They found dry clothes for Groff, and Brayer put him in charge of the dispatcher's desk to give him a chance to warm up. It had turned windy with nightfall.
There was a commotion outside, and a couple of state troopers came in. Groff looked past them; there was a dignified-looking old man, somebody of importance, by the way the troopers stood by him.
And with him were Artie Chesbro and Sharon Froman.
Groff stood up to get a better look. Chesbro glanced around the room, caught Groff's eye, looked away, gave him a fishy smile, spoke to the dignified-looking old man, and shepherded him out of the room, along with Chief Brayer and a couple of other top men.
Something didn't smell good. Groff called another deputy over and asked him to take care of the desk. He walked over to one of the troopers and said: "Who's that you came in with?"
The trooper said, "Congressman Akslund, that's the old guy. The other fellow's some kind of local big shot, I guess. You ought to know him better than me."
Local big shot.
Mickey Groff looked thoughtfully at the door Chesbro and the congressman and the village elders had gone out through.
Back at the filling station. The night Zehedi had died. What was Sharon Froman selling Chesbro? "A big regional organization to fight back against the inroads of the South. You and me, Mr. Chesbro."
You and me—and Congressman Akslund, it looked like.