“Code? Gate? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Do you want me to close the trunk again? I’ll keep it shut a lot longer. Maybe the next time you’ll do something else in your pants. Or would you rather see your sister?”

“My sister. Oh, I want to see my sister for sure. The stupid skank.”

“Your happy reunion isn’t going to occur unless you tell me the code to open the gate.”

Nick recited four numbers.

He pressed them on the pad and heard a whir.

The gate started to open.

He returned to Nick and told him, “Bye for now.”

He shut the trunk, hopped into the car, and drove through the open gate. In the rearview mirror, he saw it closing behind him. The lane continued through the forest for quite a while. Then Simon rounded a curve and abruptly came to a large clearing. Beyond a gravel parking area stood a two-story log house. A few small buildings sat next to a swimming pool that had been covered for the winter. A bermed area contained a shooting range with metal silhouettes of human-shaped targets.

A drab van was parked in front of the house.

The front door hung open, suggesting that someone had entered or left in a hurry. He stepped out of the car and drew the pistol that he’d taken from the FBI agent. Ignoring the rain, he scanned the clearing. He didn’t dare call Liz’s name, lest his voice attract whoever had been holding her captive.

He took a step toward the lodge.

Movement attracted his attention to the far side of the clearing.

A figure emerged from the trees, staggering.

Whoever it was held a spear and was covered with mud so thick that the rain hadn’t dissolved it. The figure stumbled across the gravel and Simon saw blood on the right arm—and a suggestion of yellow on the figure’s legs.

Liz’s jogging suit was yellow.

He started to run toward her, only to be stopped by a gunshot and a bullet that tore up gravel in front of him. He spun toward the lodge’s porch where a tall woman, with long blond hair and Slavic features, aimed a pistol at him. She wore a beige pantsuit and a brown suede jacket.

“Drop the gun,” she told him.

He obeyed. “Marta?”

“Where the hell is Nick?”

“In the trunk.”

“Alive?”

“How else would I be able to exchange him for Liz?”

“Show me.”

At the edge of his vision, Simon was aware of Liz’s grotesque mud-covered figure continuing to stumble across the gravel. She dropped to one knee, then planted the blunt edge of the spear into the gravel and used it to draw herself up.

“Never mind about her,” Marta said, stepping closer with the gun. “Show me that Nick’s alive.”

He pressed the key fob and opened the trunk.

Peering in, he told Nick, “Your sister’s asking for you.”

Nick said something caustically angry in Russian.

He dragged him out and propped him on his feet. With legs taped together, the man had trouble standing.