He smokes a while, weighing the proposition. Gauging his own feelings about heading back there, likely to serve as bait. It's like prodding a bruise, but he finds it doesn't give rise to dread. Fear, sure, but that's containable. “He might not even be up there, not now,” he says. “Couple hours ago I saw...mighta been an elk, practically on his front lawn. Usually the animals won't go near that place.

“But it's too much time. They need what I've got on Salamanca. Need someone to make them take it seriously, too. Especially with him...” A throwaway gesture, Rust's cigarette weaving through the dark like a drunken firefly. “Doubt dying another time's made him less of a fucking maniac.”

He takes another pull on his cigarette. “Martin's supposed to be out here somewhere. Jet. We could meet up, hand off what I know. But, ah, if the guy at the cabin's out there watching, that's two more people dragged into this.”