Coming out of the house were Red and three men. One of them younger. Black hair. Bardem lowered the bipod legs of the rifle from the forearm onto the ground, pointing the barrel at the figures in the distance. He lay behind the rifle, prone, and nestled the stock into the pocket of his shoulder. Sighting with the scope. Breathing softly, he pushed off the safety.

Jack Dahl was not with Red.

The first hollow point took a second to get there, and the sound took about twice as long. He inhaled softly and pulled the men back into the scope. They were standing, looking between them at the dead dog on the ground. Then they bolted for the house. The high whang of the rifleshot percussing back across the open snow. Bardem’s second bullet tore through the old man’s top hat and whiffed it off his head.

Bardem retraced his steps to the Land Rover and left.

Doyle pulled onto the snow-topped shoulder behind Midge’s police unit and shut off the engine and got out. He walked along the edge of the road, studying the abandoned truck: a rebuilt Bronco with a lifted suspension and off-road tires. “Looks like we got ourselves a regular war wagon here.”

“Yessir,” said Midge. “A real road warrior. I ain’t touched inside.”

“You know this truck?”

“Never seen it ’fore today.”

“Me either. Seems a memorable type.”

“I’d say.”

He nodded at the plates. “I guess you ran these.”

“Yup. Plates don’t match.”

“Well. Let’s have a look.”

He put on gloves and opened the door on the driver’s side and eyed the seat. Thick smears of blood, partly dried. The whole steering wheel was caked with it. Keys in the ignition. He reached into the truck and turned the key. The needle of the gas gauge pointed to empty. “Somebody had a bad day.”

“A bad night too, is my guess.”

He glanced at her.

“Folks who called it in live down the road,” Midge said. “Figured they seen this truck here for about a day now.”

“A day.”

“That’d put it the day after Frisby turned up dead.”

Doyle nodded. “That’d put it.”

He folded the seat forward and checked the floor. A couple brass shells. Nine millimeters. Some .45 ACP casings under the seat. He closed the door. There was blood on the side of the truck. A dried thumbprint.

“You figure this’s got to do with Frisby?” Midge asked.

“I don’t figure anythin’ yet.”

He folded the seat forward. A plastic blue tarp covered the cargo space in the rear. He pulled it back. There was a thin layer of whitish dust on the bed. Top to bottom. He ran his glove along the truck bed and held it to the sun.

“I do believe there’s been some meth in the back of this truck.”

Midge’s eyebrows lifted. “How’d you know that?”