He made his way to the Vault, cocked back in his chair at his L-shaped desk, and reread every last word of the printouts he’d taken from Jack’s cabin. They contained the starting points of the investigation into René Cassaroy, the trails the FBI was currently running down. The crime-scene photographs taken at the chalet seemed less useful, capturing the aftermath of the bizarre events. Bullet-riddled basement lab. Barn with two G-Wagons and a blue wrestling mat. Files spread across the Pakistani rug of the fourth-floor study, each one sporting a bright yellow evidence and property tag.

Evan set the papers to the side. It made no sense for him to follow the same tracks the FBI was. They had more resources and would be too far ahead. The question was, what did he know that the FBI didn’t?

He started with René’s escape. Jack had mentioned that the Bureau was looking into helicopter flight logs, so either the agents were on René’s heels already or he’d covered his tracks. René didn’t have to go in any one specified direction, which made it harder to—

Evan stopped, excitement pulsing in his chest.

Dex.

Severed hand, lifted out by helicopter.

His destination would have been set. A hospital. Not just a hospital—a hospital with a department of surgery and a helipad.

The FBI had no idea what had gone down in the ballroom, so they wouldn’t know to search for a patient missing a hand.

A quick Google spin gave Evan only three contenders within a helicopter tank’s distance of Chalet Savoir Faire.

To the databases. Whenever Evan did break-ins from his computers in the Vault, he went through a string of anonymous proxies, remote services that allowed him to go in with one IP address and come out with another. He routed through Shanghai, then Johannesburg, bounced between a triptych of Scandinavian countries, then popped through Colombia and Moldova for good measure.

He was ready to attack. Most hospitals relied on the Epic medical-records system, which Evan knew well. In no time he’d jimmied a few virtual back doors.

The second hospital rang the cherries. A six-foot-five male, 290 pounds, with a severed left hand had been admitted at 1:47 P.M. on Sunday, October 23. Name given: Jonathan Dough.

Heh.

The record noted that the patient did not—or would not—speak. He’d been seen immediately by a vascular surgeon and taken directly to the OR. He’d checked out early the next morning against medical advice. Payment had been made in cash.

Evan scanned the discharge forms. Most of the personal information had been left blank. But there at the bottom, a phone number was given.

Why would Dex, a mute, have a cell phone?

Already Evan was reaching for his RoamZone.

He dialed. It rang. And again.

A click as someone picked up. A heavy breath came across the receiver.

“René Cassaroy,” Evan said.