They followed him to the Circle B check-in cottage. Inside, a wood fire crackled in the hearth, and low pine beams overhead made the space feel as claustrophobic as a dark cave. The cold wind outside had numbed Jane’s face, and she stood near the fire as the heat slowly brought sensation back to her cheeks. The room was a time capsule from the 1960s, the wall adorned with bullwhips and spurs and muddy-colored paintings of cowboys. She heard voices talking in the back room-two men, she thought, until she peered through the doorway and saw that one of them was a blond woman with weather-beaten skin and a smoker’s hacking cough.

“… never did lay eyes on the wife,” the woman said. “He’s the one who checked in.”

“Why didn’t you ask for his ID?”

“He paid cash and signed in. This ain’t Russia, you know. Last I checked, folks are free to come and go in this country. Besides, he looked like good people.”

“You could tell?”

“Polite and respectful. Drove in during that snowstorm Saturday, and said they needed a place to stay while they waited for the roads to be cleared. Sounded reasonable to me.”

“Sheriff?” the deputy called out. “Those people from Boston are here.”

Fahey waved at them through the doorway. “Hold on,” he said, and continued his conversation with the manager. “They checked in two days ago, Marge. When was the last time you cleaned their cabin?”

“Never got the chance. They had the DO NOT DISTURB sign hanging on the knob Saturday and Sunday. Figured they wanted their privacy so I left ’ em alone. Then this morning, I noticed it wasn’t hanging there anymore. So I went into the room around two o’clock to clean it. That’s when I found ’em.”

“So the last time you saw that man alive was when he checked in?”

“They couldn’t have been dead all that time. They took the DO NOT DISTURB sign off the door, didn’t they? Or someone did.”

“Okay.” Fahey sighed and zipped up his jacket. “DCI’s coming in to assist, so they’ll be talking to you, too.”

“Yeah?” The woman hacked a watery cough. “Maybe they’ll need rooms for the night. I got vacancies.”

Fahey came out of the office and nodded at the new arrivals. He was a beefy man in his fifties, and like his younger deputy he sported a military buzz cut. His stony gaze went right past Jane and fixed on Gabriel. “You’re the folks who reported that missing woman?”

“We’re hoping this isn’t her,” said Gabriel.

“She went missing Saturday, right?”

“Yes. From Teton Village.”

“Well, the timing’s right. These people checked in on Saturday. Why don’t you come with me?”

He led them up a path of trampled snow, past other cabins that stood dark and clearly unoccupied. Except for guest reception, there was only one other building that had its lights on, and it stood at the outer edge of the property. When they reached cabin eight, the sheriff paused to hand them latex gloves and paper shoe covers, the must-wear fashion at any crime scene.

“Before you walk in, I need to warn you,” Fahey said. “It’s not going to be pleasant.”

“Never is,” said Gabriel.

“What I mean is, they’re gonna be hard to identify.”

“There’s disfigurement?” Gabriel asked it so calmly that the sheriff frowned at him.

“Yeah, you could say that,” Fahey finally answered, and opened the door.

Jane stared across the threshold into cabin eight. Even from the doorway, she could see the blood, alarming splatters of it arcing across the wall. Wordlessly she stepped into the room, and as the unmade bed came into view she saw the source of all that blood.

The body lying beside the bed was faceup on the bare pine floor. He was balding and at least fifty pounds overweight, clad in black pants, white shirt, and white cotton socks. But it was his face-or the lack of one-that drew Jane’s horrified gaze. It had been obliterated.

“An attack fueled by sheer rage. If you ask me, that’s what you’re looking at,” said a silver-haired man who had just emerged from the bathroom. He was dressed in civilian clothes, and he looked shaken by the horrors that surrounded them. “Why else would you take a hammer to someone’s face? Smash every bone, every tooth? It’s nothing but pulp now. Cartilage, skin, bones, all pounded down to one bloody mess.” Sighing, he lifted a blood-smeared glove in greeting. “I’m Dr. Draper.”

“Medical examiner?” asked Gabriel.

Draper shook his head. “No, sir, just the county coroner. We don’t have an ME in the state of Wyoming. A forensic pathologist will be driving in from Colorado.”

“They’re here to identify the female,” Sheriff Fahey said.

Dr. Draper cocked his head toward the bathroom. “She’s in there.”

Jane stared at the doorway but could not bring herself to take the first step. It was Gabriel who crossed to the bathroom. For a long time, he stood gazing into the next room, saying nothing, and Jane could feel dread twisting her stomach. Slowly, she approached, and she was startled to catch sight of her own reflection staring back from the bathroom mirror, her face pale and tight. Gabriel moved aside, and she stared into the shower stall.

The dead woman was slumped with her back propped up against mildewed tiles. Her bare legs were splayed apart, her modesty protected only by the plastic shower curtain that had fallen across her body. Her head lolled forward, her chin almost resting on her chest, her face hidden by her hair. Black hair, matted with blood and brains. Too long to be Maura’s.

Jane registered other details. The gold wedding band on the left hand. The heavy thighs, dimpled with cellulite. The large black mole on the forearm.

“It’s not her,” said Jane.

“You’re sure about that?” asked Fahey.

Jane crouched down to stare at the face. Unlike the man’s, this victim’s features were not obliterated. The blow had landed on the side of her skull, caving it in, but that killing blow had not been followed by mutilation. She released a deep breath, and as she exhaled, all the tension suddenly left her body. “This isn’t Maura Isles.” She stood and looked through the doorway at the male victim. “And that’s definitely not the man we saw on the hotel surveillance video.”

“Which means your friend is still missing.”

That’s a hell of a lot better than dead. Only now, as all her fears dissipated, could Jane begin to focus on the crime scene with a cop’s eyes. Suddenly she noticed details that she’d missed earlier. The lingering odor of cigarette smoke. The puddles of melted snow and multiple boot prints tracking across the floor, left by law enforcement personnel. And something that she should have spotted as soon as she’d entered the cabin: the small portable crib, tucked into the far corner.

She looked at Fahey. “Was there a child in here?”

He nodded. “Baby girl. Around eight, nine months old according to the county social worker. They took her into protective custody.”

Jane remembered the woman they’d just met outside. Now she knew why a social worker had been on the scene. “So the child was alive,” she said.

“Yeah. Killer didn’t touch her. She was found in that crib over there. Diaper was soaked, but otherwise she was in good shape.”

“After being left unfed for a day, two days?”

“There were four empty baby bottles in the crib. Kid never had a chance to get dehydrated.”

“The baby must have been screaming,” said Gabriel. “No one heard her?”

“They were the only guests staying at the Circle B. And as you noticed, this cabin’s off by itself. Well insulated, windows shut. Outside, you might not hear a thing.”

Jane approached the dead man again. Stood looking down at a face so destroyed it was hard to tell it had ever been human. “He didn’t fight back,” she said.

“Killer probably took him by surprise.”

“The woman, I can see. She was in the shower, so she might not hear someone coming in. But the man?” She looked at Fahey. “Was the door forced?”