The fastest way to the plant, Hank had said as they sped off, was to get to the river and ride it right down to the heart of the place. What they might find there, well, that was anybody’s guess. David prayed they would find his wife and daughter. Of course, that also meant they would have a run-in with a raving lunatic who probably thought he was still buried in the depths of the Vietnam jungle. The last few hours had forced him to think about many things. It would be hard to keep himself together long enough to face the man. By that time, maybe he’d just join the guy and together they’d lock arms and skip straight to the loony farm.

No. I won’t let that happen. I’ll kill him.

He suddenly saw his daughter in a dark and hideous place filled with damp wood and looming shadows. The image was only there a fraction of a second, and then it floated away. He tried to grasp it again, his mind feeling about in the darkness, but it was gone.

It had been clearer than anything he had ever imagined. In fact, it had been more than imagination—it was as if someone had opened his skull and painted it on the inside, then erased it with a flip of the brush. Black paint on a dark canvas. He wasn’t sure what it all meant, but he knew something: he could recognize that place. And his daughter was there.

How the hell do I know that?

He struggled with this new possibility. Does it really matter? If it leads me to her, does it really matter?

Hank slowed the snowmobile down, the engine idling to a choking growl. David saw the river to his right, a faint opening in the woods through the swirling snow. It would be easy to reach the level of the ice; the shoulder sloped gently down for about twenty feet to the river’s edge, and the fresh powder looked soft and smooth. There was a wide-open path between the beginning of the bridge and the trees. The wind had died a little, though he couldn’t tell for sure if that was due to their reduced speed or the storm losing strength.