When I stepped from the Jeep, I felt a cold blast that sent a shiver through me. I made my way to the squawk box mounted beside the gate and pressed the red button under the keypad.

“Yeah?” The voice came through the speaker so suddenly I almost jumped.

A camera was surely watching me from a place of concealment. “Mr. Jewett?”

“Yeah?”

“My name is Mike Bowditch. I’m an investigator with the Maine Warden Service. I wondered if you might have a few minutes to talk with me about your late neighbor, Eben Chamberlain.”

“You’re pulling my chain, right?”

“No, sir.”

“Eben drowned four years ago. The investigation was closed. How can there be any more questions?”

“It’s standard procedure to review old cases.”

“Like hell it is.” He paused long enough for me to hear a crow caw as it rode the wind overhead. “Now you’ve got me curious, though. Yeah, I’ll answer your damned questions. Give me a minute. I’m downcellar in my workshop, and I’d better clean up the C4 I’m making.”

Jewett had an odd sense of humor: joking about plastic explosives to a law-enforcement officer.

While I waited, I dug my hands in my pockets and surveyed the river. The ice reflected the weak sunlight like an antique mirror. Beautiful in all its imperfections.

After a while, I heard a buzz and the gate swung inward. I made my way up the plowed drive to the house. Jewett stood at the side door, waiting for me.

He was small enough to have been a jockey. Unblinking eyes glared up at me through black-framed glasses. His complexion was as gray as his hair.

“Would you like to see my badge?” I asked.

“Anyone with half an ounce of brains can recognize you as a LEO.”

By which he meant law-enforcement officer. Bruce Jewett was wise to the jargon we used.

“Would you mind if I came inside?”

“Why do you think I’m holding the door open?”

I stepped into a mudroom devoid of boots and coats. Just a bare bench and a row of naked hooks above it.

The door beeped when Jewett closed it behind me. Locks were engaged. Alarms were armed.

Mariëtte had described him as paranoid survivalist. Bibi had said he was preparing himself against the coming race wars.

To me, he appeared unremarkable. Like some former military men, he was fit for his age. I suspected the skinny old bird could do twenty pull-ups without taking a breather. He was dressed in a blue chambray shirt buttoned at the wrists and tucked into dark-wash dungarees; his black boots were polished, as was his belt, as was the holster holding a Glock 17 handgun. I had no doubt that the barrel of the weapon was polished, too.

“I was headed out to my range to do some shooting. Care to join me?”