He took his coffee into the den, sat at the desk, and contemplated the uncertainties of the situation he’d be walking into that night, alone and largely unprepared, in Max Clinter’s cabin.

Then a new thought—a new worry—came out of nowhere. He left his coffee in the den and went out to Madeleine’s car.

Twenty minutes later he came back in, satisfied that his sudden fear was groundless and that her car was free of any unwanted electronic devices.

“What was that little trip all about?” she asked, peering at him over the top of her book as he passed through the kitchen on his way back to the den.

He decided he had no better option than to tell the truth. He told her what he’d been looking for and why—describing the discoveries he’d made on Kim’s car as well as his own.

“Who do you think is responsible?” Her tone was even, but there was a tightness at the corners of her eyes.

“I’m not sure.” The answer was technically true, but evasive.

“That Meese character?” she suggested, almost hopefully.

“Possibly.”

“Or possibly the person who set fire to our barn? And booby-trapped Kim’s stairs?”

“Possibly.”

“Possibly the Good Shepherd himself?”

“Possibly.”

She took a long, slow breath. “Does that mean he’s been following you?”

“Not necessarily. Certainly not closely. I would have noticed. He may just want to know where I am.”

“Why would he want to know that?”

“Risk management. Feeling of control. Natural desire to know where your enemy is at all times.”

She stared at him, her mouth compressed into a straight line. It was plain that she could see another, more violent use for the information.

He was about to allay some of her fear by explaining that he’d already disconnected the tracker he’d found on his Outback, but he realized that would lead to the troublesome question of why he hadn’t also disconnected the one on the Miata.

The answer, in reality, was simple. The Shepherd might believe that the battery version had run out of power, but it would strain credibility to have the hardwired version fail simultaneously. Gurney was reluctant to tell Madeleine this, however, because he knew how upset she’d be at the Shepherd’s ability to track Kim for even one more day. There was a limit to how many conflicts he could deal with at once, and some triage was essential.

“So, Dad, are you going to tell us how it went?”

At the sound of Kyle’s voice, Gurney turned to see his son entering the kitchen barefoot in jeans and a T-shirt, his hair wet from the shower.

“Pretty much like I said last night.”

“Last night you didn’t really say much at all.”