They fired up the snowmobiles and drove out into the trees, headlights glaring and bouncing off the snow and into the night. Showing the path of Bardem’s sled track. Midge mounted the remaining snowmobile behind Doyle’s. “Nice speech. That was real inspirational.”

“Smart-ass.”

They headed upward.

“Let’s go get this rat bastard,” he shouted over the noise of the engine.

“Now you’re talkin’ English.”

Beyond the trees and across the snow, Jack and Ava could see the shape of the cabin. Gray boards hewn of wood and the pitch of a timber roof. A brief light in the window. Strange and silent. Shrouded in the fog. The light was a fire. Jack could smell the smoke. He steadied himself and tried to observe his surroundings. His shoulder tingling in hot needle pricks. Ava stood with the briefcase, watching him.

“Stay close to me,” she said.

The sled tracks led off behind the cabin, but Ava cut a perimeter inside the shelter of trees and approached slowly from the side. Across the porch. No marks in the snow at the door. They went to the window and looked in.

“There’s no one here.”

She put a finger to her lips. “Listen.”

But there was nothing. The wind stirring in the pines. A distant creak of wood.

“We shouldn’t go in.”

“We have to,” he said. “We’re freezing.”

“I don’t think we should yet.”

“We’ve got to find Matty.”

“Let’s just stop and watch for a minute.”

“It’s going to be okay. Come on.”

He took the hammer from his belt in one hand and tried the doorknob with the other. It swung open with a groan. Like a bear waking out of hibernation. They stood and listened. In the hearth a fire hissed softly, the flames lighting up the walls. The darkened glass of the window. Jack knew he should think about that fire, and what it meant. Ava hadn’t moved. They stepped into the small room. Creak of floorboards. Smell of meat cooking. To the left were a table and a chair. The bed was made neatly. A wardrobe chest. Across the room was a handmade kitchen counter, and on the cutting board—three potatoes. Carrots, celery. An open mason jar. On the cookstove, a pot boiled.

“Stay close to me,” she said again.

He opened a door leading into a bathroom. Tiled shower, folded white towel. A metal sink. All of it spartan. Precise. Faint earthy smell. Like shaving oil. He went back to the main space, but there were no other adjoining rooms.

“Matty?” he said.

Nothing.