Three-thirty-six.
Thinking Galimore might have called to tell me to join him, I dug out my mobile. Checked for messages. Found none. Verified that the ringer was turned on. It was.
Impatient, I leaned toward the passenger-side floor and snatched up my purse.
When I straightened, the cold steel of a muzzle kissed my left temple.
ICY FEAR TRAVELED MY SPINE.
In the corner of my eye, I could see a dark figure standing outside the car. He or she held a shotgun tight to my skull.
Through the open window, I heard growling and thrashing. Terror froze me in place. I was in the middle of nowhere. Alone. At the wrong end of dogs and a gun.
Dear God, where was Galimore?
“State your business.”
The wheezy voice snapped me back. Low and deep. Male.
I swallowed. “Mr. Fries?”
“Who the hell’s asking?”
“Temperance Brennan.” Keep it simple. “I’m a friend of Wayne Gamble. Cindi’s brother.”
The growling gave way to snarling and scratching. The Mazda lurched.
“Down, goddammit!”
The earsplitting bellow sent a new wave of adrenaline flooding through me.
“Rocky! Rupert! Asses to the dirt!”
I heard the dull thud of a boot hitting flesh. A yelp.
My heart pounded in my chest. I didn’t dare turn my head. Who was this lunatic? Had he killed Galimore?
The gun muzzle prodded my skull. “You’re going to get out now. Real slow. Keeping your hands so’s I can see ’em.”
I heard the sound of a latch, then the door swung open.
Hands high, I thrust out my legs and stood.
Rocky and Rupert were the size of elk, black, with brown crescents above eyes that were fixed on me. Though a low growl rose from each massive throat, neither dog made a menacing move.
Their master looked about as old as a human can look. His skin was pale and tissue-paper thin over a prominent forehead, chin, and nose. His gaunt cheeks were covered with prickly white whiskers.
Though the day was muggy, the man wore wool pants, a long-sleeved flannel shirt, an orange hunting cap, and a windbreaker zipped to midchest.
His Winchester followed my every move. Its condition suggested an age equaling that of its owner.
The old man studied me with rheumy blue eyes, his gaze as steady as his grip on the gun.
“Who sent you here?”
“No one, sir.”
“Don’t you lie to me!”
As before, the vehemence of the outburst caused me to flinch.
“Move.” The gun barrel arced toward the far side of the clearing.
I held ground, knowing that entry into the trailer would limit my options.
“Move!”
“Mr. Fries, I—”
The muzzle of the Winchester jammed my sternum, knocking me backward. My spine struck the edge of the open car door. I cried out in pain.
The dogs shot to their feet.
The man lowered a hand, palm toward them.
The dogs sat.
“I said move.” Cold. Dangerous. “That way.”
Again he gestured with the gun.
Seeing no alternative, I began walking, as slowly as I felt my captor would allow. Behind me, I heard panting and the crunch of boots.
Desperate, I sorted options. I saw no phone or power lines. My mobile was in the car. I’d told no one where I was going.
My heart thudded faster.
