“You need to leave your car here and come up in the ATV.” He gestured toward a camouflage-painted Kawasaki Mule.

“You didn’t mention this to me on the phone.”

The man’s eyelids twitched. Maybe he didn’t expect his voice to be so easily recognized. “The direct route isn’t passable at the current time.”

Gurney smiled. He followed the man to the ATV and got into the passenger seat. “You know what I’d be tempted to do if I had a place up here? Every once in a while, I might be tempted play a little game with one of my guests. Make him think he was lost, maybe missed a turn, see if he’d panic—you know, out in the middle of nowhere with no cell coverage. Because if he screwed up on his way in, he wouldn’t be able to find his way out, would he? Always fun to see who panics and who doesn’t in a situation like that. Know what I mean?”

The man’s jaw tightened. “Can’t say that I do.”

“Of course not. How could you? For someone to appreciate what I’m talking about, he’d have to be a real control freak.”

Three minutes later—a jouncy half mile up and down a rocky trail, during which the man’s angry gaze never left the treacherous terrain—they arrived at a chain-link fence with a sliding gate that opened as they approached it.

Inside the fence the trail faded into a broad bed of pine needles. Then, quite suddenly through the trees, the “cabin” appeared in front of them. It was a two-story structure in the modified Swiss-chalet style of some traditional Adirondack camps—rustic log construction with recessed porches, green doors and window trim, and a green shingle roof. The façade was so dark, and the porch in so much shadow, that it wasn’t until the ATV pulled up to the front steps that Gurney saw Agent Trout—or the man he presumed to be Agent Trout—standing proprietarily in the center of the dismal porch, feet planted wide apart. He held a large Doberman on a short black leash. Accidentally or purposely, the arrogant pose and the imposing guard dog made Gurney think of a prison-camp commandant.

“Welcome to Lake Sorrow.” The voice, emotionless and bureaucratic, conveyed no hint of welcome. “I’m Matthew Trout.”

The few rays of sunlight that penetrated the huge pines were far apart and thin as icicles. The evergreen scent in the air was powerful. The low, persistent sound of an internal-combustion engine, most likely a generator, came from the direction of an outbuilding off to the right of the main house.

“Nice spot you have here.”

“Yes. Please come inside.” Trout issued a sharp command, the Doberman turned around, and together they preceded Gurney into the house.