“I can tell you this much,” she said. “Maura’s no outdoors-woman. If you don’t find her soon, she’s not going to survive out there.”

“It’s been almost two weeks since she went missing. She’s managed to stay alive this long.”

“I don’t know how.”

“Maybe it’s because of the man she’s traveling with,” said Sheriff Fahey.

Jane looked at the mountain, where ravines were already darkening into shadow. In just the last few moments, as the sunlight had dipped below the peak, the temperature had plunged. Shivering in the cold, Jane wrapped her arms around herself and thought of a night spent unsheltered on that mountain, where the forest had claws, and the wind could always find you. A night with a man they knew nothing about.

What happens next may all depend on him.

“HIS FINGERPRINTS aren’t new to us,” said Sheriff Fahey, addressing the law enforcement officers and volunteers who filled the seats in the Pinedale Town Hall. “The state of Wyoming already has the prints on record. The perp’s name is Julian Henry Perkins, and he’s compiled quite a rap sheet.” Fahey read from his notes. “Auto theft. Breaking and entering. Vagrancy. Multiple charges of misdemeanor theft.” He looked around at his audience. “That’s who we’re dealing with. And we know he’s now armed and dangerous.”

Jane shook her head. “Maybe I’m a little jaded,” she called out from her seat in the third row. “But that doesn’t sound like much of a rap sheet for a cop-killer.”

“It is when you’re only sixteen years old.”

“This perp is a juvenile?”

Detective Pasternak said: “His fingerprints were all over the kitchen cabinets, as well as on the door of Deputy Martineau’s vehicle. We have to assume he was the individual whom Mr. Loftus saw on the scene.”

“Our office is familiar with the Perkins boy,” said Fahey. “We’ve picked him up numerous times for various infractions. What we can’t figure out is his connection to the woman.”

“His connection?” said Jane. “Maura’s his hostage!”

In the front row, Montgomery Loftus gave a snort. “Not what I saw.”

“What you thought you saw,” Jane countered.

The man turned and gave the three visitors from Boston a cold stare. “You people weren’t there.”

Fahey said, “Ma’am, we’ve known Monty all our lives. He’s not going to go making stuff up.”

Then maybe he needs glasses, Jane wanted to say, but she swallowed the retort. The three Boston visitors were outnumbered in this town hall, where dozens of locals had assembled for the briefing. The murder of a deputy had shocked the community, and volunteers had streamed in, eager to bring the killer to justice. Volunteers with guns and grim faces and righteous anger. Jane looked around at those faces and felt a premonitory chill. They’re spoiling for a kill, she thought. And it doesn’t matter that their quarry is a sixteen-year-old kid.

A woman suddenly called out from the back row. “Julian Perkins is just a boy! You can’t be serious about sending an armed posse after him.”

“He killed a deputy, Cathy,” said Fahey. “He’s not just a boy.”

“I know Julian better than any of you do. I have a hard time believing that he’d kill anyone.”

“Excuse me,” said Detective Pasternak. “I’m not from this county. Maybe you could introduce yourself, ma’am?”

The young woman stood, and Jane immediately recognized her. It was the social worker they’d met at the scene of the Circle B double homicide. “I’m Cathy Weiss, Sublette County Child Protective Services. I’ve been Julian’s caseworker for the past year.”

“And you don’t believe he could have killed Deputy Martineau?” said Pasternak.

“No, sir.”

“Cathy, look at his rap sheet,” said Fahey. “The kid’s no angel.”

“But he’s no monster. Julian is a victim. He’s a sixteen-year-old kid just trying to survive, in a world where nobody wants him.”

“Most kids manage to survive just fine without breaking into homes and stealing cars.”

“Most kids aren’t used and abused by cults.”

Fahey rolled his eyes. “Here we go again with that stuff.”

“I’ve warned you about The Gathering for years. Ever since they moved into this county and built their perfect little Stepford village. Now you’re seeing the result. This is what happens when you ignore the danger signs. When you look the other way while pedophiles operate right under your noses.”

“You have absolutely no proof. We’ve looked into the allegations. Bobby went up there three times, and all he found were hardworking families who just want to be left alone.”

“Left alone to abuse their children.”

“Can we get back to the business at hand?” a man shouted from the audience.

“Yeah, you’re wasting our time!”

“This is the business at hand,” said Cathy, looking around the town hall. “This is the boy you’re all so eager to hunt down. A kid who’s been crying out for help. And no one’s been listening.”

“Ms. Weiss,” said Detective Pasternak, “the search team needs all the information they can get before they set off tomorrow. You say you know Julian Perkins. Tell us what to expect from this boy. He’s out there on a bitterly cold night, with a woman who may be a hostage. Is he even capable of surviving?”

“Absolutely,” she said.

“You’re that sure of it?”

“Because he’s the grandson of Absolem Perkins.”

There was a murmur of recognition in the room, and Detective Pasternak looked around, puzzled. “I’m sorry. Is that significant?”

“You’d know the name if you grew up in Sublette County,” said Montgomery Loftus. “Backwoods man. Built his own cabin, lived up in the Bridger-Teton Mountains. I used to catch him hunting near my property.”

“Julian spent most of his childhood up there,” said Cathy. “With a grandfather who taught him how to forage. How to stay alive in the wilderness with only an ax and his wits. So yes, he could survive.”

“What’s he doing up in the mountains, anyway?” asked Jane. “Why isn’t he in school?” She didn’t think it was a stupid question, but she heard laughter ripple through the hall.

“The Perkins kid, in school?” Fahey shook his head. “That’s like trying to teach higher mathematics to a mule.”

“I’m afraid Julian had a hard time living here in town,” said Cathy. “He was picked on a lot in school. Got into quite a few fights. He kept running away from his foster home, eight times in thirteen months. The last time he vanished was a few weeks ago, when the weather turned warm. Before he left, he emptied out his foster mother’s pantry, so he’s got enough food to last awhile out there.”

“We have copies of his photo,” said Fahey, and he handed a stack of papers up the aisle. “So you can all see who we’re looking for.”

The photos were passed around the audience, and for the first time Jane saw the face of Julian Perkins. It looked like a school photo, with a standard bland background. The boy had clearly made an effort to dress up for the occasion, but he looked painfully ill at ease in a long-sleeved white shirt and a tie. His black hair had been parted and combed, but a few rebellious strands of a cowlick refused to be slicked down. His dark eyes looked directly at the camera, eyes that made Jane think of a dog gazing out of an animal shelter cage. Wary. Untrusting.

“This photo was taken from last year’s school yearbook,” Fahey said. “It’s the most recent one we could find of him. Since then, he’s probably grown a few inches and put on some muscle.”

“And he’s got Bobby’s gun,” Loftus added.

Fahey looked around at the gathering. “The search team assembles at first light. I want every volunteer equipped with overnight winter gear. This isn’t going to be a picnic, so I want only the fittest men out there.” He paused, his gaze settling on Loftus, who caught the meaning of that look.

“You trying to tell me I shouldn’t go?” said Loftus.

“I didn’t say anything, Monty.”