Sometimes a blonde was just a blonde.

Beyond the boundaries of the blurry yellow light thrown by the rest stop’s floodlights was vast darkness: no cloud cover, no light from the city. The Gorge sky was filled with stars. An unyielding dry breeze moved through the trees, and the brown grass crunched under Archie’s feet. You never had to mow your lawn in August in Portland, unless you watered it. Two months ago, the grass had still been green.

“Everything’s dead,” Archie said to Henry. Henry was wearing black jeans, a black T-shirt, cowboy boots, and a black leather jacket. But Henry was a step ahead and didn’t hear him. Archie ducked under the tape and followed Henry into the rest-stop bathroom.

A flash went off. Archie blinked, momentarily blinded. As his eyes refocused he saw a state trooper with a big digital camera. The trooper was in his late twenties, Archie guessed, his dark hair receding prematurely above each temple, his face a little doughy. But he had even features and straight teeth and the build of an ex-jock, and the silver, five-point badge pinned to his chest was polished to a high sheen. The state-trooper uniform was ridiculous—the big hat, the epaulets, the blue pants with light-blue stripes down the sides; they looked like park rangers who’d lost a fight with a blueberry. But this guy wore it well. He almost looked like a real cop. The trooper looked up and lifted his thick eyebrows at Archie. “Hey,” the trooper said. “Hey, it’s you.”

Archie tried to force his mouth into a friendly smile. It had been like that since Gretchen had taken him captive, this sort of morbid celebrity. There had been a paperback bestseller, The Last Victim, about his kidnapping, and a TV movie. Gretchen’s escape from prison and their subsequent second run-in had only made it worse.

“Let him look around,” Henry told the trooper.

A leathery-skinned man dressed for a day hike stood by the sink.

“Can I go now?” he asked Henry.

“A few more minutes,” Henry said.