I found Horvath’s card in my wallet and called him.

“Who?” Horvath said, yawning, half asleep.

“Cordell Logan.”

I’d forgotten it wasn’t yet 0700. It took him a few seconds to remember me.

“What time is it?”

I told him. Then I told him why I was calling.

“Let me make sure I have this correctly. You want me to give you confidential information from a restricted agency file?”

“Yes.”

“Without going through proper channels? Is that what you just asked me?”

“Proper channels could take weeks, Mr. Horvath. The information is needed in an ongoing police investigation, the murder of a young man in the mountains outside Lake Tahoe.”

“Mr. Logan, I’m as law and order as they come. I hope they find the killer and put him away. But what you’re asking me to do is to commit a crime, a very serious crime, not to mention jeopardize my career. I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”

I apologized for having called so early and signed off. Not without some reluctance, I then called my buddy, Buzz.

“This is not directory information, Logan,” Buzz grumbled over the phone. “Don’t you have any other friends who still work for Uncle Sugar? I’m busy. I have things to do, like saving the free world. Why are you always calling me?”

“Because we share a history, Buzz. Because I love you like the deranged, antisocial brother I never had.”

“Well, when you put it that way…”

Buzz (not his real name) was an opera-loving, former Delta operator who’d been among Alpha’s initial cadre of go-to guys — a “plank holder,” as they were known. He’d lost an eye to RPG shrapnel on one especially gnarly op outside Benghazi. After the White House shut down Alpha as a potential political liability, he’d ended up working at the Defense Intelligence Agency, riding an analyst’s desk that kept him inside most days, an assignment he’d used to good effect. Buzz cultivated more intra-agency connections over the years and possessed more behind-the-scenes insights about the inner workings of the alphabet agencies than probably any member of the intelligence community who ever lived.

I told him how I’d happened to stumble upon the wreckage of the long-missing airplane, about the murdered kid, the crate from the Santa Susana Field Lab, and the FAA’s unwillingness to cooperate with a homicide investigation. Buzz asked me for the plane’s tail number. I gave it to him. He said he’d ask around and see what he could come up with. I didn’t even have to bribe him, which I usually did.

“You seem like you’re in an unusually agreeable mood, Buzz.”

“Got busy with the wife last night. First time in a month. I put on a little Pavarotti, she squeezed into something skimpy I got her for Valentine’s Day five years ago, which was the last time I remembered Valentine’s Day, and we rocked the house. The kitchen. Our bed. The dog’s bed. It was something, lemme tell ya.”

“I could’ve definitely gone all day without knowing about the dog’s bed, Buzz.”

“Hey, you asked.”

“So I did. Live and learn.”

“What are you doing in Tahoe, Logan? Tahoe’s for rich people. The beautiful people. Beautiful is not a word that comes readily to mind when I think of your sorry mug.”

“Savannah and I are getting remarried.”

There was a long silence on the other end.

“Say again?”

“We’re getting remarried.”

“To Savannah?”

“Affirmative.”

“The Savannah who dumped you for Arlo Echevarria?”

“One and the same.”

There was a time when Buzz wouldn’t have hesitated to tell me that I’d lost my mind, reconciling with a woman who’d left me for a brother warrior. But for once, he held his tongue.

“I just hope you know what you’re doing, Logan.”

“Makes two of us, buddy.”

He said he’d get back to me with whatever relevant insights he could find on the crashed Beechcraft. I told him I’d be waiting.

The snow was coming down heavier, beginning to blanket the cars in the lot. I envisioned a leisurely breakfast back at Tranquility House with Savannah, followed by a romantic interlude in the privacy of our bungalow with a cozy fire in the fireplace. We’d drive into town after that, take out a marriage license, and exchange vows.

I couldn’t have known that by the time I got back, she’d have gone without so much as a word of good-bye.

Nothing seemed amiss.

The damp washcloth draped over the faucet and the water beaded on the tiled walls of the shower stall told me that Savannah had showered shortly after I’d left our bungalow to meet with Deputy Streeter.

There were two bras and two pairs of panties in the plastic bag she used for dirty laundry. That told me she’d apparently dressed for the day and left — but without her long down coat, which was still hanging in the closet. I knew she wouldn’t have gone for a walk without it, given the weather.

I also knew she hadn’t gone for a run. Her Nikes were still packed in her suitcase, and her iPhone in its pink protective case was still on the nightstand, charging. Savannah never went anywhere without her phone.

I ventured back outside, searching for tracks in the freshly fallen snow, but the only ones I could see were mine. That told me she’d gone before the snow started falling.

“Haven’t seen her all morning,” Johnny Kavitch said when I went into the main house. “She didn’t come in for breakfast. It’s still sitting on the table in the dining room, untouched. Yours, too. Gwen, have you seen Savannah this morning?”

Kavitch’s wife emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a red and white striped dish towel. “Listening to the TV. I’m sorry, were you calling me?”

“Have you seen Savannah this morning?” I asked before Johnny could.

Gwen frowned and stared at the floor for a second, trying to remember. “Come to think of it,” she said, “I can’t say that I have. I’m sure she’s around here somewhere, though. Unless she took your car and decided to go into town.”

“I had the car. What about your son? Where is he?”

“Preston?” Gwen traded a troubling glance with her husband. “Still sleeping. We let him sleep in. His counselor says it’s good therapy.”

The acrid taste of bile rose up in the back of my throat.

“Where’s his bedroom?”

“Upstairs. Why?”

I bounded up the stairs, taking them three at a time.

“That’s our private residence,” Johnny hollered after me. “You can’t go up there! Hey!”

I ignored him.

Preston’s bedroom was down a short hallway decorated with framed family photos, the last door on the left. It was the only one that was locked. I booted it open, splintering the jam, and went in. He bolted upright, shirtless, startled awake. The posters covering his walls were a testament to the blood-fest video games he was apparently into—Resident Evil and Mortal Kombat.

“Get out of my room!”

“Where is she, Preston?”

“Where’s who? I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

I moved toward him.

“Yes, you do.”

“I don’t know where your wife is, man!” He pulled the covers up around his pale, concentration camp survivor chest and cowered against the headboard, trying to get as far from me as he could. “How would I know where she is? I told you. Get out!”

“I’m gonna ask you one more time, Preston, then I’m gonna take you apart, one piece at a time. Now, where… is… she?”

“I told you! I don’t know where she’s at! Dad! DAD!”

“This is definitely not cool!” Johnny said, bounding in with his wife hard on his heels. He was clutching a ski pole like a spear.

“You need to take a deep breath and calm down, Mr. Logan,” Gwen said with her palms outstretched, pleading. “Please. Before someone gets hurt.”

“My wife is missing and I’m wondering if Cujo here knows something he isn’t telling.”