He began the drive up into the mountains, taking the narrow cliffside highway that wound its way up from the foothills. He wore the warm clothing he had packed the night before. He was less than two hours away from Las Piernas, but there was a marked difference in the climate. The weather front that had dumped rain on Las Piernas had left snowdrifts here. O’Connor had never lived in a place where it snowed, and had no experience of driving on icy roads. He was glad the two-lane highway had been plowed earlier in the week. The road was dry, the air crisp and laden with the scent of pine.

When he reached Lake Arrowhead, he stopped in a real estate office to get directions to the lane leading to Ronden’s place. Once the salesman determined that he was not a potential buyer or renter of a cabin or ski lodge, he sent him on his way with a local map.

He drove on plowed roads until he got to the private drive that led to Ronden’s cabin. The road was higher than the cabin, which sat on the down-slope, in a small hollow. He could see a glimpse of it from here, but not much more. He was sure he had the right one, though, because a big, midnight blue Chrysler Imperial was parked at the end of the drive, surrounded by snow. Ronden hadn’t been able to get down the drive, either, although there were snow chains around the Imperial’s tires. Ronden would need to take them off and do some shoveling to get the car free if he planned on leaving the cabin. O’Connor saw this as an advantage. If he needed to leave in a hurry, he’d be halfway down the mountain before Gus Ronden could move his car an inch.

He walked up to the Imperial, which was unlocked, and pushed snow away so that he could open the door. He pulled down the visor to look at the vehicle registration-like most people, Gus Ronden kept this in a plastic and leather holder, held onto the visor by thin springs. The name and address were Ronden’s. O’Connor reached to open the glove compartment. It contained a few maps and receipts and a pint of gin. He backed out of the car and stooped next to the driver’s seat, moving his hand carefully beneath it. Even through his gloves, he could feel the cold steel of a gun. He pulled the revolver free, emptied it of bullets, and returned it to its hiding place. He pocketed the ammunition and began to walk carefully down the drive.

He quickly realized that he had not planned carefully enough. He needed boots. Within a short time, his shoes, socks, and pants legs were uncomfortably wet with slushy snow, and more than once he nearly lost his balance.

He followed a bend in the drive and stepped into a clearing. A small cabin stood before him. The snow was disturbed in front of it, and behind a shredded screen door, the wooden front door was open. He stepped back among the trees. Was Ronden inside the cabin, or somewhere in the surrounding forest? He shook his head at the sight of the screen. Why didn’t the man take care of his property? He supposed insects wouldn’t be much of a problem in winter.

Within a few seconds he heard the sound of something scraping against a wooden floor, followed by a loud crash. He watched uneasily, teeth chattering with cold, asking himself why he wasn’t coming up with any big ideas now. He wasn’t going to approach without any place to take cover, not when Ronden might easily poke the barrel of a gun through that torn screen and shoot him on sight.

Suddenly, the screen door flew back on its hinges, and a black bear came out of the cabin. It paused, sniffed, and stared toward him, then scampered off to the left, moving much faster than O’Connor had ever imagined such a large animal could travel.

When his heart rate slowed enough to allow him to stop praying in thanks for near misses with potentially dangerous wild creatures, he moved toward the cabin. He could believe any number of things about Gus Ronden, but not that he was a bear tamer in the off-season.

He mounted the porch steps, pulled open the broken screen-probably the bear’s version of ringing a doorbell-then stood on the threshold of the cabin, looking at chaos. The bear had been having a grand time of it in the front room, which housed a kitchen, dining area, and sitting room. The kitchen was a shambles-the refrigerator stood open, its meager contents spilled on the floor. A set of Melmac plastic dishes had survived a fall from a cupboard, but a copper canister of sugar had been bent into an unusable shape. The floor near the door was damp, and it seemed colder in the cabin than outdoors.

O’Connor looked in the other rooms and found them unoccupied. The bed was made, the closet empty, the bathroom clean. He walked out to the front room again and looked around. Other than the open door and the bear’s mess, he didn’t see signs that anyone had been here lately. The fireplace held ashes, but there was no telling how long they had been there.

This last made him think about the lack of footprints. If Ronden drove up here early on Sunday, the first of the snow would have fallen here before he arrived. He had chains on his tires, so there was some snow, at least at these higher elevations. If he walked to the cabin from the car, new snow would have covered his tracks. But it was nearly a week later now, and there was no sign that he was living here. O’Connor wasn’t sure if a bear could open a door, especially a locked door. He looked at the door again. Unlike the screen, it hadn’t suffered damage.

Why had the door been left unlocked? He heard a vehicle and looked back toward the road. There wasn’t a clear view of the lane from here, but with the screen door open, he could hear any cars that went by. Had someone else waited for Ronden here? Perhaps they had then driven off somewhere together. But why leave the door open? Maybe the second man-or woman- hadn’t latched it properly, and the wind had done the rest.

He made the trip back to the cars. Got back into the Nash, started the car, and turned on the heater.

Where could Ronden be? Had he left voluntarily, or was he lying dead somewhere in the woods, buried by snow? O’Connor wondered if he had nearly stepped on him, coming down the drive.

O’Connor shivered. He looked out the windshield at the Imperial as he tried to warm up. The car’s big, sweeping fins and distinctive trunk design, with the spare tire shape on it, gave the Imperial a kind of space-age look that the Nash would never have.

He thought of changing clothes before he headed back to Lake Arrowhead. He’d look for a pay phone there and call Norton. The thought of dry clothing was appealing, but the thought of getting out of the car to get his overnight bag out of the trunk…

The trunk. He stared ahead at the trunk of the Imperial. Ronden would have brought a change of clothes up here too. If Ronden’s suitcase was still in the trunk of the Imperial, then he hadn’t left the cabin voluntarily, and was probably dead. If it wasn’t, he had met someone here and left, and the chances of finding him were slim.

O’Connor put his gloves back on again and forced himself to leave the warmth of the Nash. Just as he reached the Imperial, he heard cars coming up the lane. He pushed the button lock and the trunk opened.

A San Bernardino County Sheriff’s Department patrol car and Dan Norton’s T-Bird pulled up, but O’Connor scarcely spared them a glance. He didn’t even notice the set of keys, the ones he would later identify as Jack’s. All he knew was that he had found Gus Ronden, curled up in the space-age trunk, frozen solid and not bleeding from the bullet hole through his left eye.