They drove south on US 395 through a landscape of rugged ponderosa pine and open range. Peter had the wheel. Davila navigated with a paper map, no phone, no GPS. Passing through the city of Burns, they continued on, entering Oregon's arid southeastern quadrant.
With each passing mile, the air grew colder, the sky darker; and by the time they reached the little town of Frenchglen, at the foot of Steens Mountain, it was near to freezing, the sullen clouds low and threatening. The little town seemed to crouch in anticipation, windows shuttered, street and porches cleared. Only a rooster remained out of doors, strutting defiantly by the gas pump. It all seemed so different from the shady oasis that greeted Peter just eleven days before. A different world.
Leaving the town behind, they soon passed the dilapidated barn where Peter had watched people dancing in a circle beneath the shade of poplars. No one was to be seen. They continued on, almost missing the Jeep trail leading down to the river, where Peter had abandoned his broken-down Corolla. The car was gone, towed to the shop in Burns Saul Gordon's granddaughter, Demi, had recommended. For a moment, Peter wondered if it had been repaired.
The rental SUV made easy work of the river's shallow ford, and they continued up the mountain's gentle slope, trundling along the primitive road. Scattered raindrops, big and fat, began to smack the dusty windshield. As they gained altitude, the rain was joined by wet snow, a sloppy mixture Peter's mother disdainfully referred to as shlood. But soon enough, the shlood turned into to proper snow, big fluffy flakes, and eventually, fine dry ones swirling in the wind.
By the time they reached the gravel road, a fine dusting of snow covered the ground. At Delbert's driveway, a set of tire tracks marked the recent passing of a vehicle, but whether it had come or gone, they could not tell.
As they turned down the driveway, Davila reached under her seat and pulled out a small black pistol similar to the one she had carried in London. She checked something then stuffed it into a holster at the small of her back.
They slowed as Saul Gordon's house came into view at the back of the long meadow. The lights were on. Smoke trailed from the stovepipe. Two of the wind turbines were locked down, but the third churned vigorously in the growing breeze. Two cars were parked by the detached garage, both dusted with snow. One was Peter's brown Corolla, repaired after all. The other was a dark-blue Jeep Cherokee SUV with Washington State license plates. Neither car had been moved recently. Instead, the tracks led to a large rectangle of bare ground, the snow-shadow of a recently departed vehicle.
They got out and approached the Jeep. Fresh footprints encircled it. Inside, empty food wrappers littered the front passenger seat. On the dashboard, someone had left a photo ID badge from the CDC in Atlanta.
"What the hell is he doing here?" said Peter.
"Who?" whispered Davila.
But Peter was already heading to the house, mounting the steps of the covered porch and pounding on the front door. He pounded again, and when no one answered, he turned the knob and pushed inside. Davila was right behind him with her gun drawn.
The entryway and living room were empty, but a fire burned in the wood stove. Davila slipped past Peter and silenced him with a raised hand. Then Peter heard it too, a faint but unmistakable moan coming from the kitchen.
Slinking through the dining room, they peeked around the corner. There on the kitchen floor a man lay prone, his balding head bleeding and bruised, feet and wrists bound with white nylon zip ties.
Peter knelt and gently shook the doctor's shoulder. He looked up, one eye swollen shut, the other wide and frantic. He mumbled something through the duct tape covering his mouth.
Peter peeled it free.
"Jesus H. Christ! Cut me loose!"
Davila found a sheath knife in a kitchen drawer and with a nod from Peter cut Brisling loose. He sat up and slumped against the cupboards, gasping, squinting through his one good eye. "Who the hell are you?"
"It's me, Peter Barshman, from King County Hospital."
Brisling groped the floor until he found his wire-rimmed glasses. He put them on, the one cracked lens matching up with his swollen eye. "What the fuck are you doing here?"
"I was just about to ask you the same thing. We came to see Saul Gordon."
Brisling puffed out his cheeks and let out his breath. "Well, you just missed him."
"Where'd he go?"
"They took him."
"Who took him?"
The doctor shook his head incredulously. "Jason Dayan, the CEO of Dayex Industries. He just barged in and dragged old Gordon right out the front door."
Davila cocked the pistol's hammer and released the safety.
"Whoa there," said Brisling, patting the air with his hand. "Do you have a permit for that thing?"
She tossed him a disgusted look then turned and padded off through the dining room toward the front door. Brisling called after her, his tone suddenly contrite. "Hey, can you get some snow for my eye?"
The door opened then closed again with a soft click.
Brisling rubbed his bruised wrists. "Who's she?"
"It's complicated. But trust me. She knows what she's doing."
Peter helped Brisling into the living room, where the doctor stretched himself out on the couch close to the hot stove. "I'm sorry about Anna," he said.
Peter fell into Saul's armchair. "We know who did it."
The doctor propped himself up on his elbow, wincing. "Then you need to go to the police. They're looking for you. You're the only suspect."
Only then did it occur to Peter how it all appeared to the police. A young woman killed by a spurned lover in a fit of jealous rage, a stolen passport, a killer on the lam. Peter shook the idea from his mind. "This is way beyond the police."
"Right, you said it was complicated. But can I ask you something? How do you know Saul Gordon?"
Peter ignored the question. Adrenaline surged through his stomach and chest. "Wait. You said they took him. Who was with Jason Dayan?"
"You mean the greasy little bugger who tied me up?"
"Did he have light colored eyes, like honey?"
"Oh, so you've met him."
"Did you see them drive off? All three of them together?"
"I didn't see shit. I was tied up in the kitchen without my glasses. I only heard them drive off."
The front door clicked open, and Peter dug his fingers into the armrests. He pulled himself forward then froze. Davila stumbled into the entryway, head bowed, face matted with her wet hair. Her arms dangled at her sides, the snowball for Brisling's swollen eye dripping through the cage of her left hand, soaking the splint on her middle finger. Someone stood behind her, concealed by the partial wall. A gloved hand gripped her collar. Another pressed the muzzle of a gun to the back of her skull.
___________
Author's note:
Thank you for reading Chapter 40!
-Frode
Image: Storm clouds over Catlow Rim, Harney Co., Oregon. Gary Halvorson, Oregon State Archives