Minutes later, Rudi came out of the building with what appeared to be luggage for three people.

Syd popped the trunk open and watched Rudi come around the car. Rudi had changed into some dry clothes. Blue jeans and a fitted white T-shirt under a black jean jacket.

“So sorry about that, Mr. Fost,” Rudi said, as he climbed in and shut the door. A hint of his perfume, something subtle and pleasantly fresh clung to the air. “I hope you didn’t get too wet. Here, I have a small towel for you.” He produced a hand towel from his jean jacket.

Thoughtful. Maybe unexpected. But Mr. Fost?

“Thanks.” Syd dried his face and then threw the towel over the seat. “And I’m thirty-five years old. Don’t call me Mister Fost. Okay?”

“All right. Got it. Syd it is. I’m Rudi by the way.”

“Yeah, I know.” Syd looked away and put the car in drive. “Saw your videos.”

“And I read your stories. All your articles. I know so much about you. It’s really amazing meeting you and I hope that you’re okay with collaborating with me on --”

“We’re not exactly collaborating.” Syd drove out and turned the radio up. He shot Rudi a quick look. “It’s my story. You’re coming along to document it.”

“Well, it’s going on my channel and I’m going to be participating at every level, so yeah, this is a collaboration. Or did I misunderstand Stanley’s offer? I mean, I could call him right now and check.” He took out his cell phone. “I’m sure he could clear this up for us.”

Tough. Real tough. But he’d been around tougher.

“You don’t need to call him,” Syd said, smoothly and turning to Rudi with a condescending smile. “It’s definitely a collaboration. Let’s you and me go out there to that little stinking motel and spend three days in a stuffy room with stained carpets and bad ventilation and we’ll walk around the halls looking for a skinny ghost and when our time’s up, you can put whatever we didn’t find on your channel and I’ll drive to California. How’s that sound?”

Rudi shook a mint out of a tin box and popped it into his mouth. “Sounds depressing. Now, Mr. Don’t Call Me Mr. Fost, do you know what really happened at Misty Mountain forty-four years ago?”

He tried not be interested, but his instincts kicked in. “What, you know something about the place?”

“Sure. I did my homework. You think I made it to eight thousand subscribers just by looking pretty?”

“No, ‘cause you’re not that pretty.”

When Rudi laughed, Syd was surprised. So the man didn’t take himself too seriously.

“People said you were an asshole,” Rudi said, turning the radio down. “Are you a Gemini?”

“No. What happened at Misty Mountain forty-four years ago?”

“Then you’re a Scorpio.”

“That’s too easy.” Syd smiled a bit. “Scorpios are the easiest to guess.”

“But you are, aren’t you.”

“Would you just tell me what happened at the Misty?”

“If I tell you what happened at the Misty, will you let me change the station?”

Syd scoffed dryly and looked over at Rudi. He’d been wrong. Rudi’s eyes weren’t honey-brown. They were hazel. Not quite green and not quite brown. “You can change the station whenever you like. Now, what happened?”

“There was a snow storm there.”

“Oh, a storm. In the Laurentians. How unusual. How bizarre.”

Rudi changed the radio station. “So cynical,” he said with a smile. “The snow storm, which by the way lasted forty-four minutes, blew over Misty Mountain ... in August.”

“In August?” Now he had to admit that he was a bit intrigued. “Snow and everything --”

“Snow and winds and zero visibility.” Rudi leaned back in his seat and looked over at him. “In August.”

“Hmm.”

“Yep.”

“What’s that got to do with the skinny man?”

“I guess you and I are going to find out.”