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“It’s nothing more than a great bloody cat!” Jones exclaimed.

Richard pulled the trigger and shot him in the head.

He cocked the revolver again and stood poised there for several seconds, looking at the aftermath to make sure he was not misinterpreting the evidence of his eyes, out of wishful thinking. But Jones was unquestionably dead.

Finally he raised his gaze from what remained of Jones and looked up and out over the field of weeds and overgrown scrub beyond. It was by no means clear what Jones had been marveling at in the last moment of his life. For fresh green leaves had not yet begun to bud out, and the hue of the place was the tawny umber of last year’s dead growth. Finally, though, Richard’s eyes locked on something out there that was unquestionably a face. Not a human face. Humans did not have golden eyes.

The eyes stared into Richard’s long enough for Richard to experience a warm rush of blood to his cheeks. He was blushing. Some kind of atavistic response, apparently, to being so watched. But then the eyes blinked, and the cougar’s tiny head turned to one side, ears twitching in reaction to something unseen. Then it spun around, and the last Richard saw of it was its furry tail snapping like a whip, and the white pads of its feet as it ran away.

THE FORTHRAST FARM

Northwest Iowa

Thanksgiving

Richard had been spending a lot more time at the farm lately, mostly because he had been named executor of John’s will. Since Alice was still alive, this was much less complicated than it might have been — he didn’t have to sift through all his older brother’s property, only the bits that were of no use or interest to Alice. This meant tools, weapons, hunting and camping gear, and some clothing. Richard distributed all of it among John and Alice’s four sons and sons-in-law. Only a few odds and ends remained. Of these, the most difficult for Richard to deal with — speaking here of emotional difficulty — were the artificial legs. Owing to Richard’s habit of buying John a new pair whenever he read about some fresh innovation in that field, there were a lot of them, piled up like cordwood in a corner of the attic. During a weepy afternoon of sorting through them, Richard hit on an idea: an idea that might not really make that much sense on a practical level, but somehow felt right. He got in touch with Olivia, who said that she “knew how to reach” Sokolov. A few emails passed back and forth containing measurements and photographs. The finding was that Sokolov’s height, weight, leg length, and shoe size were a close match for John’s, and so by the end of the day Richard was down at the local UPS depot shipping several very expensive carbon-fiber right legs to an address in the United Kingdom. Custom stump cups and other modifications would, of course, be needed, but the result was that Sokolov got something a bit nicer than what he would have been issued by the National Health Service.

At eleven in the morning, after they had all come back from the memorial service — a ceremony honoring not only John but Peter, Chet, Sergei, Pavel, the bear hunters, the RV owners, and two of Jake’s neighbors — Zula hooked her laptop to the big flat-screen on Grandpa’s porch, and they made a Skype connection to Olivia in London. She had just returned to her apartment after work and was looking every inch the smartly turned-out intelligence analyst. Once the connection was made, she insisted that Zula put her face up to the little camera above the laptop screen and display her new artificial tooth, which was indistinguishable from the one that had been knocked out, and the lip in front of it, which bore a hairline scar and a little notch. The notch, Zula explained, was fixable, but she had decided to keep it. Olivia heartily approved and pulled back her hair — which she’d been growing in — to show off what she described as the “Frankenstein” scar that had been incised on her scalp in Xiamen.

These preliminaries out of the way, Zula backed away from the camera. Olivia made some approving remark about her church dress. Zula responded with a mock-demure curtsy, then smoothed the garment in question under her bottom as she settled into the couch right next to her grandfather. “My goodness, who are all these fine gentlemen?” Olivia exclaimed. “What company you keep, my dear!” For sitting on Zula’s other side was Csongor, dressed up in a hastily acquired black suit from the big and tall section of Walmart. With the timeless awkwardness of the suitor embedded deep in enemy territory, he reached one arm around and laid it on the back of the couch across Zula’s shoulders. A slapstick interlude followed as his hand came down on Grandpa’s oxygen tube and knocked it askew. Fortunately Richard had had time to read all the instruction manuals for Grandpa’s support system and get trained in how to make it all work, so he jumped up in mock horror and made a comical fuss of getting it all readjusted and then offered to perform CPR on his dad. It was unclear just how much of this Grandpa was actually following, but his face showed that he understood that it was all meant to be amusing.

“How about you?” Zula asked, when things had calmed down a bit. “What sort of company are you keeping, honey?”

Olivia seemed to have set her laptop up on a kitchen table. She rolled her eyes and sighed as if she had been caught out in a great deception. Her hands got big as they reached for the laptop. Then her apartment seemed to rotate around them, and they were greeted with the sight of Sokolov, dressed in a bathrobe, drinking a cup of coffee and reading a book through a pair of half-glasses that made him seem oddly professor-like. This elicited a cheer from the group in Iowa. He lifted up his coffee mug and tipped it toward them, then took a sip.

“Isn’t it a bit late in the day, there, to be getting out of bed and having your shower?” Richard asked lewdly. Sokolov looked a bit uncertain, and off-camera they could hear Olivia feeding him some scraps of Russian. When he understood the jest, he looked tolerantly into the camera and explained, “Just came back from gym.” He then leaned back in his chair and heaved his leg up onto the table. It occasioned a moment of silence from those watching on the sofa. Finally Richard said, “It suits you.”

“Is small price,” Sokolov said. “Is very small price.” The workings of the video chat linkup made it difficult for them to know who he was looking at, but Zula got the sense that the look, and the words, were intended for her.

“We all had some things to pay for,” Zula said, “and we paid in different ways, and it wasn’t always fair.”

“You had nothing to pay for,” Sokolov said.

“Oh,” Zula said, “I think I did.”

The silence that followed was more than a little uncomfortable, and after giving it a respectful observance, Olivia edged around into view, standing behind Sokolov, and said, “Speaking of which, what do we hear from Marlon?”

“We’re going to Skype him later,” Csongor said. “It is early in the morning, yet, in Beijing.”

“He doesn’t work all night anymore?” Olivia said wonderingly.

“Nolan has him on banker’s hours,” Richard said. “Oh, he was up as recently as a few hours ago, playing T’Rain, but we’re going to let him catch a little shut-eye before we confront him with this.” And he made a gesture down the length of the couch.

“I think it’s a very nice lineup to be confronted with,” Olivia said, “and I’m sorry H. M. government doesn’t observe Thanksgiving, or I’d be there.” She glanced down. “We’d be there.”

“Immigration,” Sokolov said darkly.

“We’ll get that sorted,” Olivia assured him.

Gunshots were heard from outside. It was difficult to know how the sounds came through the Skype link, but the expression on Sokolov’s face changed markedly.

“It’s nothing!” Zula exclaimed. “Here, I’ll show you!” She got up, picked up the laptop, carried it as close to the window as its cables would allow, and aimed it out in the direction of the crick.

To Richard, in truth, it was quite a bit more than nothing. He’d been dreading it for half a year. It was impossible for him to hear the sound of guns being fired without thinking of things he didn’t want to remember. In Seattle, he and Zula had been seeing the same doctor for treatment of posttraumatic stress.

But lurking in the house all day wasn’t going to make that better, and going out to participate was unlikely to make it worse. And so after they wrapped up the Skype call with fond words and promises of future transatlantic visits, all of them except for Grandpa put on warm clothes and ear protection and shuffled out toward the crick. Jake was there, and Elizabeth, and the three boys. They had taken a week off from the cabin-rebuilding project to drive out from Idaho and check in with the extended family and lay flowers on John’s grave. The boys, homeschooled in the wilderness, had been an awkward fit with the crowd of mostly affluent suburban midwesterners who made up the re-u, but here they were in their element, moving up and down the line assisting their cousins with jams, giving them pointers in marksmanship. It was a relatively still day, which was a blessing for outdoorsmen, even though it meant that the wind turbines were not doing much.

Richard was examining one of those — he’d learned a lot more about them, now that he was handling some of John’s residual business affairs — when he saw an SUV turning off the highway into the gravel drive that led to the farmhouse. About a hundred feet in, it stopped at the checkpoint that the state patrol had set up, nominally to stop terrorists from coming here to wreak revenge on the Forthrasts, but also to keep media from coming in and making nuisances of themselves. Richard could not see through the windshield at this distance, but he could tell from the body language of the state trooper that the driver was one deserving of respect. The gate was opened and the SUV waved through. It came down the driveway with a searing noise, a plume of dust rising in its wake.