They drove south on US 395 through an alternating landscape of rugged ponderosa pine and open range. Peter had the wheel. Davila navigated with a paper map, no phone, no GPS. Passing through the city of Burns, they continued south through the arid hinterlands of Oregon's outback.

With each passing mile, the air grew colder, the sky darker; and by the time they reached the little town of Frenchglen, it was near to freezing, the sullen clouds low and threatening. The whole town seemed to crouch in anticipation. Windows were shuttered, porches cleared. A woman hurried from her car to the general store, crouching beneath a rain that had not begun to fall. Only the rooster remained out of doors, strutting defiantly by the gas pump. It seemed a different place from the oasis Peter had visited just eleven days before, a different world.

Driving on, they passed the dilapidated barn where Peter had seen the people dancing in a circle. It was abandoned. They continued down the rough Jeep trail to the ford in the river where Peter's car had broken down. The car was gone, towed to the shop in Burns Demi had recommended. Peter wondered if it had been repaired yet.

The rental SUV made easy work of the river's shallow ford, and they continued up the mountain, bumping over the primitive road. Scattered raindrops began to smack the dusty windshield. As they gained altitude, the rain was joined by wet snow, a sloppy mixture Peter's mother disdainfully referred to as "shlood". But soon enough, the shlood turned to proper snow, big fluffy flakes, then fine dry ones swirling about in the wind.

By the time they reached the main loop road, a fine dusting of snow covered the ground. At Delbert's driveway, a set of tire tracks marked the recent passing of a vehicle, but whether it had come or gone, they could not tell.

As they turned down the driveway, Davila reached under her seat and pulled out a small black pistol similar to the one she had carried in London. She checked something then stuffed it into a holster at the small of her back.

They slowed as Delbert's house came into view at the back of the long meadow. The lights were on. Smoke trailed from the stovepipe. Two of the wind turbines were locked down, but the third churned vigorously in the growing breeze. Two cars were parked by the detached garage, both dusted with snow. One was Peter's brown Corolla. The other was a dark-blue Jeep Cherokee with Washington State license plates. Neither car had left the tire tracks. Instead, the tracks led to a large rectangle of bare ground, the snow-shadow of a recently departed vehicle.

They got out and approached the Jeep. Fresh footprints encircled it. Inside, empty food wrappers littered the front passenger seat. On the dashboard, someone had left a photo ID badge from the CDC in Atlanta.

"What the hell is he doing here?" said Peter.

"Who?" whispered Davila.

But Peter was already heading for the house, mounting the steps of the covered porch and pounding on the front door. He pounded again, and when no one answered, he turned the knob and pushed inside. Davila was right behind him, gun drawn.

The entryway and living room were empty, but a fire burned in the wood stove. Davila slipped past Peter and silenced him with a raised hand. Then Peter heard it too, a faint but unmistakable moan from the kitchen.

Slinking through the dining room, they peeked around the corner. There on the kitchen floor lay a man with his back to them, his balding head bleeding and bruised, feet and wrists bound with white plastic zip ties.

Peter knelt and gently shook the doctor's shoulder. He looked up, one eye swollen shut, the other wide and frantic. He mumbled through the duct tape covering his mouth, and Peter peeled it free.

"Jesus H. Christ! Cut me loose!"

Davila found a sheath knife in a kitchen drawer and with a nod from Peter cut Brisling loose. He sat up and slumped against the cupboards gasping, squinting at them both. "Who the hell are you?"

"It's me, Peter Barshman, from King County Hospital."

Brisling groped the floor until he found his wire-rimmed glasses. He put them on crooked, the cracked lens matching up with his swollen eye. "What are you doing here?" he said to Peter.

"I was just about to ask you the same question. We came to see Delbert Mackai."

Brisling seemed to catch his breath. "Well you just missed him."

"Where'd he go?"

"They took him."

"Who took him?"

The doctor shook his head incredulously. "Jason Numec, the CEO of Numex Industries. He just barged in and dragged old Mackai right out the front door."

Davila chambered a round and released the safety.

"Whoa there," said Brisling, patting the air with his hand. "Do you have a permit for that thing?"

She tossed him a disgusted look then turned and padded through the dining room toward the front door. Brisling called after her, his tone suddenly contrite. "Hey, can you get some snow for my eye?"

The door opened then closed again with a faint click.

Brisling rubbed his bruised wrists. "Who's she?"

"It's complicated," said Peter. "But trust me: she knows what she's doing."

Peter helped Brisling into the living room, where the doctor stretched himself out on the couch close to the stove's warmth. "I'm sorry about Anna," he said.

Peter fell into Delbert's armchair. "We know who did it."

Brisling propped himself up on his elbow, wincing. "Then you need to go to the police. They're looking for you. You're a suspect."

Only then did it occur to Peter how it must have appeared to the police. A young woman killed by a spurned lover in a fit of jealous rage, a stolen passport, a killer on the lam. Peter shook the idea from his mind. "This is way beyond the police."

"Right, you said it was complicated. But can I ask you something? How do you know Delbert Mackai?"

Adrenaline surged through Peter's stomach and chest. "Wait. You said they took him. Who was with Jason Numec?"

"You mean the greasy little bugger who tied me up?"

"Did he have light colored eyes, like honey?"

"So you've met him."

"Did you see them drive off? All three of them together?"

"I didn't see shit. I was tied up in the kitchen without my glasses. I only heard them drive off."

The front door clicked open, and Peter dug his fingers into the armrests. He pulled himself forward then froze. Davila stumbled into the entryway, head bowed, face matted with wet hair. Her arms dangled at her sides, the snowball for Brisling's eye dripping through the cage of her left hand and soaking the splint on her middle finger. Someone stood behind her, concealed by the dividing wall. A gloved hand gripped her collar. Another pressed the muzzle of a gun to the back of her skull.

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