotel, which was alongside the building—otherwise the guests would have had to maneuver the flight of stairs to the actual main entrance and the vast covered porch where countless rocking chairs sat unattended. A light snow began to fall as Cormier directed several bellboys to unload the station wagon, piling the guest luggage onto carts, a process Grissom watched with suspicion—his precious tools and toys were in those bags.

They checked in, having just missed lunch, but Grissom shared with her a fruit basket the conference chairman had sent, and Sara left him at his room, where he was eating a pear as he unpacked. She headed down the wide, carpeted hall for her own accommodations, eating an apple along the way. She felt like Alice gone through the mirror into a Victorian wonderland—dark, polished woodwork; soft-focus, yellow-tinted lighting; plush antique furniture; wide wooden stairways; and little sitting areas with fresh-cut flowers and frondy plants and their own fireplaces.

Now, midafternoon, having gotten the nap she so desperately needed (sleeping in the car had actually made her feel worse), Sara felt an irresistible urge to go exploring—there were only a few hours left before sundown. She wondered if Grissom would feel the same.

Of course he wouldn’t.

He was probably curled up with that damned bug book again. Not that she didn’t understand his almost hermit-like behavior—she was a loner herself. But ever since the Marks case, Sara had tried to force herself out into the world more, to have a life beyond the crime lab, after noting the work-is-everything, stay-at-home, shop-out-of-catalogues existence that had contributed to the death of a woman way too much like herself.

She had come to Mumford with a plan to embroil Grissom in an outing and Sara Sidle was nothing if not thorough. Quickly she changed from her traveling clothes into black jeans, a heavier thermal undershirt and a dark flannel blouse. She slipped into her parka, snatched up her camera, briefly considered taking along her collapsed portable tripod, then decided not to be encumbered. Maybe later. She locked the door behind her and went to Grissom’s room.

Her first knock inspired no answer, and she tried again. Still nothing. On the third, more insistent knock, the door opened to reveal Grissom, entomology text held in his hand like a priest with a Bible—it was as if she’d interrupted an exorcism.

“Hey,” she said, chipper.

“Hey,” he said, opening the door wide. “You look rested.”

Wow—that was one of the nicest things he’d ever said to her.

Encouraged, she tried, “You wanna go for a walk?”

He glanced toward the window on the far side of the room, then turned back to her. “Sara—it’s snowing.”

She nodded. “And?”

He considered that for a while.

“I don’t do snow,” he said. He was still in the black slacks and black three-button shirt. Gesturing with the bug book, he said, “It’s cozy, reading by the fire. You should try it.”

That almost sounded romantic….

He frowned at her and added: “Don’t you have a fireplace in your room?”

“…I finished my books already.”

“The first thing the pioneers did was build shelter and go inside. Out of respect to them, I—”

“Did you know there are 274 winter insects in eastern New York state alone?”

He stilled, but clearly sensed a trap. “You made that up.”

Grinning, she handed him the printout. “Snow-born Boreus, Midwinter Boreus, Large and Small Snowflies, and the Snow-born Midge…just to name a few.”

After a quick scan of the page, he said, “If you’ve got your heart set on it, I guess I’ll get my coat.”

To Grissom’s credit, the coat he withdrew like a rabbit out of a hat from his canvas carry-on—a black, leather-sleeved varsity-type jacket, sans letter or any other embellishment—was heavier than the windbreaker, though still not really sufficient for this weather. He slipped some specimen bottles into the pockets, zipped up the coat, yanked on black fur-lined leather gloves, and they were off.

The first hour or so they spent hiking through the snow-covered woods, Grissom stopping every now and then to look for insects on the ground and on trees. Sara—who found Grissom’s behavior endearingly Boy Scout-ish—snapped off about a dozen nature shots, barely putting a dent in her Toshiba’s 64-mb memory card; but after a while the snowfall made that impossible. It was getting heavier, and Sara knew they should head back.

But she was having too good a time. The wintry woods were delightful, idyllic. A charmingly gleeful Grissom actually found several specimens that he had carefully bottled for transport back to the hotel. He was close to her, their cold-steam breath mingling, showing her one of his prizes, when they heard it.

A pop!

They swung as one toward the forest.

Frowning, Sara asked, “Hunters?”

Grissom shook his head, but before he could speak, four more pops interrupted.

Shots—no doubt now in her mind, and clearly none in Grissom’s, either.

Even though the shots were in the distance, they both found trees to duck behind.

“If it’s hunters,” he said, looking over at her, “they’re using handguns.”

“Where?”

“Can’t tell…. Over there, maybe,” he said, pointing to their left. Without another word, he took off walking in that direction, and Sara fell in behind him.

“Should we really be moving toward the gunfire?” she asked.

He threw her a sharp sideways glance. “It’s our job, Sara.”

“I know that, but we’re not in our jurisdiction and we’re not armed. What are you going to do if we meet the shooter?”

They were moving through the trees, twigs and leaves snapping underfoot; and the snow was coming down now, really coming down.

“What if it’s a hunter?” she asked. “We aren’t in bright clothing—Grissom! Stop and think.”

He stopped. He thought.

Then he made a little shrugging motion with his eyebrows. “Maybe we ought to turn around,” Grissom admitted. “Could be someone just doing a little target practice.”

“Good. Yes. Let’s do that.”

But he made no move to go back. Snow now covered their boot tops and threatened their knees. They were deep in the woods, deep in snow, somewhere on the slope behind the hotel—they could still make out its towers through the skeletal branches and haze of snow. Soon it would be dark, and they’d have to navigate by the lights of the hotel.

Looking at Grissom, Sara realized that his varsity jacket wasn’t doing him much more good than his windbreaker would have. The CSI supervisor was working to hide it, but he obviously was shivering. His cheeks were rosy, the snow in his hair making it appear more white than gray.

Still, she knew him well enough to know the cold wasn’t what was on his mind.

Just ahead, a round wooden pole peeked above the drifting snow, bearing two signs: one, pointing left, read Partridgeberry Trail to Lakeshore Path (whatever that was); the other, pointing to the right, said Forest Drive.

“Either of these paths get us back faster?” Grissom asked.

Sara shrugged. “As long as we can see the hotel, we’re okay.”

“But we can go back the way we came, right? You do know the way.”

She twitched a sheepish smile. “Well, to be honest…when we were looking for those snowflies, and we cut through the woods…”

“Sara, if we’re lost, say we’re lost.”

“We’re not lost,” Sara insisted. “If you look through there, you can see the hotel.”

He turned to look at the path they’d carved coming up the trail. Already the snow filled in their tracks and, if they tried retracing their steps, the guesswork would soon begin….

“Look, I’ve got my cell phone,” she said. “Why don’t we just call the hotel and tell them where we are?”

Without answering, Grissom looked down where the Partridgeberry Trail ought to be, then back in the direction they’d been going, then sharply back toward the Partridgeberry Trail, his nose in the air, sniffing the wind.

“Grissom,” Sara said. “This is no time to be a guy. Asking for directions is nothing to be ashamed of.”

He kept sniffing.

She continued: “Let’s just phone the hotel and tell them we’re…” Something about the look on his face stopped her. “What?”

His nose still high, the snow turning his eyebrows white, he asked, “You smell that?”

Now Sara sniffed the air. “Grilling, maybe?”

“In this weather? No…I recognize that smell!”

And Grissom took off running, kicking up snow as he struggled to sprint through the deepening white stuff. Without thinking, Sara plunged after him; it was like trudging through sand.

“Grissom! Wait up!”

But he did not slow for her.

She didn’t know why they were running, where they were going or what had set Grissom off; but she suspected what it was and knew she wasn’t going to like it.

Grissom just kept running, his head swiveling, and when he finally stopped it was so sudden she almost barreled into him.

She let out a squeak, and lurched to the right to avoid colliding with Grissom, who turned and sprinted left into the woods.

Sara slipped, gathered herself, then tore off after him again. “Grissom!”

He fell to his knees, maybe ten yards in front of her, as if seized by the urge to pray. When she caught up and bent to help him, she realized he was scooping up handfuls of snow, and throwing them at a burning human body.

The snow hissed and steamed when it struck the flames. Swallowing quickly to avoid being sick, Sara dropped to her knees and joined him in flinging handfuls of snow at the burning body.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, but was probably only a couple of minutes, of heaping snow on the body, the fire was extinguished. For the most part, the flames seemed to have been centered on the chest and face of a male who lay on his back, his arms at his sides, his legs slightly splayed.

Reaching carefully, avoiding the still steaming torso, Grissom felt the man’s wrist for a pulse.

“Damnit,” Grissom said bitterly, as if this were his fault. “Dead.”

“What happened here? Not spontaneous combustion, certainly.”

Grissom took a quick look around. “No. There are other sets of tracks here.” He pointed further down the hill toward the hotel. “Give me your cell phone; I’ll call 911. You start taking pictures of everything—fast. The way this snow’s coming down, this crime scene will be history in fifteen minutes.”

“It’s a digital camera…. ”

They both knew that in some states, photographs taken on a digital camera were inadmissible in court—digital doctoring was simply too easy.

“It’s what we have,” Grissom said. “We can both testify to that. Get started.”

A comforting sense of detachment settling down on her, Sara tossed Grissom the phone and got to work.

She’d start with the body, then work her way outward from there. She logged the facts in her head as she took her photos. He was a white man between nineteen and twenty-five, judging from his young-looking hands—tall, maybe six feet, six feet one, 175 to 185, dark hair, most of it burned off, wearing a navy blue parka, mostly melted now, over a T-shirt (black possibly, but that might have been the charring), jeans, boots and, surprisingly, no gloves.

Sara devoted a couple dozen shots to the body—already planning to erase the nature photos, if need be—and was careful to capture as much detail as she could. Then she moved to the tracks in the snow. They were already filling in; she took close-ups and distance shots, wishing she had the tripod after all, using one of her gloves to show scale.

Five sets of tracks: three sets coming from the hotel, two sets going back. With the way the snow was coming down, Sara couldn’t even tell if the other sets were the same approximate size, let alone whether they had been made by one set of boots or two. And her hand was freezing.

Grissom walked up to her. “How’s it going?”

“Lost cause,” she said, glumly. “Boot holes are filling up—no way to get a decent picture.”

“That’s the least of our problems,” Grissom said. His voice was tight; he was either irritated or frustrated—maybe both. “I just got off the phone with the Ulster County Sheriff’s Office.”

“On their way?”

“Not exactly. Deputy says they might have a car out here…tomorrow.”

She brushed snow off her face. “That’s not funny.”

“Am I laughing? It’s snowing so hard they’ve closed the roads.”

“Well…I guess that’s no surprise.”

“Add to that, they’ve had a major chain reaction accident up on Interstate 87…. All the available deputies and state troopers are working that scene.”

“Shit.” She was hopping now, trying to stay warm.

“So we’re on our own.”

“On our own…. ”

Grissom gestured toward the smoldering human chunk of firewood. “Our victim was already dead when the fire started, or he would have been face down.”

“I’m too cold to think that one through. Help me.”

“Sara, nobody alive stays on his back in the snow with his face on fire.”

“I see your point.”

Grissom headed back to the corpse. “We need to try to determine cause of death.”

She fell in with him, slipping her camera in her parka pocket. “Okay. But with this snow coming down, we can’t treat the body with the respect it deserves.”

“That’s a given.”

They bent down over him, one on either side, and began carefully wiping away the snow, which already threatened to bury him.

“No visible wounds other than the burns,” Sara said. “Were you thinking those gunshots we heard—”

“I’m not thinking anything yet. Just observing.” Slowly, Grissom rolled the body onto its right side. He pointed to a spot in the middle of the victim’s back. “Entrance wound.”

“Looks like a .38.”

“Or a little smaller.”

Sara, teeth chattering, let out a nervous laugh and Grissom looked up sharply at her.

“Sorry,” she said, and held up her gloved hands in surrender. “My bad…I was just thinking of something you taught me when I first joined CSI.”

“What?”

She sighed a little cloud and said, “First on the scene, first suspect…. And this time it’s us.”

He reacted with an eyebrow shrug. “Other prime suspects include people the victim knew, relatives, friends…and we’re strangers.”

“Lots of people are killed by strangers.”

He nodded, looking toward the tracks in the snow. “How do you see this?”

Sara squinted, thinking it quickly through. “Well…. He’s being followed by two people…with a gun, or guns. They’ve brought him out here to kill him.”

“Then why all the shots? I only find one wound.”

“All right,” Sara said, processing that. “Two people chasing him, missing him, finally one of them got him, then they set him on fire.”

A branch cracked behind them and Sara reflexively reached for the pistol that wasn’t on her hip as she spun toward the sound.

“Whoa, Nellie!” Herm Cormier said, holding up his hands in front of him. “It’s just me and Constable Maher.”

Sara noted that Cormier had a .30-06 Remington rifle slung over a shoulder, the barrel pointed down. He’d traded in the Mackinaw for a heavy fur-lined coat; a stocking cap came down over his ears, and he wore leather gloves.

Maher was encased in a parka and wore a backpack. He too wore gloves and a stocking cap. “What the hell happened here?” he asked.

“Gunshot wound to the back,” Grissom said. “At some point the victim was set on fire…”

“Jesus H. Christ,” Cormier said, his voice hollow. He had stepped around them, and now stood looking down at the charred body in the snow.

Sara asked, “You know him, Mr. Cormier?”

Shaking his head and turning away, an ashen Cormier said, “Hell’s bells, he’s burned so damn bad, I…”

“But do you know him?” Sara pressed.

Cormier choked like he might heave, then swallowed and said, “I can’t rightly tell.”

“How about the clothes?” Grissom asked.

Glancing at the body, then turning away again, Cormier said, “That don’t help…. We better call the sheriff.”

Grissom filled them in on that score.

“Did you check for a wallet?” Maher asked.

“Just getting ready to,” Sara said. “You want to give me a hand?”

Maher propped the body on its side while Sara patted the pockets; nothing.

Looking from one man to the other, Grissom asked, “What are you two doing out here?”

Swiveling toward Grissom, Cormier said, “Jenny—that’s the little gal at the desk Ms. Sidle spoke to about the weather—she told me you two were out walking…and that she’d told Ms. Sidle the snow wouldn’t be too bad. Turns out this could be one of them hundred-year storms.”

“Really,” Grissom said.

Cormier nodded. “Weather Bureau’s predicting as much as twenty-four inches in the next twenty-four hours.”

Maher piped in, “Mr. Cormier decided he better come find you two. I overheard his conversation with the desk clerk and, since I track in the snow for a living, I offered to come along.”

“We better start gettin’ back,” Cormier said.

Sara dusted snow off herself. “How are we going to get this body back to the hotel?”

Cormier said, “For now, we got to leave it here.”

“We can’t do that,” Sara said. “That body is evidence, and this crime scene is disappearing as we speak.”

Cormier shrugged. “Ms. Sidle, we try to carry him with us, he could end up being the death of us all. These storms get worse ’fore they get better.”

“But…”

“This is a murder,” Grissom said, gesturing about them. “What about the evidence?”

Maher stepped forward now. “Dr. Grissom, excuse me, but I’ve been working winter crime scenes my whole career. The evidence is going to be fine.”

“In a blizzard.”

Maher nodded, once. “The snow will help preserve it, not destroy it. But you and Ms. Sidle are right—we can’t just leave the scene unguarded. For one thing, predators could come along and make a meal of our victim.”

Sara asked, “What do you suggest?”

“I suggest,” Maher said, “we take turns guarding the scene—the three of us. I can help you work the crime scene after the storm breaks.”

Sara had no better idea, and when she looked Grissom’s way, she could almost see the wheels turning in the man’s head. The only two people she figured for sure weren’t suspects were Grissom and herself.

Everybody else was a candidate.

But her gut said to trust Maher. He’d come to the conference alone and, like them, didn’t seem to know anyone here.

“Any other options?” Grissom asked.

Maher shook his head. “We stay out here now and Mr. Cormier’s right. There’ll be five deaths to investigate.”

Grissom said, “All right—how do we get back?”

Sara said, “Grissom…are you sure about—”

“Constable Maher is the expert here, not us. We’ll have to take his word for it.”

Maher turned to the hotel manager. “Mr. Cormier, I’m going to need your rifle.”

“Why?”

“So I can take the first shift.”

“I’m not as keen on this idea,” Cormier said, “as you and Mr. Grissom.”

Maher pointed toward the hotel. “In two hours, I want you to lead one of these two back up here to relieve me. You can find this spot, in the dark, right?”

“Course I can, no problem…but that ain’t the issue. This weather, it’s beautiful from a distance…up close, it can get goddamned ugly.”

“Can’t leave the crime scene unsecured,” Maher insisted.

Grissom said, “Mr. Cormier, please.”

Reluctantly, Cormier held out the rifle.

Maher said, “Hold that just another minute, eh?”

The Canadian withdrew something shiny from his backpack. He unfolded what looked to be a large silver tablecloth.

“Space blanket,” he explained with a smile. “Good for holding in the heat. Thought one of you might need it. Dr. Grissom, if you could give me a hand…. ”

Grissom took one side, Maher the other, and the pair covered the corpse.

“This will help preserve the site,” Maher said. “Once the snow stops we can investigate the scene.”

“But it’ll be under two feet of snow by then,” Sara pointed out.

Maher gave her a lopsided grin. “And that’s a bad thing?”

“Of course!”

His smile straightened out and widened. “Ms. Sidle, I know a few tricks—if we were in the desert, wouldn’t you?” Then a gust of snowy wind blew through, and seemed to carry off Maher’s smile. “I don’t want this man’s killer to get away any more than you do.”

Grissom surprised her by putting a hand on her shoulder. Sara stared at the fingertips touching her coat. She tried to analyze her feelings, but suddenly felt paralyzed. Then, with the wind picking up to a near howl, she heard Grissom’s voice from what sounded like far away. “Whoever did this won’t get away from us.”

“Now,” Maher said, “I need you to take the long way out of here—back the way you two must have come, judging from the tracks.”

Finally, Cormier handed over the rifle to the constable. “Sure I can’t talk you out of this lunacy?”

“Positive. Just remember, I need you to bring one of them back here to relieve me.”

Nodding, Cormier said, “All right, but it’s crazy.”

Maher turned to Grissom. “I know you two don’t have much experience with winter, but we’re going to have to guard this scene until the snow stops.”

Sara stepped up. “All night?”

“However long it takes.”

Grissom said, “Makes sense. Two-hour shifts sounds good. I’ll come up next, then Sara.”

Maher nodded.

Cormier said, “We better get going—be dark soon, and we don’t want to spend those two hours getting down to the hotel.”

Maher took a small black box out of his coat pocket. “GPS,” he said.

Sara knew that it would be easier for them to find this spot again with the use of Maher’s global positioning unit.

“That’s a small one,” she said, admiringly.

“Yeah, brand new, eh? Just breakin’ it in.” He punched a few buttons and handed the gizmo to Grissom. “Use this to find your way back,” the Canadian advised.

“Anything else?” asked Grissom.

“Yeah, bring coffee on the return trip—for me and you.”

Sara asked the Canadian, “Any suggestions for when we get back to the hotel?”

“Check around the buildings for footprints. If the killer or killers went all the way down this slope, they had to come out somewhere. If they went straight down, the tracks’ll probably start around the back of the building.”

“All right,” Grissom said.

Cormier seemed to be working hard to keep his back to the corpse, even though the space blanket and the beginnings of a layer of snow already covered it. And when Maher gave him the high sign to start back up the trail, Cormier was obviously eager to go. Sara and Grissom dropped in behind him.

“How do we know,” Sara asked Grissom quietly, making sure Cormier, whom they’d lagged behind somewhat, couldn’t hear, “that we can trust Maher?”

“We don’t.”

“Then why…?”

“If we accept him at face value,” Grissom said, “he’s a real boon to us—an expert on winter crime scenes, which we’re not.”

“Granted. But, not counting us, he and Mr. Cormier were the first on the scene…making them suspects.”

“Well,” Grissom said, “if we’ve left the murderer behind with the body of his victim, he will try to cover his tracks…and not just with snow.”

“You mean…he’ll give himself away.”

“Yes. We didn’t mention that you’d taken extensive photos of the victim and the crime scene, before he and Mr. Cormier got there.”

Sara smiled slyly at her boss. “And we won’t mention it, will we?”

Grissom answered with a smile and a shake of the head, and as they trudged after Cormier, toward the towers of the hotel, their cozy, shared conspiracy almost made her feel warm.

Almost.