He stepped out of the Land Rover and hooked the police scanner onto his belt. He slung the Winchester Model 70 bolt-action rifle over his shoulder with the leather sling. It carried his own refinements: a re-machined receiver belly, bolt face, new pins in the trigger, and bolt stop to remove play. A Leupold Mark 4 LR/T scope on steel rings. The rifle was chambered in .30-06 and would shoot less than a vertical minute of angle with 168 grain bullets at a thousand yards.

When he got to a stand of aspens, he squatted and studied the house through the binoculars. Front door, possible exit out the rear. Location of windows. A skinned deer twirled with a fatty glimmer from a side tree. Crossing the yard was a dog.

In his coat pocket, his cell phone quivered. He looked at the screen and pushed the button. “You were supposed to call last night.”

“I’m sorry. I got caught up doing homework.”

Bardem waited.

“Are you there?” Ava asked.

“Yes. I thought you might have more to say. A better explanation.”

She didn’t answer. Then she said, “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to say you’re sorry. You have to do what you say you’ll do.”

“I know.”

“You have rules because I want to keep you safe.”

“I know.”

Bardem looked through the binoculars. Snow had been shoveled off the porch that morning.

No movement.

“Sara asked if I can stay with her another night,” Ava said. “Her mom’s here. We’re just doing homework and watching movies.”

Bardem leaned back on his heels, studying the house. “Sara’s mother is divorced?”

“Yes.”

“Does Sara have brothers?”

“No. I told you already.”

“I always want to know where you are.”

“I know. I know how much you worry.”

“You are my daughter.”

He heard the engine before he saw the Ford F-150 rumble into view. Black, dealer plates. He huddled down, cradling the rifle at his waist, and glassed the truck as it passed. Two men in the cab.

“Okay,” he said. “I want you to answer your phone if I call.”

“I will.”

He pressed the off button and glassed the truck as it rolled up to Red’s house. The men got out. No Jack Dahl. They knocked at the door, and a blond woman let them in.

He turned the police scanner on low and sat listening. He ate an orange. An hour became two.

The transmission came through just as the front door of the house opened. Something about an abandoned vehicle. He reached down and turned up the volume. The vehicle was a four-wheel-drive truck. Blood found in the cab.