"No sign of number 888, whoever he is?"
"No, but it's so cold up here lots of the bikers are wearing jackets and sweats that cover up their numbers. But it's a long day and I'll spot him if he's here."
Dean sipped the hot coffee, thankful Fred didn't raise any questions about Betty from Boise. "More than half the riders must have passed here already," he said. "Chances are our guy skipped out yesterday when he learned we were interested in him."
Fred didn't disagree, a sure sign he too was discouraged. He changed the subject. "I called Mrs. Porter again this morning," he said, "just to check in. Got her out of bed. There was some other news. The Feds busted a gang of Colombians in Philadelphia and one of them is implicated in slitting the throat of that fellow Homer Flanders." Fred waved back to Mrs. Blanding, who was waiting anxiously for her favorite helper.
"Jonathan Winston will be getting a medal."
Fred moved his toe around in the dirt. "I don't much like getting out foxed by Byrne, whether he's alone or with someone else, but if he's gone, I can't for the life of me think of what to do next to track him down. It played out as smooth as an old harmonica the way we had it figured too. It would be a shame to lose him after all our work."
Dean reluctantly agreed. "Everything points to Byrne skipping. That's the only way it makes sense. As much as Brunel being in Colorado surprised me, I've thought about it and I think it's just a coincidence. There's still too many coincidences and things that don't add up and we'll probably never get the answers, but I agree-it looks like this is the end of the line if we can't locate him on this tour." He patted Fred on the shoulder. "Just keep your fingers crossed old man-this is our last shot." Dean put on his helmet and mounted his bike.
"By the way," Fred called after him. "Congratulations on making the climb-at your age. That's one beaut of a hill."
A bank of clouds tumbled down the slope to the left of him, bathing the summit in cold dampness. Dean stopped a few hundred yards down the road and swapped his sweat top for a nylon windbreaker. Others ahead of him were doing the same as the fog-like cloud blocked out the sun. He was re-zipping his front bag when he glanced down at a biker a switchback below him pulling off a jersey and donning a bright yellow jacket. Dean only had a brief glance at the rider, not enough to even tell if the helmeted figure was a man or a woman, much less recognize the person. But it was enough to catch the rider's number before the jacket covered it. It was 888!