The security guards don’t react to the comment, or to his attitude. No doubt they’ve heard it all before. Their vibe is professional, by the book, and Shane is thinking that if this is how they run the show in the village, breaking through security is going to be a real challenge.

“You’ll need this,” the female guard says, handing him a small plastic device. “Clip it to the visor.”

“What is it?” Shane asks innocently, although he has a pretty good idea what the device is and how it functions.

“Smart tracker,” the guard responds. “We track all vehicles within the village boundaries. No exceptions.”

“Oh yeah?” says Shane, allowing a touch of belligerence to sound in his contractor’s voice, feeling his way into the role. “What if it falls off or gets lost?”

The guard gives him a don’t-mess-with-us look. “If the signal is interrupted, that will be detected by our sensors, sounding an alarm. We are obliged to respond in force.”

“Like what, a SWAT team?”

“A little like that, yeah.”

“Are you kiddin’ me? Really?”

“We take security very seriously, sir. Enjoy your stay.”

They wave him through the checkpoint.

Three miles farther on down the road, Shane comes around a steep, dramatic curve, and just as he does so the night sky clears, revealing a bright canopy of stars behind the soaring mountains.

Beautiful but a little spooky, truth to tell.

The whole village is laid out before him, subtly illuminated, as if the architects had the amazing night sky in mind. Nestled into the base of the mountain peaks is what appears at first glance to be a small college campus, attractively frosted by the recent snowfall. The Conklin Institute, no doubt. Higher up the mountainside, he can make out ski lodges and luxury condo complexes of the type he has seen in Aspen. Steep, snow-shedding metal roofs, walls of glass and shingle, some of the windows illuminated by guests-in-residence.

Road signs point him to Domicile One, situated on the lower level, directly across from the campus. Despite the name it looks very much like a chain hotel, and the folks at the front desk look like ordinary hotel employees, uniformed in sky-blue blazers, neat haircuts, and well-trained smiles.

Overnight bag in hand, Shane scuffs the snow off his boots before stepping into the lobby. Wanting the staff’s first impression of him to be favorable. Never know when you might need a favor.

“Amazing stars!” he booms, grinning heartily. “Is it always like that here?”

He presents his coded card.

“Welcome to Conklin, Mr. Gouda. May your stay be profitable.”

“Excuse me? Oh, I get it. Yeah, yeah, I hope so. That’s the idea, right?”

“They’ll explain it all at the seminar, sir.”

“Uh-huh, yeah. Let me ask you, I couldn’t get a signal out there in the parking lot. Is there a problem with cell phones? I gotta make some calls.”

The desk manager, baby-faced and as generically friendly as a battery-powered puppy, smiles happily. “Cell reception is spotty, Mr. Gouda. There’s a telephone in your unit. Feel free to use it-there’s no extra charge.”

“Yeah, okay,” says Shane the contractor, thinking that a place as well-organized as this would have a cell tower if it so desired. So if visitors are being directed to a locally wired phone system, there has to be a reason. The security service likely monitors the guests’ calls. Ah, paranoia.

“The Hive opens for breakfast at 6:00 a.m. Don’t miss it-they make a mean pancake. Your seminar begins at 8:00 a.m. sharp, in Profit Hall. Just follow the signs. And a reminder-the doors to the hall close at precisely eight. No one is admitted after that, and failure to attend means your invitation will be automatically revoked.”

“Meaning I get the old heave-ho?” Shane says affably. “You folks play rough!”

“Your time has measurable worth, sir. So does ours.”

Shane shrugs. “That seems fair enough. I’ll have my butt in the seat, don’t you worry.”

The ‘domicile unit’ is, as promised, cozy, in that it’s quite small. Certainly not the typical motel room he expected. No TV, no broadband or wireless connections, further limiting access to the outside world. The single bed is too short for his elongated frame, but he’s used to that, and in any case doesn’t expect to be getting much sleep, or to spend much time in this little room. The only entertainment on offer is a freshly minted copy of The Rule of One, situated on a bedside table in roughly the spot that you might find a Gideon Bible in a regular hotel chain.

He decides the room has the feel of a monk’s cell, except that he supposes monks don’t get their own showers or toilets, or fluffy fresh towels.

Shane unpacks, placing his shaving kit within reach of the shower stall and sink. He takes a long, pleasantly hot shower and then dresses in dark clothing. Figuring on taking a midnight stroll, getting a feeling for the layout of the village, maybe a sense of when the security patrols come through, and how they might be avoided. Maybe get a glimpse of the so-called Pinnacle, if the stars stay bright.

You never know what you might see when the rest of the world is asleep.

His gut instincts tell him that Haley Corbin is being held somewhere in the vicinity. Probably not in the village itself-it’s unlikely that her captors would risk her being seen by visitors-but definitely somewhere within Ruler territory. He’s mindful that although Conklin County comprises something like two thousand square miles, most of the occupied part is right here.

She’ll be somewhere close.

Shane checks the time. Barely nine, much earlier than he thought, considering the starry depth of the night, or the general sense of slumbering quiet within the motel, or the domicile, or whatever. Maybe he doesn’t need to wait until midnight for his walk on the wild side. Eleven will do. No problem.

Shane lies down on the narrow bed, fully dressed. His feet extend well beyond the foot of the bed, but the mattress has a pleasing firmness and the pillow is, to his surprise, pure heaven. He’s thinking the room is a bit stuffy, maybe slightly too warm-is there a thermostat? He can’t recall seeing a thermostat-and the air has a faint medicinal odor-what is that exactly, and why does it seem so familiar?

He closes his eyes.

In three deep breaths he’s sound asleep.

“We were never able to develop any proof,” Weems says. “Not actionable proof.”

The man is explaining how he knows that Jed and twenty-six other equally innocent passengers were murdered, and yet he remains utterly calm. It makes me feel like screaming, or scratching his eyes out, or both.

How can they be doing this to me? First stealing my little boy, then making me relive the horror of my husband’s death all over again? How can they be so cruel and yet remain so calm? How can they be so cruel, and yet remain so cool about it? Weems acts as if he’s delivering a lecture. Missy and her husband sitting there like toads, blinking at me, as if they’ve heard it ad nauseam. And maybe they have.

“Monsters,” I say, my throat thick. “Jed always knew what you were. That’s why he cut himself off from you horrible people.”

Weems nods sagely, as if anticipating my every response. “Great men often have problems relating to their children. It goes all the way back to the ancient kings. In the animal world, male lions will sometimes destroy their own cubs, rather than risk competing with them when they’re fully grown. Arthur is-was-a genius, a transcendent thinker, but like all humans he’s not without faults. He drove his only child away, and that is a terrible thing, even if his intentions were otherwise. Even if he later regretted what he had done.”

“Jed never even knew his mother was dying! How could anyone do that to a boy? His own father!”