“Thank you,” I sang merrily, sending the car lurching forward when the white bar rose. Through the rearview mirror I watched the guard go back inside. “Easy as pie,” I muttered.

“Getting out might be harder,” Jenks said dryly.

Up the drive was three miles through an eerie wood. My mood went subdued as the road wound between the close, silent sentinels. Despite the overpowering impression of age, I began to get the feeling that everything had been planned out, even to the surprises, like the waterfall I found around a bend in the road. Disappointed somehow, I continued on as the artificial woods thinned and turned into rolling pasture. A second road joined mine, well-traveled and busy. Apparently I had come in the back way. I followed the traffic, taking an offshoot labeled VISITORS PARKING. Rounding a turn in the road, I saw the Kalamack estate.

The huge fortress of a building was a curious mix of modern institution and traditional elegance, with glass doors and carved angels on the downspouts. Its gray rock was softened by old trees and bright flower beds. There were several low buildings attached to it, but the main one rose three stories up. I brought the car to a halt in one of the visitor parking spots. The sleek vehicle next to mine made Francis’s car look like a toy from the bottom of a cereal box.

Dropping Francis’s wad of keys into my bag, I eyed the gardener tending the bushes surrounding the lot. “Still want to split up?” I breathed as I primped in the rearview mirror, carefully picking out that knot I’d put in my hair. “I don’t like what happened at the front gate.”

Jenks flitted down onto the stick shift and stood with his hands on his hips in his Peter Pan pose. “Your interview runs the usual forty minutes?” he said. “I’ll be done in twenty. If I’m not here when you’re done, wait about a mile down from the gatehouse. I’ll catch up.”

“Sure,” I said as I tightened the string on my bag. The gardener was wearing shoes, not boots, and they were clean. What gardener has clean shoes? “Just be careful,” I said, nodding to the small man. “Something smells off.”

Jenks snickered. “The day I can’t elude a gardener is the day I become a baker.”

“Well, wish me luck.” I cracked the window for Jenks and got out. My heels clacked smartly as I went to take a peek at the back of Francis’s car. As Jenks had said, one of the taillights was broken. There was a nasty dent, too. I turned away with a flash of guilt. Taking a steadying breath, I strode up the shallow steps to the twin, double doors.

A man stepped from a recessed nook as I approached, and I jerked to a halt, startled. He was tall enough to need two looks to see all of him. And thin. He reminded me of a starving post-Turn refugee from Europe: prim, proper, and stuck-up. The man even had a hawklike nose and permanent frown cemented to his lightly wrinkled face. Gray brushed his temples, marring his otherwise coal black hair. His inconspicuous gray slacks and white business shirt fitted him perfectly, and I tugged my collar straight. “Ms. Francine Percy?” he said, his smile empty and his voice slightly sarcastic.