The room appeared to be some kind of infirmary. An air of abandonment hung over all—the gurney and the long, tall counter covered with dusty equipment, burners and beakers and chrome basins, tarnished with age; a tray of syringes, still sealed in plastic, and resting on a long, rust-stained shawl of fabric, a line of metal probes and scalpels. At the back of the room, in a nest of conduits, was what appeared to be a battery stack.

If you found her, bring her here.

Here, Peter thought. Not just the mountain, but here. This room.

What was here?

Lacey had stepped to a steel case, like a wardrobe, bolted to the wall. On its face was a handle and, beside this, a keypad. He watched as the woman punched in a long series of numbers, then turned the handle with a thunk.

He thought at first the case was empty. Then he saw, resting on the bottom shelf, a metal box. Lacey removed it and passed it to him.

The box, small enough to fit in one hand, was surprisingly light. It appeared to have no seams at all, but there was a latch, with a tiny button beside it that perfectly fit his thumb. Peter pressed it; at once the box separated into two perfectly formed halves. Inside, cradled in foam, lay two rows of tiny glass vials, containing a shimmering green liquid. He counted eleven; a twelfth compartment was empty.

“It is the last virus,” said Lacey. “The one he gave to Amy. He made it from her blood.”

He searched her face to see the truth registered there. But he already knew the truth; more than that, he felt the truth.

“The empty one. That’s you, isn’t it? The one Lear gave you.”

Lacey nodded. “I believe that it is.”

He closed the lid, which sealed with a solid click. He slid off his backpack and pulled out a blanket, which he used to wrap the box, then placed it all inside. From the counter he retrieved a handful of the sealed syringes and put these in the pack as well. Their best chance was to make it through till dawn, then get down the mountain. After that, he didn’t know. He turned to Amy.

“How long do we have?”

She shook her head: not long. “He’s close.”

“Can he get through that door, Lacey?”

The woman said nothing.

“Lacey?”

“It is my hope that he will,” she said.

They were in the field now, high above the river. Peter’s and Amy’s trail had disappeared, covered by the blowing snow. Alicia had ridden ahead. It should have been dawn by now, thought Michael. But all he saw was the same gray softening they’d been riding toward for what seemed like hours.

“So where the hell are they?” said Hollis.