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Three men posed on their horses like the characters from the movie Three Amigos. The shot would have been amusing, Cody thought, if he hadn’t seen D’Amato’s and Russell’s mangled remains a couple of hours before.

And there were Walt and Justin, sitting side by side on horseback. Cody felt his heart race. Justin looked older and more mature than when he’d seen him last. He had a weariness in his eyes and an easy smile as he looked over at Walt in the photo.

Cody whispered, “Yes.” Until that second, he hadn’t been absolutely sure Justin was on the trip.

The last three shots were taken in deep timber. Although not focused well, Cody could see they were of the two Sullivan girls. One was using a camp latrine.

He looked up as Mitchell untied Wilson from the saddle. Wilson stared straight ahead.

Mitchell said, “I found this guy about a mile from where I left you. Apparently, he’d gotten off his horse to pee and the horse ran off. I seem to be surrounded by goddamned amateurs. I heard him yelling obscenities and I sneaked into the trees. I finally found him chasing his horse around a meadow with that pistol in his hand, like the horse was gonna be threatened by him. He’s as good a horseman as you.”

Cody studied Wilson’s face while Mitchell talked. It was inscrutable.

“I watched him for a while. His horse finally stopped trotting at the edge of the meadow and Wilson here walked right up to it from behind. He didn’t know that when a horse pins its ears back and positions his butt toward you you need to get ready for a kick,” Mitchell said, and chuckled.

Mitchell said, “Laid Wilson out. Caught him right in the chest. I rode out there to see if he was okay and he woke up going for his popgun. So I had to thump him a couple times. I took the liberty of borrowing a set of handcuffs from your gear. I hope you have a key somewhere.”

“Maybe,” Cody said.

Wilson reacted with a jerk of his mouth to the side when he heard that. Mitchell dismounted and tied his horse to the trunk of a tree with a lead rope. Now that he’d climbed down from his mount he looked old and he moved like a stiff old man, Cody thought. Mitchell limped down the line of horses he’d gathered to the gray. When Mitchell got the ropes untied he slid Wilson off by grasping the back of his belt and pulling. Wilson’s boots thumped onto solid ground.

Mitchell said, “I’m officially turning him over to you now while I get these critters some grain and water them.”

Mitchell put his big hand in the middle of Wilson’s back and shoved. Wilson stumbled toward Cody but managed not to trip and fall.

Cody said to him, “Is my son okay? His name is Justin. He’s seventeen.”

Wilson stared back, noncommittal.

Cody studied Wilson’s face for any kind of tell, but the man’s eyes were black, still, and unyielding. He took it as an encouraging sign, assuming there would have been at least a flinch or glimmer of reaction if something had happened to Justin.

“So that’s the way you want to play it,” Cody said. He noted the twin horseshoe impressions on the front of Wilson’s shirt where he’d been kicked. As Cody walked up to him he imagined Wilson’s chest must be badly bruised. Although the man was two inches taller, Cody was thicker. “I heard the shots and found Russell and D’Amato,” Cody said. “We located Tristan Glode’s body earlier. You’ve left a hell of a mess.”

Wilson looked back through heavy-lidded eyes.

Cody gestured toward a pedestal-like rock that jutted out of the grass. “Sit.”

Wilson didn’t move until Cody prodded him with the muzzle of the rifle, then he did so grudgingly. Wilson grunted and settled on the rock and looked at Cody with bored contempt.

Before speaking, Cody made sure Mitchell was out of earshot. He said to Wilson, “Do you know who I am?”

No response.

Cody felt himself smile as his demons took over. He said, “Do you know who I am?”

Wilson didn’t even blink.

“Let me tell you who I am, then. I’m Cody, and I’m an alcoholic.”

Wilson twitched. At last, a chord was struck.

“Thought so,” Cody said, and swung the butt of the rifle into Wilson’s face. He could hear the muffled snap as the man’s nose broke and feel the cartilage flatten through the stock of the rifle. Wilson cried out and tumbled over backwards off the rock into the grass.

Cody bounded forward and straddled the rock and pressed the muzzle of his AR-15 into the flesh between Wilson’s eyes, which had misted from the pain. Blood coursed down the sides of Wilson’s face from the twin spouts of his nostrils. Cody growled, “Let me tell you who I am. I’m the scariest fucking cop you’ll ever meet. My son is on that trip and you murdered the best man I ever knew. We’ve been finding the bodies you left behind all fucking morning. I haven’t had a drink in days and I smoked my last cigarette two hours ago. All I want is an excuse to kill you five times over and piss on your remains. Do you understand me?”

Wilson’s eyes were open wide. He looked bloody and scared.

Cody said, “What, you expected to hear your Miranda rights?”