Empty.

Vaulting over the sill, he crouched inside the hut, thinking furiously. As he suspected, Pendergast had avoided the obvious. He had not occupied the strategic high ground. But where had he gone? He muttered a curse; with Pendergast, only the unexpected could be expected.

Another bank of fog rolled in and Esterhazy took the opportunity to examine the area around the hut, looking for Pendergast’s track. He found it with difficulty: it was quickly disappearing in the heavy rains. Continuing down the far side of the hill toward the marshlands below, he could glimpse the lay of the land through gaps in the mists. It was a dead end of sorts — beyond lay only the Inish Marshes. So Pendergast must have taken cover somewhere along the marsh edge. He felt a low-grade panic take hold. Through the breaking mists, he scanned the area; surely the man wouldn’t be hiding in the reeds or cattails. But there was a finger of land that extended into the marshes; he pulled out his spyglass and noted a scattering of glacial boulders that provided just enough cover to hide a man. And by God, there he was: a patch of white, just visible behind one of the rocks.

That was it, then: he had taken the only cover there was, and was waiting in ambush for Esterhazy to pass as he followed Pendergast’s trail along the edge of the marsh.

Once again: the unobvious thing. And Esterhazy saw just the way to thwart him.

The welcoming fog returned; he started down the hill and was soon back among the treacherous bogs of the Mire, following the double track of Pendergast and the stag. As he approached the verge of the marshes, he found himself stepping from one hillock to another over quivering sheets of morass. He regained firmer ground, moving off the trail, toward a position where he would have a clear line of fire to the area behind the rocks concealing Pendergast. Taking up a position, he crouched behind a hillock, waiting for the mists to part so he could take a shot.

A minute passed; a gap appeared in the mists. He could see the little bit of white from Pendergast’s hidden position; it appeared to be part of his shirt and it offered enough of a view to accept a bullet. He raised his rifle…

“Stand up ever so slowly,” came the disembodied voice from behind him, almost as if from the marsh water itself.

ESTERHAZY FROZE AT THE SOUND OF THE VOICE.

“As you rise, hold your rifle in your left hand, extended away from your body.”

Still, Esterhazy found himself unable to move. How was it possible?

Whing! The round smacked into the ground between his feet, kicking up a spray of dirt. “I won’t ask again.”

Holding his rifle out by his left hand, Esterhazy stood up.

“Drop the rifle and turn around.”

He allowed the rifle to fall, then turned. There was Pendergast, twenty yards away, pistol in hand, himself rising from a clump of reeds apparently standing in water — but Esterhazy could now see there was a small meandering path of glacially deposited rocks at the water’s surface, surrounded on both sides by quickmire.

“I just have one question,” said Pendergast, his voice thin in the moaning wind. “How could you murder your own sister?”

Esterhazy stared at him.

“I require an answer.”

Esterhazy couldn’t quite bring himself to speak. Looking into Pendergast’s face, he knew he was a dead man. He felt the unutterably cold fear of death fall upon him like a sodden cloak, mingling with horror, regret, and relief. There was nothing he could do. He would not, at least, give Pendergast the satisfaction of an undignified exit. Even with his death, there would be pain enough for Pendergast in the months ahead. “Just get it over with,” he said.

“No explanations, then?” asked Pendergast. “No whining justifications, no abject pleading for understanding? How disappointing.” The finger tightened on the trigger. Esterhazy closed his eyes.

And then it happened: a sudden, overpowering crash of sound. Esterhazy saw an explosion of reddish fur, the flash of antlers — and the stag burst through the reeds, one antler swiping Pendergast, catching his gun and sending it flying into the water. As the stag bounded away, Pendergast staggered and thrashed — and Esterhazy realized he had been thrown into a pool of mire with only a skimming of water covering its surface.

Seizing his own rifle from the ground, Esterhazy aimed and fired. The round caught Pendergast in the chest, slamming him backward into the pool. Esterhazy aimed, preparing to fire again, then paused. A second shot, a second bullet, would be impossible to explain — if the body was found.

He lowered the rifle. Pendergast was struggling, held fast now in the mire, his strength already ebbing. A dark stain was spreading across his chest. The shot had struck him off center but was sufficient to do catastrophic damage. The man looked a sight: clothing torn and bloody, pale hair streaked with mud and darkened by rain. He coughed, and blood came burbling from his lips.

That was it: as a doctor, Esterhazy knew the shot was fatal. It had punctured a lung, creating a sucking wound, and its placement left a good possibility it had torn up the left subclavian artery, which was rapidly filling the lungs with blood. Even if he wasn’t sinking irretrievably into quicksand, Pendergast would be a dead man in a few minutes.

Already up to his waist in the quaking bog, Pendergast stopped struggling and stared up at his assassin. The icy glitter in the pale gray eyes spoke more eloquently of his hatred and despair than any words he might have spoken, and it shook Esterhazy to the core.

“You want an answer to your question?” Esterhazy asked. “Here it is. I never did murder Helen. She’s still alive.”

He couldn’t bear to wait for the end. He turned and walked away.

THE LODGE LOOMED UP, THE WINDOWS CASTING a blurry yellow light into the driving rain. Judson Esterhazy grasped the heavy iron door ring, heaved it open, and staggered into the entry hall, lined with suits of armor and huge racks of antlers.

“Help!” he cried. “Help me!”

The guests were standing around a roaring fire in the great hall, drinking noontime coffee, tea, and small glasses of malt. They turned and looked at him, astonished.

“My friend’s been shot!”

A boom of thunder temporarily drowned him out, rattling the leaded windows.

“Shot!” Esterhazy repeated, collapsing to the floor. “I need help!”

After a moment of frozen horror, several people rushed over. On the floor, his eyes closed, Esterhazy felt them crowding around, heard the low babble of voices.

“Step back,” came the stern Scottish voice of Cromarty, the lodgekeeper. “Give him air. Step back, please.”

A glass of whisky was pressed to his mouth. He took a swallow, opened his eyes, struggled to sit up.

“What happened? What are you saying?”

Cromarty’s face loomed over him: neatly trimmed beard, wire spectacles, sandy hair, angular jaw. The deception was easy enough; Esterhazy was genuinely horror-struck, chilled to the bone, barely able to walk. He took another swallow of whisky, the peaty malt like a fire in his throat, reviving him.

“My brother-in-law… we were stalking a stag in the Mire—”

“The Mire?” said Cromarty, his voice suddenly sharp.

“A real giant…” Esterhazy swallowed, tried to pull himself together.

“Come to the fire.” Taking his arm, Cromarty helped him up. Robbie Grant, the old gamekeeper, bustled into the room and took Esterhazy’s other arm. Together they helped him shuck off his saturated camouflage jacket and led him to an armchair by the hearth.

Esterhazy sank down.

“Speak,” said Cromarty. The other guests stood around, faces white with shock.