Fifty yards later they rolled into an elongated clearing, measuring forty feet wide and a quarter mile long. At the northern end of the ravine was a second slot opening in the rock. To their right, the river gurgled through an undercut section of the cliff.

Thule steered left, made a wide circle so the Toyota’s nose was pointed back the way they’d come, and then braked to a stop. “We will camp here,” he announced. “We will be protected from the wind.”

“Why so early?”

Thule turned in his seat and gave them a broad smile. “Here night falls quickly, along with the temperature. Best to have the shelters erected and the fire started before dark.”

With the three of them working together, they quickly had the shelters-a pair of older Vango siege-style tents-set up and ready for occupancy, complete with eggshell mattress pads and subzero sleeping bags. As Thule got a small fire started, Sam ignited a trio of kerosene lanterns that hung from poles at the edge of their camp. Flashlight in hand, Remi was taking a tour of the ravine. Thule had mentioned that trekkers had in the past found Kang Admi tracks in this area of the gorge. Translated loosely as “snowman,” the term was one of dozens used to describe the Yeti, the Himalayan version of Bigfoot. While not necessarily a blind believer in the legend, the Fargos had encountered enough oddities in their travels that they knew better than to discount it out of hand; Remi had decided to indulge her curiosity.

After twenty minutes, she wandered back into the yellow glow of lanterns around the camp. Sam handed her a wool cap and asked, “Any luck?”

“Not so much as a toe track,” Remi replied, tucking a few strands of loose auburn hair beneath the cap.

“Do not give up hope,” Thule remarked from beside the fire. “We may hear the beast’s call during the night.”

“And what are we listening for?” Sam asked.

“That depends upon the person, yes? As a child, I heard the cry once. It sounded like . . . part man, part bear. In fact, one of the Tibetan words for Yeti is ‘Meh-teh’-‘man-bear.’”

“Mr. Thule, this sounds like a tall tale designed to enthrall tourists,” Remi said.

“Not at all, miss. I heard it. I know people who have seen it. I know people who have found its tracks. I personally have seen a musk ox whose head had been-”

“We get the picture,” Remi interrupted. “So, what’s for dinner?”

Dinner consisted of prepackaged dehydrated meals that when combined with boiling water morphed into a goulash melange. Sam and Remi had tasted worse, but by only a narrow margin. After they finished eating, Thule redeemed himself with steaming mugs of tongba, a slightly alcoholic Nepalese millet tea, which they sipped as night enveloped the gorge. They chatted, and sat in silence for another thirty minutes, before dimming the camp lanterns and retreating to their respective tents.

Once nestled into their sleeping bags, Remi sat reading a trekker’s guide she’d downloaded onto her iPad while Sam studied a map of the area under the beam of a flashlight.

Remi whispered, “Sam, remember what Wally mentioned at the airport about ‘the chokes’?”

“We never asked Thule about it.”

“In the morning.”

“I think now would be better,” she replied, and handed Sam her iPad. She pointed to a section of text. He read:

Known colloquially as “the chokes,” these narrow ravines found along the length of the Kali Gandaki Gorge can be treacherous in the springtime. At night, meltwater runoff from the surrounding mountains frequently flash floods the ravines with little notice, rising to a height of-

Sam stopped reading, handed the iPad back to Remi, and whispered, “Pack your gear. Just the essentials. Quietly.” Then aloud, he called, “Mr. Thule?”

No answer.

“Mr. Thule?”

After a few moments’ delay, they heard the scuff of a boot on gravel, followed by, “Yes, Mr. Fargo?”

“Tell us about the chokes.”

A long pause. “Uh . . . I am afraid I am not familiar with that phrase.”

More scuffing on gravel, the distinctive click of one of the Toyota’s doors being opened.

Hurrying now, Sam unzipped his sleeping bag and rolled out. Already mostly clothed, he grabbed his jacket, slipped it on, and quietly unzipped the tent. He crept out, looked left and right, then stood up. Thirty feet away he could just make out Thule’s silhouette leaning through the Toyota’s driver’s-side door. He was rummaging around the interior. On his feet, Sam began creeping toward the Toyota. He was twenty feet away when he stopped suddenly and cocked his head.

Faintly at first, then more distinctly, he heard the rush of water. Across the ravine he could see the stream was roiling, white water lapping at the sides of the cliff.

From behind, Sam heard a tsst and turned around to see Remi poking her head from the tent flap. She gave him a thumbs-up, and he replied with a palm out: Wait.

Sam crept toward the Toyota. When he’d closed the gap to ten feet, he ducked down and continued on, stooped over, around the rear bumper to the driver’s side of the vehicle. Sam stopped, peeked around the corner.

Thule was still leaning into the Toyota, with only his legs visible. Sam eyed the distance between them: five feet. He extended his leg, carefully planted his foot, and began shifting his weight forward.

Thule whipped around. Clutched in his hand was a stainless-steel revolver.

“Stop, Mr. Fargo.”

Sam stopped.

“Stand up.” Thule’s charmingly stunted speech had vanished. Only a slight accent remained.

Sam stood up. He said, “Something tells me we should have checked your ID when you offered.”

“That would have been wise.”

“How much did they pay you?”

“For rich people like you and your wife, a pittance. For me, five years’ worth of wages. Do you want to offer me more?”

“Would it do any good?”

“No. The people made it clear what would happen to me if I betrayed them.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam could see the river had begun expanding outward, and, far behind, the rush of water was gaining in volume. Sam knew he needed to play for time. Hopefully, the man before him would let down his guard, if only momentarily.

“Where’s the real Thule?” Sam asked.

“Two feet to your right.

“You killed him.”

“It was part of the task. Once the waters recede, he will be found along with you and your wife, his head crushed by the rocks.”

“Along with you.”

“Pardon?”

“Unless you have a spare spark ignition wire laying around,” Sam replied, patting his jacket pocket.

On impulse, Thule’s eyes darted toward the Toyota’s interior. Anticipating this, Sam had started moving even as he’d patted his pocket. He was in midleap, his hands a foot from Thule, when the man spun back around, the barrel of his revolver lashing out; it caught Sam high on the forehead, a glancing blow that nevertheless gashed his scalp. He stumbled backward and dropped to his knees, gasping.

Thule stepped forward and cocked his leg. Sam saw the kick coming and braced himself while trying to roll away. The top of Thule’s foot slammed into his side and flipped him onto his back.

“Sam!” shouted Remi.

He rolled his head to the right and saw Remi sprinting toward him.

“Get the gear!” Sam croaked. “Follow me!”

“Follow you? Follow you where?”

The Toyota’s engine grumbled to life.

Moving on instinct, Sam rolled onto his belly, pushed himself onto his knees, then got to his feet. He stumbled toward the nearest lantern, six feet to his left. Through his pain-hazed vision he saw, down the ravine, a twenty-foot-tall wave of white water churning through the slot. Sam snatched the lantern off the pole with his left hand, then turned back toward the Toyota and forced his legs into a shuffling sprint.

The Toyota’s transmission engaged, the wheels sprayed gravel, peppering Sam’s lower legs. He ignored it and kept moving. As the Toyota lurched forward, Sam jumped. His left leg landed on the rear bumper; he clamped his right hand on the roof rack’s rail.