and may have stayed there for a short time. We believe he helped himself to clothing and other supplies and then used your uncle’s snowmobile to come here.”
“But did he murder my uncle?” she repeated.
“We found your uncle in his bed, with the blanket pulled up over his head. We couldn’t find any signs of trauma.”
“Then how did he die?”
Teplov shrugged. “We don’t know.”
“So he stole my uncle’s snowmobile, rode into Nivsky, and just happened to break into my clinic? How is that possible?”
“We assume that he either found a map, or judging by that,” Teplov said, pointing at the bracket mounted to the handlebars, “a GPS device. Do you know what your uncle used for navigation?”
“GPS,” she replied, telling the truth. “All of the hunters and trappers use them.”
“That confirms what we thought.”
“But how did this Horvath—”
“Harvath,” he stated, correcting her.
“How did this Harvath make the connection between me and my uncle?”
“There’s likely no connection at all. Just coincidence. He’s injured and needed medical supplies. That’s why he came here.”
“So where did he go? I’m assuming your men searched the clinic.”
“They did and he isn’t here. I have other men searching the nearby buildings.”
“Do you think he might come back?”
“To your clinic?” asked Teplov. “No. I think he got what he came for.”
“Rabies vaccine, a couple of tins of cookies, coffee, tea, and sugar?”
“He’s a fugitive. They tend to travel very light.”
“Whatever you say,” she replied. “Can I work on getting somebody out here to fix my door?”
“Not yet,” said the mercenary. “First we need to talk about where Harvath may be headed.”
CHAPTER 44
* * *
* * *
An escort sat in the car with Christina while Teplov and several of his men swept her uncle’s house. Once they had deemed it safe, they had her come inside.
“Was he here?” she asked as she was escorted into the living room.
Teplov nodded and held his hand over the coals in the fireplace. “It looks like it.”
“Sir!” one of the mercenaries called out, as he emerged from the bathroom carrying the hair dye kit and handed it to his boss.
Teplov examined it and said, “Spread the word that we believe the subject has changed his hair color to . . . midnight raven.”
“Sir?” the operative replied.
“Black,” he growled. “Harvath has changed his fucking hair color to black.”
As the soldier stepped away and took out his radio to pass the word, Teplov looked at Christina. “Same question as at the clinic—what do you see?”
“I see my uncle’s house,” she replied, playing it as cool as possible.
“Yes, but is anything missing? Is anything out of place?”
It was now that she was especially glad she’d had the two shots of vodka. Teplov didn’t know what he was looking for. As a result, he was asking her.
Whatever she told him, as long as she was believable, would dictate where his search went next.
“Is it okay for me to look around?” she asked.
“Absolutely.”
She headed for the bathroom and Teplov followed.
Pointing at the wet towels and bloody bandages, she remarked, “It looks like your American was trying to clean up.”
“What can you infer about his injuries?”
She told the truth. “You don’t suture canine bites. You let them ooze. Your fugitive seems to be doing that, which suggests he definitely has medical training.”
“Anything else?”
She shook her head and stepped out.
Leading Teplov into the bedroom, she looked through the closet, the dresser drawers, and the nightstands before declaring them untouched. She did the same thing in the kitchen. In the dining room, she paused.
“What is it?” asked Teplov.
“Nothing,” she replied.
He had seen what she was looking at—a pen on the dining table. He walked over and picked it up.
“Why did this catch your eye?”
“Look around you. My uncle was a neat freak. It’s an insufferable character trait.”
“You disapproved?”
“He’s my elder, my uncle. I don’t get to approve or disapprove. But it was a source of tension between us. His need to have everything in its place bordered on unhealthy.”
It was a lie. Her uncle wasn’t a “neat freak.” He was just an older man with few possessions who kept his home in order. The neat freak label was useful, though, in pointing the mercenary in the direction she needed him to go.
“Interesting,” said Teplov, as he picked up the pen, walked it over to the desk near the bookshelves, and placed it in the leather cup with the others. “What else do you see?”
She took her time looking around. She absolutely wanted to draw his attention to the atlas, but