A zillion brain cells clamored that it was a bad idea. I waited for opposing views. Heard none.

"I drive," I said.

North Carolina is loaded with little pockets that have managed to remain on the far side of rural. Fries had found one of them. Or someone had found it for him.

Following Galimore's directions, I'd taken the outer beltway, then gone east on NC 24/27. Just before Locust, I'd cut north on 601, then made several turns, ending up on a stretch of gravel that hardly qualified as a road.

For several minutes we both assessed the scene.

If Galimore's information was correct, Eugene Fries lived in the seediest trailer I'd ever seen. Its hitch rested on a boulder, keeping the thing more or less horizontal.

The trailer had no wheels, its flip-open windows were rusted shut, and a mound of debris rose halfway up the side facing us. BOLER was barely legible on its sun-fried aluminum.

A brand name? The owner's name? A name given to the trailer itself? Whatever. I suspected Boler had been parked sometime this millennium and never again moved.

The trailer occupied most of a small clearing surrounded by hardwoods and pines. Along its perimeter I could see more trash heaps.

Behind and to the trailer's right stood a shed constructed of haphazardly nailed two-by-fours. A dirt path circled from the trailer's door around the hitch and boulder toward the shed. Straight shot to the can. Though gray and weathered, the outhouse seemed of more recent vintage than Boler.

To the trailer's left loomed an ancient oak whose trunk had to be eight feet in diameter. Its gnarled limbs stretched over both trailer and shed. In its shadow, the earth was dark and bare.

Four feet up the oak's trunk, I spotted two bolts. Clipped to each was a chain, now hanging slack. The stainless-steel links looked shiny and new.

My eyes traced the chains downward, then out across the bare ground. As I feared, each ended in a choke-collar clip.

"There might be dogs," I said. "Big ones."

"Yeah." Galimore's tone suggested he shared my apprehension.

As one, we lowered our windows.

And heard nothing. No birdsong. No barking. No WKKT Kat Country music twanging from a radio.

I sorted smells.

Damp leaves. Moist earth. An organic pungence that suggested garbage rotting in plastic.

Galimore spoke first. "You stay here. I'll see if anyone's home."

Before I could object, he was out of the car. Couldn't say I was unhappy. My mind was conjuring images of Rottweilers and Dobermans.

Galimore took two steps, then paused.

No slathering canines came charging forth.

Looking left and then right, Galimore headed across the ten feet of open space between the road and the trailer. A backward crooking of his right elbow told me he was armed.

Striding with purpose, he went directly to the trailer's only door. His voice broke the stillness. "Mr. Fries. Are you in there?"

No response.

Galimore called out again, louder. "Eugene Fries? We'd like to talk to you."

Nothing.

"We're not going away, Mr. Fries." Pounding the metal door with the heel of his left hand. "Best you come out."

Still, no one answered.

Galimore stepped back to recheck his surroundings. And made the same observation that I had. The only path in the clearing was the one leading to the outhouse.

I watched Galimore circle the boulder and hitch, then disappear behind the trailer.

Time passed.

I checked my watch. Three-twenty-seven.

How long had Galimore been gone?

My eyes roved the clearing. The edge of the woods. The trailer.

Three-thirty-one.

I drummed anxious fingers on the wheel. Where the hell was he?

Three-thirty-four.

A yellow jacket buzzed the windshield, tentative. Landed. Crawled, antennae testing.

The tiniest breeze rustled the leaves overhead.

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.

I was marooned.

With a madman.

And Galimore nowhere in sight.

Outside the trailer, I stopped and tried again. "Mr. Fries. I mean you no harm."

"You take one step, you get a load of shot in your head."

The man circled me, then snapped his fingers at Rocky and Rupert. "Down!"

The dogs dropped to their bellies, mouths open, purple tongues dangling over yellowed teeth.

Keeping the Winchester cradled in one arm and pointed at my chest, the man bent, snatched up one chain, and clipped it to either Rocky or Rupert. He'd just secured the second chain when I noticed a flicker in the shadows beyond him.

Galimore struck like a ninja.

Firing around the trailer's far end, he arm-wrapped the old man's throat, dragged him clear of the dogs, and yanked the gun from his grasp. The hunting cap went airborne and landed in the dirt.

The dogs flew into a frenzy.

Terrified, I backpedaled as fast as I could.

Confused and enraged, Rocky and Rupert alternated between lunging at Galimore and me, muscles straining, saliva stringing from their gums and jowls.

"Call them off!" Galimore's command barely carried over the furious barking.

A gagging sound rose from the old man's throat.