The black Chevy Suburban fishtailed around the switchback, leaving behind a wake of dust and bouncing gravel. Gryphus had the wheel. Jason Numec rode shotgun, his gray eyes vacillating between the rear-view mirror and the dash-mounted GPS device. The road traversed a precarious ridge dividing two deep gorges, Little Blitzen to the north and Big Indian to the south; then it coursed eastward along a tongue of barren land rising gently beneath a blanket of iron clouds.

Numec checked the mirror again. "There's a vehicle behind us, a half click back."

Gryphus glanced up. "I see it."

"They weren't behind us when we turned off the highway."

Gryphus understood. He pulled over to the right-hand shoulder, shifted into park, and left the engine running. From the glovebox, he took a crisp copy of The Sibley Guide to Birds and a pair of olive-green Leica 7 × 50 binoculars favored by serious birders. Climbing out, he moved to the passenger side of the Suburban, propped his elbows on the hood, and glassed an isolated stand of golden aspens in the middle distance.

A moment later, they were overtaken by the unknown vehicle, a late model white Ford pickup truck with Oregon license plates. It came to a rolling stop in the middle of the road next to the Suburban, blocking Gryphus's view of the trees. Numec slid over to the driver's seat and lowered his window.

Two men sat in the truck's cab, the bed apparently empty. The driver was Black, a little on the heavy side, probably strong and slow. The passenger was white, thin, and wiry, undoubtedly quick of hand. His clothes seemed bulky. On the rack behind their heads hung two medium-caliber rifles with scopes. The driver lowered his window. "Howdy," he said, nodding at Gryphus. "You see any chukars out there?"

"No," said Gryphus, evincing just the right amount of disdain. Chukar, he knew, were a partridge-like species introduced from Eurasia. They competed with native sage grouse for breeding territory. "I'm glassing these aspens for migratory accidentals."

The driver frowned. "Sorry I asked. Say, do you have a map we can borrow? We're trying to find some place called Wildhorse Lake."

Gryphus set aside his binoculars and unzipped his jacket. Who hunted game birds with rifles? Moreover, the plural of chukar was chukar, not chukars with an S.

The white guy was getting out now and taking up position behind the truck's bed. Gryphus reached inside his jacket and curled his fingers around the grip of his SIG Sauer P220.

"Freeze!" said the man behind the truck. He was aiming a submachine gun over the bed at Gryphus. "Hands in the air where I can see them! Both of you! Now!"

Numec flung open his door and strode toward the truck, drawing from beneath his overcoat a weird, double-bladed jade knife.

Seizing the moment of distraction, Gryphus drew his pistol and fired at the man with the submachine gun. It was not his finest shot, but it was good enough: a hit just below the left collarbone. The submachine gun clattered into the bed of the truck and the man slumped out of view.

The truck's driver grabbed a sawed-off shotgun from the center console and tried to open his door, but Numec stepped forward and held it closed. Panicked, the driver fired straight through the metal.

The blast struck Numec in the stomach, and he staggered back.

As the driver pumped his shotgun to load another shell, Gryphus took aim over the hood, drawing a bead on the base of the man's throat. He was just about to squeeze the trigger, when Numec's dark figure swept into view.

Reaching into the open window, Numec yanked the shotgun from the driver's hands and plunged his jade knife into his throat just above the sternal notch—precisely where Gryphus had been aiming. Then he swiftly drew it out, uncorking a fountain of cherry-red blood.

Gryphus sprinted across the road to the far side of the truck, where he found the other man lying on his back, blood spurting from the little wound just above the collar of his bulletproof vest and soaking the dirt. "Who do you work for?" said Gryphus.

But he had already lost consciousness.

Numec approached, grimacing and clutching his stomach.

Gryphus nodded at the front of Numec's tattered overcoat. "I see you decided to wear your body armor."

With a grunt, Numec reached into the bed of the truck and retrieved the submachine gun. He held it out for Gryphus to see. "Israeli?"

"No. American."

***

The interior of Delbert Mackai's living room reminded Brisling of his parents' farmhouse back in Iowa, that dark coziness of drawn curtains and cast-iron stoves, of threadbare Sears and Roebuck furniture and family photos on the smoke-stained walls.

He laid his briefcase on the coffee table and sat on an orange sofa, a big curtained window at his back. To his right, an antique potbelly warmed the room, the fire within flickering cheerfully through the little mica glass window. Behind it, a stretch of wall concealed the entryway.

Brisling twisted around, cursing his sore back as he parted the curtains. He half expected to see Flaherty's men pulling up in their SUV. Instead, he found himself face-to-face with a strangely familiar plant growing in a half-gallon terracotta pot. Tiny white flowers littered the sill.

He turned at the aroma of coffee and received a steaming mug from Mackai. The old man knelt in front the stove, and taking a red bandana from his back pocket, he opened the little door and slipped in a piece of firewood. Struggling to his feet, he brushed his hands. "Found this stove in an old sheepherder's cabin up on my property. Those Basques built it back in the twenties." Several associated artifacts hung on the wall behind the stove: a pair of rusty sheep sheers, some brands, a gnarled sheepherder's staff, and a set of iron leg-hold traps.

Retrieving his coffee mug, Mackai settled into a chartreuse armchair. "The wind turbines and solar panels don't generate enough wattage for central heat. But if we need to, we can draw down the hydrogen fuel cells to power space heaters in every room."

Brisling had read about hydrogen fuel cells once, how they would revolutionize solar and wind power by offering efficient long-term energy storage. But residential use was still years away. "So you're off the grid?"

"That's right. And you won't find any cell phone reception on this part of mountain, either. But we have a satellite for internet and TV." He sipped his coffee. "So it was Senator Flaherty who gave you my name."

Brisling took a sip of his own. Delicious. "That's right. He said you were the one who took custody of the Ice Man's body back in 1992."

Mackai ran his hand through the white stubble on his head. "Now why would he go and do that? Those court records were sealed."

"Well, what do you know about Vice President Al Stone's death?"

"Just what I read online. He had a stroke like that."

"What would you say if I told you that was a lie?"

A pause. "Wouldn't be the first lie to come out of the White House."

Brisling set his mug on the coffee table. "What I'm about to tell you doesn't leave this room, do you understand?"

"Now you hold on, Doctor. You're sitting on my couch, drinking my coffee. You can choose what you say, but I'll decide what comes and goes from my living room."

Fair enough. Besides, everyone was going to find out eventually. Screw De Soto. Screw Flaherty. "All right," said Brisling. "It turns out the vice president died from a virus, a virus we've never seen before. It's cropping up all over the world. Millions of people are infected with it. And I'm pretty sure millions of people are going to die from it." The number had bounced around his head ever since the experiment. But they had not had time to sink in, not really, not until just now, hearing himself say it out loud: millions of people. Jesus Christ.

"How come I haven't read about this on the internet?"

"Not enough people have gotten sick." He paused, still wrestling with the numbers. "But they will. Trust me."

"What's this got to do with the Old One, the Ice Man like you call him?" He took another sip.

"The Ice Man was infected with the virus. He was the source."

Mackai lowered his coffee mug. "Are you telling me the Old One was infected with some sort of bug?"

"It's a virus, not a bug."

He leaned forward. "Were my people exposed? We buried him with our own hands."

"Yeah, you were exposed. But you don't have anything to worry about."

"Why the hell not?"

"Funny thing about this virus. It doesn't affect Native Americans, or any of the Indigenous people in the New World it seems. But for the rest of the planet, it's a death sentence. I guess your people lucked out this time around."

Mackai fell back into his chair, dumbstruck. At length, he spoke. "My people are no strangers to plagues. First, it was smallpox and those diseases brought by Columbus. Then the settlers. Then genocide. Then came the BIA. Today, it's the plague of poverty, drugs, and violence. We've seen it all." He pulled at a loose thread on the arm of his chair. "But I never thought I'd live to see the day when one of God's plagues passed us over."

"This isn't God's handiwork."

"What do you mean, Doctor?"

Brisling turned and parted the curtains again. It had begun to snow, little white flakes fluttering in the breeze like confetti. "The virus was engineered in a laboratory."

Mackai checked himself. "Hold on now. How is that possible? You said The Old One was the source. But that body was thousands of years old."

Brisling turned back to face Mackai. "Simple. Someone infected the body after it was pulled from the ice."

"Now why would anyone do such a thing?"

"You tell me. You're the one who warned the scientists not to cut him open."

"We asked them not to. We asked them to respect our customs, that's all. We had no idea that body was infected."

"Really?" Brisling opened his briefcase, took out the newspaper he had been reading over breakfast, and slapped it down on the coffee table. "I think you knew."

Mackai picked up the newspaper and held it at arm's length, squinting.

"Wovoka's prophecy?" said Brisling. "A coming age when God would clear the land of white people and give it back to Native Americans? That's pretty much what this virus is about to do." Along with wiping out every other race on the planet.

Mackai tossed the newspaper onto the coffee table. "If I had a nickel for every Indian prophecy about white folks packing up and leaving, dying off, or simply vanishing, I'd be a rich man. Besides, Wovoka was a man of peace. He preached that if Native folk were righteous and patient, God would rid the land of whites, not some damn virus."

"But someone's playing God."

"Well I had nothing to do with it."

"But you knew. You're stockpiling supplies, just in case. That's what you said in the article."

"Doctor, I live up here with my teenage granddaughter, fifty miles from the nearest hospital. Of course I stock up on supplies."

"What about the solar panels and the wind turbines and the hydrogen fuel cells? You're completely off the grid. It looks to me like you're preparing for Armageddon."

"A lot of tribes are moving off the grid like that. Energy independence is sovereignty, you know. That's what he says, and I believe it."

"Who says?"

Mackai raised his coffee mug to one of the photos hanging on the wall. It showed a younger Delbert Mackai shaking hands with a very tall brown-skinned man with weird gray eyes. Brisling got up for a closer look. The face seemed familiar.

"That's Jason Numec. He paid for my solar panels and wind turbines. He's doing the same for Native people all over. There's a tribe down in Arizona that's gone completely solar, some villages in Mexico too. I even heard the Flatheads up in Montana are doing geothermal."

Brisling looked closer, trying to remember. "Is he Native American?"

"Sure is. He's putting millions of dollars into educating our youth. My granddaughter is going to college on a Numex scholarship."

Brisling whipped around so fast that coffee sloshed onto his shoes. "Wait. Numex, as in Numex Industries?"

"That's right. Jason Numec started that company back then. He's the owner."

"And how do you know him?"

"He helped us get the Old One back. He hired the best lawyers, paid out of his own pocket."

"He was part of that?" Jesus H. Christ.

"Now hold on, Doctor. If you think Jason Numec had anything to do with this virus, you're dead wrong."

"Am I?" The pieces were clicking into place. "Numex Industries was the only company capable of making a virus this sophisticated back in 1992. And now you're telling me Jason Numec was involved in the Ice Man case? Someone with his resources easily could have infected that body." Brisling stared Mackai down. "And he had a motive."

"Because he's Indian, is that what you're saying?"

"You're damn right that's what I'm saying. Who the hell else would engineer a virus that kills everyone except Indians?"

Mackai set aside his coffee, got to his feet, and met Brisling's eyes, brown against blue. "I'm going to ask you to leave now."

"What? Why?"

Mackai balled his fists. "I said leave!"

"Whoa, whoa." Brisling backed toward the couch. "Look, I understand you wanting to protect your friend, but if I walk out that door right now, I'm going straight to Flaherty with this. So if you have information that might exonerate Jason Numec, you better give it to me now."

"I'm done talking with you, Doctor."

"Fine. Have it your way. But the Feds won't take no for an answer."

"What Feds?"

"The meatheads Flaherty sent to keep tabs on me. I saw them down in Frenchglen driving a black SUV."

"I won't talk to them, either."

"Then talk to me."

"Why should I say another word to you?"

"Because I want the truth. That's all. No matter what it turns out to be, that's all I want, the truth."

For a long moment, Mackai stood tense, his dark eyes smoldering. Then with a sigh, he released his fists and sank back into his armchair. "I'm done fighting you people."

"Then talk to me."

"If it'll help save lives, I'll tell you everything I know."

Kiger Gorge, Steens Mountain, Oregon.

Photo credit: https://deighlight.wordpress.com/category/oregon-mountains/