I got Marcus's exact routing before dawn, or close enough to it that the sky outside Cole's kitchen window had gone the color of old bruise, gray shading toward something paler. Cole had pulled everything the treaty records could give him — the parcel numbers, the private holding registered under A.V., a service road that showed up on older survey maps but not on anything current, like someone had gone to the trouble of scrubbing it from the newer files without quite managing to erase every trace.
"If he left last night," Cole said, still on speaker, "and he's driving instead of running the distance, he's got maybe a four-hour head start. If he ran it, longer, but he's fifty-two, not twenty. My money's on the car."
"Four hours is enough," I said. "If he's going there to warn her, that's
