“I agree, but maybe not the way you mean it. A lot of people, mostly women, are attracted to damaged individuals. The more damage, the better. They get involved with criminals, drug addicts. They want to fix somebody. It’s a horrible basis for a relationship, but not that unusual. I see it every day at the clinic. Maybe that’s what was going on with Kim and Robby Meese—until she found the strength and sanity to get him out of her life.”

With his detailed route directions in hand, Gurney left shortly after sunrise for Lake Sorrow. The drive through the Catskill foothills and rolling Schoharie farmlands up into the Adirondacks was a journey into discomfiting memories. Memories of preteen vacations at Brant Lake with his mother at the height of her emotional estrangement from his father. An estrangement that left her needy, anxious, and physically clingy. Even now, close to forty years later, the memories cast an unsettling pall.

As he drove farther north, the pitch of the mountain slopes increased, the valleys narrowed, and the shadows deepened. According to the instructions he’d been given by Trout’s assistant, the last road he’d be taking with any posted identification would be Shutter Spur. From that point on, he’d have to rely on precise odometer readings to make the proper turns in a maze of old logging roads. The forest was part of a vast private landholding in which there were only a few seasonal cabins, no stores, no gas stations, no people, and major gaps in cell service.

The AWD system on Gurney’s Outback was barely adequate to negotiate the terrain. After the fifth turn, which his instructions indicated would take him directly to Trout’s cabin, he found himself instead in a small clearing.

He got out of the car and walked around the perimeter. There were four rough trails leading from the clearing into the forest in various directions, but no way of telling which one he was supposed to take. It was 8:58 A.M.—just two minutes shy of his projected arrival time.

He was sure he’d followed all the instructions accurately and reasonably sure that the punctilious-sounding man on the phone was not likely to have made a mistake. That left a couple of possible explanations, but only one he considered probable.

He returned to his car, got in, opened the side window for a bit of fresh air, reclined the seat as far as it would go, lay back, and closed his eyes. Every so often he checked the time. At nine-fifteen he heard the engine of an approaching vehicle. It stopped not far away.

When the expected knock came, he opened his eyes, yawned, raised his seat, and lowered the window. The man standing there had a lean, hard appearance, with sharp brown eyes and close-cropped black hair.

“You David Gurney?”

“You expecting anyone else?”