Peavy abandoned the windows for the time being, moving into the center of the room. It was a luxurious living room, with leather couches, a Remington sculpture, some western landscapes on the wall. The hearth was stacked stones covered in a patina of black carbon surrounded by a wire-mesh spark screen. The hearth had the original wrought-iron hook for warming pots. Peavy stopped on an enormous sheepskin rug that was covered by a tan pelt of some four-legged creature that, without its head, was impossible for Walt to identify.

“I heard about Randy. He’s come over here for us as well. I assume your questions about Mark, being that it’s you asking and you’re a long way from home, must have something to do with that tragedy. I don’t know what it is exactly that you’re asking me, Walt. Mark’s visits to my neighbors is news to me. Maybe we all got a bad batch of vaccine or something. Maybe it’s something contagious I have yet to hear about. I just don’t know. I’ll ask my boys and I’ll get back to you. That’s the best I can offer.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

“I’m serious about helping out your campaign.”

“Much appreciated.”

Lingering on Walt’s tongue was a question about the quality of the senator’s water supply. He kept that to himself for now.

Peavy stepped closer to shake Walt’s hand. He had a firm grip, for an older guy, and he looked Walt in the eye. Walt sensed he was about to say something as well. They shook hands for a little longer than was comfortable. If that was supposed to communicate something to Walt, he missed it. Gail would be the first to tell anyone who would listen that Walt’s communications skills were lacking.

Peavy opened his mouth. Once again, Walt expected him to say something. The senator shook his head, more of a twitch than anything else, and exhaled deeply.

What? Walt wanted to ask.

But his host left him guessing, as he ushered Walt to the door and saw him off.

Brandon was tromping through the snow, making his way back toward the farmhouse. He picked up his pace when he saw Walt waiting by the Cherokee. The house was a mile behind them before Brandon broke the silence of the car’s interior.

“There are five automatic waterers in that field, all over by the hay shed, in the southwest corner.” He paused to adjust his arm in the sling, which Walt thought was more for dramatic effect than anything else. “Not one of ’em’s working.”

“Not working or not turned on?”

“Dry. And the same’s true of three more over by one of the barns. I tried to get into that barn to check the stalls, but a Mexican basically kept me out, saying, ‘Mr. Jim. Mr. Jim.’ Meaning Peavy, I assumed. I passed a stop and waste on the way back. Get this: locked.”

“The stop-and-waste valve was locked,” Walt repeated. A stop and waste was a freestanding water spigot that ran year-round.

“You’ve been in Idaho ten times longer than I have, Sheriff, but I’ve never, ever-not once-seen one of those locked. For one thing, that’s about the only absolutely guaranteed water in winter, in case of fire, since those things never freeze.”

“The senator skillfully avoided lying,” Walt said, his hands gripping the wheel more tightly.

Far in the distance, but presumably still on Peavy’s ranch, rose a charcoal gray plume of smoke. Probably ranch hands burning off slash, thought Walt. Winter snow made for the safest time to set such fires. It looked beautiful in the slanting afternoon light, lifting and coiling into the blue sky.

“Damn!” Brandon said, rolling down his window. “That’s that same funky smell.”

Walt sniffed the air and knew Brandon was right: a sour, bitter stench. Memorable. He turned the wheel. The car skidded on the snow floor. He backed around in a three-point turn and headed for the fire, stopped ten minutes later by an unplowed road. Brandon consulted the topo map: the road they traveled showed on the map as dirt. It went unplowed in winter.

Brandon ’s thick finger traced a second road-also marked as dirt- that accessed that same area from Peavy’s ranch.

The stench was noticeably stronger there, at the end of the road, the connection to the fire inevitable though unconfirmed.

The two men got out of the car and climbed the snowbank. Walt slipped his hands into his pockets to fight the cold. Brandon tried to warm the fingers that protruded from the sling.

A sign on a fence warned PRIVATE PROPERTY, NO HUNTING, NO TRESPASSING.

“The senator couldn’t keep his eyes off you the whole time you were out in his field.”

“What was that about?”

“He kept what he told me very controlled, but I was much more interested in watching him.”

“What’s this about, Sheriff? You think it’s something to do with the water? That makes the most sense, right?”

“Makes the most sense,” Walt agreed.

“You think we’re going to find Aker? Alive, I mean?”

“We sure as hell better.”

“You think he’s over here somewhere?”

“I haven’t the slightest.”

“You think the senator knows?”

“No. For whatever reason, I doubt that. I didn’t get any sense of that.”

“But he’s involved.” It was a statement.

“He basically offered to single-handedly pay for my reelection,” Walt said, taking his hands out and rubbing them together vigorously. “He’s definitely involved.” Walt turned around and looked back over the vast expanse of the valley, stunning in its emptiness. A neighbor might see such a fire, but he’d never smell it, not given the distances between ranches. “There’s something connecting the three ranches. Mark knew what it was and it got him kidnapped. Got his brother killed.” He headed back to the car. “You hungry?”

“I could eat a horse,” Brandon said.

FRIDAY

29

“ARE YOU GOING TO COME INSIDE OR JUST SIT OUT THERE all night?” Walt held the phone pressed to his ear while staring out his front window at Fiona’s Subaru.

During the long silence that followed, Walt could imagine her backing out and driving away, trying to pretend she hadn’t been parked out there for nearly twenty minutes. Nearly two days had passed since the drive to the Pahsimeroi. With Mark Aker still missing, it might as well have been a month for Walt. He battled the fatigue of twenty-one-hour days while trying to maintain a father’s patience for the sake of the girls. He’d put them to bed after twenty minutes of reading, during which he’d fallen asleep, not them. They’d tickled him awake. He told them a bear story and then turned off the light.

He slogged through his daily paperwork and meetings while exhausting every resource in his bid to find Mark Aker alive. Predictably, the Challis-led investigation into Brandon ’s shooting had produced nothing; if Brandon had died up there, with their history, Walt might have been accused of it. Francine Aker had failed to surface. The lab was taking its sweet time, as always.

The car arriving at his house, and just sitting there, had immediately won his attention, the midnight visit to his back porch still kept firmly in mind. But with the Subaru out front identified as Fiona’s, he’d given her a liberal amount of time before calling her.

He heard footsteps approach the front door, and he put away the phone. He greeted her and invited her inside. She stood by the open fire, warming her backside. He studied her body, in silhouette against the fire, his first unhurried appraisal of her. Despite all the time they’d worked together, only now did he really see her narrow hips, athletically lean figure, and the muscular curve of her backside.

“Sorry,” she said.

“For?”

“Sitting out there.”

“No charge for parking.” A pause. He added, “I’m terrible at jokes.”