The Dreamer

Chapter 18: Bigfoot and the Bear

Lynx Mountain. February 6, 2005. Sunday evening.

"What are you laughing at?" Peter asked.

"Us," Neal replied. They were huddled underneath Mylar blankets on a mattress of old tarps, sitting side by side to conserve heat. They'd fashioned hoods out of Mylar. The only part of Neal that could be seen was his face swimming in an ocean of silver. "All we need are antennae on our heads to look like Mozzie's space aliens."

"Well, these are called space blankets," Peter reminded him.

"And we're a lot warmer than we'd be if we were floating in outer space." Neal passed him another granola bar. "Here's dessert. I need to speak with the chef about serving the same item for both your main course and dessert. Would you like me to tear it open for you?"

"Nah, I'm good. The wrist's feeling much better already. And don't give the chef grief. I don't suppose we could have seconds?"

Neal shook his head regretfully. "These are the last ones."

Peter estimated they'd have at the most two more hours before the heater gave out on them. Their clothes were slowly drying. The socks were taking the longest. The cloud cover prevented the outside temperature from dropping as much as it otherwise would have. Since Rinaldi had confiscated their watches, it was impossible to know what time it was.

"Do you have any ideas on who blew our cover?" Neal asked.

"That's a puzzle. It must have happened at the last minute, or Rinaldi wouldn't have let us get so close." Peter had started a list in his head. Aside from his team, many at the Bureau were aware of the op. Sara knew about Rinaldi but not that they were going to the resort. As part of her investigation, she likely questioned others at Sterling-Bosch. Then there was the resort manager. She'd been given strict instructions not to reveal anything, but she might have let something slip.

"Rinaldi probably got a phone call," Neal speculated. "The road to the resort was closed so no one could have driven up to alert him." They both fell silent. Two weeks ago, Peter hadn't heard of Ydrus. Now he faced the real possibility that a mole was working for the criminal organization within the Bureau.

Neal nudged him. "So when do you plan to tell me your Bigfoot story?"

"What makes you think I have one?"

"When we went to your cabin over Halloween, you told me about it. You claimed you needed two prerequisites before I could hear it: lots of snow—we can check that one off—and wilderness boot camp. Surely this qualifies. I want my story."

"You're right. I did say that." Peter winced. Trust Neal to remember. Was there any way he could wiggle out of it? "Weren't you going to tell me about that hockey job you pulled?"

Neal handed him another bottle of water. "Don't try to deflect. After all I went through to satisfy your requirements, you're not going to renege on me, are you?"

Peter exhaled, reminding himself to be extra careful of whatever he mentioned to Neal. He was as bad as El for remembering every single remark. "The thing is, it's kind of embarrassing, and if the past is any indication, you'll probably tease me unmercifully about it."

Neal let out a grumble and fell into stony silence.

Peter let it go on for a couple of minutes. "Are you going to sulk all night?"

"Maybe."

"How about a compromise? I'll tell you the Bigfoot story if you admit to something embarrassing about yourself. Then we can mutually swear to never disclose what happened to anyone else."