Evan awakened the next morning to an empty cabin. He felt less groggy. After dressing in some of Jack’s clothes that he found in the closet, he went over to the stretch of counter that passed for a kitchen and made himself oatmeal. He was still stirring the bowl when Jack stepped in from outside, snapping down the stubby antenna of a satphone.

“René Peter Cassaroy,” Jack said.

“That’s quite a name.”

Jack flicked his head at a stack of printouts on the kitchen table. “He’s got quite a lineage.” He ducked out of his scarf, slung it on the coatrack. “He’s in the wind.”

Evan crossed to the table, flipped through the reports, all of them stamped CLASSIFIED. Most were from the FBI, which looked to be running point on the investigation. Evan suspected that the IRS docs would prove most valuable. A few scanned crime-scene photos had been printed out as well. The barn. The basement lab. The erupted ballroom. It seemed from another lifetime.

“The fingerprint cracked things open, sped up the investigation. The Bureau is piecing together a RICO case on top of murder, kidnapping—the usual suspects. Cassaroy paid top dollar to rent gunmen from the Sinaloa Cartel, as you know. A few young men and women have gone missing from the neighboring counties, and there are some bizarre assault claims floating around as well. The agents found similar groupings of disappearances and complaints near the last several mansions Cassaroy rented—Albuquerque, Cabo San Lucas, Brussels.” Jack tugged off his jacket, heaped it atop the rack. “They’ve got meticulously maintained financial and medical files for the victims, helicopter flight logs, and a dead disreputable hematologist—Dr. Franklin? But no René Peter Cassaroy. He’s vanished.”

Evan sat down with his oatmeal over the stack of printouts. “I’ll find him.”

“If you do, Van Sciver will be waiting. Like you said, he’s already shown he can track René. He cracked his encryption once, he’ll do it again.” Jack shook off his boots. “He’ll spring a trap on you.”

“I’ll spring a trap on his trap.”

Jack settled into the chair opposite. He always sat still so as to limit any information given up by nonverbal tells. As a kid Evan had learned the same from him and from an interrogation specialist who’d rapped his knuckles with a metal file every time he made a hand gesture. He and Jack faced each other now, paralyzed grand masters contemplating their next move.

“How did you get out of that parking structure?” Evan asked.

“I stumbled from the rear stairwell right after you. I had a man in the area. He picked me up half dead, got me to an old friend at Walter Reed. I woke up stitched back together.”