Peter stood at the bottom of the stairs. In one hand he held an antique double-barreled shotgun and in the other a box of shells. He tiptoed around the blood-soaked towels on the hallway floor, averting his eyes as he returned to the living room.

Davila had not moved from the couch. She sat with her hands tucked between her knees, her small black pistol dangling from her fingertips. She had retrieved it from Gryphus's body before Brisling hauled it into the back room.

Peter hefted the shotgun. "I'm going after Delbert."

Davila looked up and eyed the weapon in Peter's hand. "I'll go with you."

Brisling emerged from the hallway. He was rolling up his sleeves. "What did I hear you two just say?"

"We're going after Delbert," Peter said.

"Like hell you are. You're lucky to be alive. We all are."

Davila stood and checked something on her pistol.

Brisling gave her a sidelong glance. "Do you even know how to use that? I thought you said you were an archeologist."

She jammed the pistol into the holster at the small of her back and tugged her jacket down over it.

"Fine. But why not wait for the feds? They should be here any minute now."

"What Feds?" she said.

"FBI, NSA, Homeland Security—I don't know. They've been following me for days. Does it matter?"

"Why would they be following you?"

"Stick around, and I'll tell you."

"We don't have time," said Peter, making for the door.

Outside, it was snowing in earnest now, two inches on the ground. Faded footprints encircled their rental SUV, clustering near the front. Peter was just about to get in when Davila grabbed his arm.

"Look!" she said, nodding at the hood. Someone had left it unlatched.

"Gryphus?" said Peter.

She backed away, nodding.

"What did he do to it?"

"Let's not find out."

They hurried to Brisling's Jeep, but it had been tampered with in the same way. Peter scanned the property for the Mackais' car, but it was nowhere to be seen.

Then Davila pointed to a vehicle parked behind the detached garage. "What about that?"

It was Peter's Corolla, his mother's old car, the one he had abandoned at the ford in the river.

They approached the snow-shrouded vehicle. No footprints marked the ground. Peter opened the driver's door to a little avalanche of snow then slipped inside. Closing the door, he sat in darkened silence, taking in the faint scent of vanilla hand lotion, the echo of "Solveig's Song."

Daylight flooded in through the windshield as Davila swept it clear of snow. She threw open the front passenger door and dropped in beside Peter. "Do you have the key?"

"We don't need one." Lowering the sunshade, he took the butter knife he kept there and inserted it into the gouged-out ignition switch. As he gave it a twist, it occurred to him that the car might not have been repaired at all, just towed back to the house. But with a belch of black smoke from the tailpipe, the engine sputtered to life and rumbled reassuringly.

At the end of Delbert's driveway, they followed the quickly fading tire tracks up toward the summit of Steens Mountain. The Corolla labored in the thin mountain air. Each time its tires slipped, the engine roared and misfired.

At last, the final ridge swept into view, a craggy spine that seemed to rake the bustling clouds. There at the summit, a half mile up the ridge, a black vehicle waited. But as they rounded the base of a rocky knoll, their view of the summit was blocked. The road grew suddenly steep, and the Corolla's front tires began to spin out of control, engine revving wildly.

Davila gripped the assist handle above her door. "Let off the accelerator!"

Peter took his foot off the pedal, and the tires stopped spinning. But they were losing momentum fast.

"Get onto the shoulder!"

"Which shoulder?" To their left, the road banked down to a ditch running along the base of the knoll. To their right, nothing but a few feet of rocky ground stood between them and a cloud-filled chasm.

With her left hand, Davila reached over and took the steering wheel. Peering out her window, she guided the slowing vehicle onto the right-hand shoulder. "Now go!"

Peter downshifted and stepped on the accelerator, both hands on the wheel now. The engine roared, tires spitting chunks of loose rock against the undercarriage. They lurched forward, fishtailing left and right before regaining momentum and returning to the safety of the road.

Davila reached back for the shotgun and box of shells. Opening the shotgun's breach, she loaded both of its stacked barrels. "Are you sure you know how to use this?"

Peter shifted gears and gave the weapon another glance. It was just like his air rifle back home. "Aim and pull the trigger," he said.

"Right, but be sure to set the stock firmly against your shoulder before you fire. And aim for the center of mass. Shoot to kill. If you need to empty the second barrel, slide your finger back and pull the rear trigger. Do you understand?"

Before Peter could answer, the Corolla bucked and shimmied toward the right-hand shoulder. He wrenched the steering wheel hard left and jammed the brakes. The wheels locked, and they slid toward the base of the rocky knoll.

With a bone-rattling jolt, the Corolla's front-left tire dropped into the ditch. Peter threw the transmission into reverse and stomped on the gas, but nothing happened. The engine had died. With the butter knife, he tried to restart it. He tried again. Nothing. The dashboard blazed with red and yellow warning lights. Dropping the knife, he leaned his forehead against the steering column and listened as the Corolla's engine clinked and sighed beneath the hood.

"It's not far to the summit," said Davila.

She was right. Lifting his head, Peter reached out and gently touched the Corolla's dashboard with his fingertips. Then he grabbed the shotgun, threw open his door, and scrambled out.

He had taken maybe five steps toward the summit when Davila grabbed his arm from behind and spun him around, her black hair whipping in the wind. "If Jason Numec's up there, he's already heard us. He knows we're coming!"

Peter tried to break free, but Davila pulled him to the right-hand shoulder, down into the steep jumble of boulders before the precipice. There she stopped. A thousand feet below, a tiny azure lake blinked through the clouds. Facing him, she took his arms in both hands. Then she stood on her toes and lifted her lips to his. The wind and the whiteness seemed to fade away, and for a moment, there was nothing but her dark warmth.

Then she released him.

They picked their way through the boulders just below the level of the road, now and then catching glimpses of the summit ahead and the little lake far below. Slowed by her limp, Davila soon fell behind.

Peter waited for her at a sheltered ledge just beneath the summit. Someone had been digging recently, a pit and a pile of freshly turned earth and stones. Fifty feet up the steep scree, a cairn marked the summit.

A faint cry filtered down through the swirling snowflakes.

Delbert!

Peter scrambled up the loose rocks and crouched behind the cairn, his heart quick and light, the shotgun little more than a twig in his hands. He leaped out and found himself at the edge of a flat and circular space covered with snow, a turnaround for vehicles. Along the left-hand edge, thirty paces away, a black SUV had been parked facing the cairn. Jason Numec stood in front of the vehicle wearing a long black overcoat. Delbert knelt at Numec's feet, head bowed over a patch of red snow.

Peter sprinted toward Delbert and came to a sliding stop fifteen paces short, shotgun raised. "Get away from him!"

Jason Numec looked up, his flinty eyes narrow. From beneath his overcoat, he drew a strange weapon, a pale-green knife with twin blades that curled out from his right fist like opposing arms of a spiral galaxy.

Delbert lifted his face. It was streaked with blood. "Don't let him take it," he rasped.

Peter glanced over his shoulder at the cairn, hoping to see Davila there.

"Shoot him!" said Delbert.

When Peter looked back, Numec was striding toward him, knife arm coiled to strike. Peter set his feet and aimed for Numec's center of mass, just as Davila instructed. "Stop! I'll shoot!"

Numec stopped, head cocked. Then he stood straight, arms spread wide, a fey smile on his lips. Something blue glittered from beneath the tatters of his overcoat. "You won't kill me. You can't kill me. I know, because my world is there, waiting for me. I remember it."

The wind fell silent, as if puzzled by Numec's words. Even the snowflakes seemed to hesitate.

Then he lunged.

Peter pulled the trigger, and the shotgun stock slammed against his shoulder. Boom!

Numec doubled over, staggering back as muffled echoes of the blast reported back from every corner of the mountain. He dropped to one knee and bowed his head. Slowly, he peeled back the tatters of his overcoat.

Peter gasped. Not a drop of blood, not a hint of red—just blue, the shimmering fabric studded with birdshot.

Numec filled his lungs, and the birdshot fell away like raindrops. He tightened his grip on the knife and lunged again.

Pull the rear trigger.

Numec tore the shotgun from Peter's hands and flung it through the air. Taking him by the hair, he drew back his knife, the forward blade angled to slip between Peter's ribs.

Holy Mary, pray for us.

Peter stared at the pale-green blade, mysterious and beautiful, and a peaceful calm washed over him.

Pray for us, now and in the hour of our death.

The blade lurched forward, but it seemed to catch on something.

Delbert. He had rushed forward and taken Numec by the elbow.

With a growl, Numec lifted the old man off his feet and tossed him aside. Then he pulled Peter down face first in the snow and pinned him there with a boot to the back of his neck.

Peter lay still, eyes closed, face masked in snow. All resistance drained away. It was just like in his dream, that undeniable calm, that crushing peace. A million memories flashed in his mind, the joys and the sorrows, the pain and the pleasure—all melded together in brilliant white light.

Then the light was broken, shattered by a crack of thunder somewhere in the sky.

Gone too was the boot on Peter's neck. He turned his face and opened his eyes just as Numec's green knife came fluttering down, settling softly in the snow. The man's body followed, shuddering the ground like a felled tree.

Peter scrambled to his feet, head swimming at what he saw. Jason Numec lay on his back, eyes closed, arms and legs splayed. A bloody stain spread swiftly through the blue fabric over his chest.

"Kunoo'o!" someone yelled.

Demi came sprinting up the ridge road with a rifle in hand. Davila limped behind her.

"Kunoo'o!" She ran to her grandfather's side, dropping her rifle. Kneeling beside him, she cradled his bloodied head in her hands. "Wake up! It's me!"

Delbert's eyes flickered open, and he smiled at her. She took out a bandana and pressed it to the bleeding gash on his forehead. "I saw you riding in that car. You were scared."

The entire mountain began to spin, and Peter dropped on all fours.

Demi looked over at Numec's body, tears streaming down her brown cheeks. "What happened? What did I do?"

Delbert laid his hand on hers. "No. Shh. You did right."

Davila approached the body warily, pistol ready. She nudged it with her boot. Then she knelt in the snow and felt Numec's throat for a pulse. Slowly her fingers trailed down to the collar of his blue garment, and she looked to Peter, mouth agape. "I've seen this material before."

Peter came upright, hands on knees. "It has to be some sort of bulletproof material. I shot him at point-blank range." Then he turned to Demi. "But you were fifty yards away, at least."

"Is it a Ghost Shirt?" Demi asked her grandfather.

He did not answer.

Davila shook her head. "This has to be some sort of light ballistic material. It was able to stop the diffuse energy of a shotgun blast but not the concentrated force of a high-powered rifle bullet." She looked over at Demi. "That was an incredible shot."

Demi's broad mouth hitched into a crooked smile. With her fingers, she made a trembling peace sign and pointed at her bleary eyes, just like she had that night on the river, that playful jest, pretending to see Peter's tiny dry fly from way up on the rocks. But there was no joking now. Maybe there never was. Maybe her eyes really could see that far. Maybe she could see what others could not.

Then she buried her face in her grandfather's chest and wept.

______________