In the space for what Tristan was seeking, he wrote, “TBD.” To be determined.

“What the hell does that mean?” Cody grumbled, thinking the man sounded arrogant. Asking for a specifically gaited horse, claiming to be an expert rider, listing his weight at 211 pounds. Anyone normal would write “210,” Cody thought.

He put Glode’s application in the hot stack with Mina’s. Now he had two prime suspects.

Then he read the next application: Donna Glode, sixty, St. Louis, 130 pounds. Another expert rider. For what she was seeking she wrote, “Yellowstone by horseback. A peaceful journey.”

So, husband and wife. Cody reached over and pulled Tristan’s application and put it on the cold pile along with his wife’s.

Ted Sullivan, forty-five, was divorced and lived in Minneapolis. He was a 185-pound software engineer with a firm called Anderson/Sullivan/Hart. He’d scratched an “X” between beginner and intermediate, slightly closer to beginner. Very precise and engineerlike, Cody thought. And in carefully printed handwriting, Sullivan said, “I hope to gain a closer and more intimate relationship with my daughters, Gracie and Danielle. I hope it will be the greatest shared experience of our lives.” He listed his emergency contact as his ex-wife.

Nice, Cody thought. Heartfelt. He skimmed over the applications for Sullivan’s daughters, ruling them out immediately.

He started to toss the three documents on the cold pile, then stopped himself. He retained Ted’s app and looked it over again. At first, he’d thought there would be no way for the father to have done the crimes with teenage girls around, and based out of Minneapolis. But because the man was divorced, that meant it was possible the girls hadn’t been with him until recently. Cody had never heard of Anderson/Sullivan/Hart but the fact that it was simply a string of surnames and that they apparently felt no need to add “software” or “consulting” or “business solutions” to the end of it indicated that they either wanted to be thought of highly or they were prestigious. Meaning it was a good likelihood Sullivan traveled. Cody often saw men like Sullivan in airports; road warriors who were constantly on their Bluetooth cell phones and computers, those things hanging out of their ears, talking to clients all over the country and checking in with their colleagues to form strategies and solutions.

But would a cold-blooded killer pause to take his daughters on a wilderness pack trip? Cody asked himself. His answer was, not likely. Still, though, he couldn’t rule him out and he put the application between the hot and cold stacks.

Cody looked at the last application and whistled. As he read over it he started to nod. Jesus:

K. W. Wilson, fifty-eight, Salt Lake City, Utah. No marital status indicated. No occupation listed except “transportation.” One hundred seventy pounds and an intermediate rider. Under dietary restrictions Wilson had scrawled, “No cheese.” For what he was seeking, Wilson had written, “Fishing and adventure.”

Cody said to the application, “Congratulations, you’re now number one,” and placed it on the hot stack.

Doubts remained, however, if he was even on the right track.

* * *

Cody remembered seeing a business center in the lobby with two computers for guests. He gathered the applications back into the file to take them downstairs. He’d find more about all of the names, as well as get some background on The Glode Company, Anderson/Sullivan/Hart, Rachel Mina’s hospital, and anything he could locate on K. W. Wilson.

His cell went off and danced across the surface of the desk since he’d set it to ring and vibrate.

He checked the display: Larry.

“About time,” he said.

“Are you sitting down?” Larry asked.

16

Gracie wished she’d unpacked her heavier jacket because when the sun doused behind the mountains the temperature dropped a quick twenty degrees or more within minutes, as if the thin mountain air was incapable of retaining the afternoon heat. She thought about going back to her tent to dig out her hoodie, but the instant darkness didn’t encourage a trip and the warmth and light of the campfire held her in place as if it had strong gravitational pull.

She was sitting on a smooth downed log with Danielle and Justin. She couldn’t stop staring into the fire, which was mesmerizing. The meal had been huge and consisted of things she normally didn’t like that much: steak, baked potatoes, baked beans, half a cob of corn dripping with butter. She’d wolfed most of it down, leaving only a quarter of the steak. She had no idea why she’d felt so hungry, or how the food possibly tasted so good. The apple cobbler baked in a jet-black Dutch oven was one of the best things she’d ever eaten, and she’d had two helpings of it. Her mouth still tasted of cinnamon from the cobbler and hot fat from the meat. Now, the entire meal sat in her stomach as heavy as a rock, and it made her sleepy and uncomfortable.