“I guess I’m figurin’ now.”

Midge wrote in her ledger and examined the truck bed. “Maybe what we’re lookin’ at here is a drug deal gone wrong. You think?”

“Maybe. Or maybe somethin’ else.”

That empty gas gauge bothered him. He squatted and looked at the tank. “Somebody shot at this truck. That’s from a rifle, by the look of it.”

“Shot truck might mean a shot driver,” Midge said.

Doyle stood. He did not like the look of this mess.

“Where do you figure the driver went?” Midge asked.

“No idea. Coulda called someone for all we know.”

He crouched by the driver’s-side door and studied the ground. The new snow was perhaps three inches deep. No footprints left. He brushed at the snow with his fingertips and uncovered a patch stained crimson. He took a crouched step and found another splotch.

Midge had followed and stood behind him. “There might not’ve been a call.”

“That’s possible.”

“The driver might’ve just walked away.”

Doyle studied the snow. “If he did, I doubt he got far.”

He straightened and turned slowly, scanning the frozen terrain. Barren fields. A stiff crop below the snow. He was thinking about Jack Dahl. He hoped that boy wasn’t lying dead out there. He seemed like a good kid. The little brother too.

A wind came up, and Midge pushed her hat down. “Storm’s comin’.”

Doyle nodded. The sun was already setting. Soon it would be dark.

“You head back to town,” he told Midge. “Get a map of all the houses in a ten-mile radius. We’ll start at first light.”

“Will do.”

“And call Boise. Ask for the DEA,” Doyle said. “We’re gonna need help.”

He got in his truck and watched Midge drive toward town. Then he just sat for a moment. Restless out here. Unsettled. He’d gotten this feeling before. Trying to figure out what might be headed toward him. Trying to head it off.

He reached over and opened the console and got the flashlight. Quiet except for the wind. He could smell the storm coming. He got out of the truck and put the flashlight in his hip pocket and looked across the countryside. Okay. You’re hurt. You’re scared. And somebody’s comin’ for you. Where you gonna go?

He buttoned up his coat.

Then he started walking.

XXI

If it looks like Jack’s world is falling around him, just wait.

It’s about to get worse.

Bardem sat parked with the window down, three miles away from the abandoned truck. He watched the sheriff. Cold air blowing in off the hills. Snow starting. The sheriff looked to be searching the field.

He ate a little bag of dried apples. He drank coffee from a thermos. All this time, he watched the sheriff. The abandoned Bronco looked like something you would expect some drug runners to drive. He sat thinking.