Glancing about her, Koda asks, “Where are your windmills?”

“Down on the floor of the valley on the other side of the mountain,” Kriegesmann answers from inside the cold house. Condensation billows out of the door, though the temperature has begun to drop rapidly with the oncoming dark and the increased altitude. “This place was originally supposed to be an off-grid retreat—you know, meditation gardens, resident gurus, drumming, that kind of thing. Not much money in it, though, and the bank wound up with the property.”

“Foreclosed on it, you mean,” Kirsten says suddenly. She has not spoken since they passed the gate, and Koda glances at her sharply.

“If you want to put it that way.” Kriegesman shrugs, grinning. “We call it—called it—assuming the burden of the investment. Très, très touchy-feely and all that.” He waggles his fingers at her as he emerges from the locker, snapping the door shut behind him and padlocking it.. “A kinder, gentler takeover, with full-color brochures and lots of western art on the walls.”

“And you run this place like you did the bank?”

“More or less. Most of the people here worked for us before. The rest, the hunting parties that were here when the uprising began, the skiers, the Christmas vacationers were almost all business people, too. They speak the language.”

Kirsten gestures toward the hasp and chain. “You ration out the food?”

“Not to raccoons and wolverines. Or bears. A couple years ago a yearling grizzly wandered into the lobby somehow. Scared half the guests and himself out of ten years’ growth. We’ve reinforced doors and double-locked everything on the ground floor ever since.”

It is not an unreasonable answer. Raccoons have no need for opposable thumbs to open doors and get into pantries, and bears and wolverines are notorious for raiding campers’ food supplies. Wolverines, especially, have nasty habits, fouling everything they do not eat or carry away with their overwhelmingly pungent musk. With the conservation policies and the reforestation work done under the last two federal administrations, they have re-established themselves along the spine of the Rockies and in the northern tier of states bordering Canada. With the near-eradication of the human population, their range is likely to expand even further. Kriegesmann’s explanation is plausible, makes excellent sense, and still leaves Koda with a vague sense of unease.

She cannot quite put her finger on it, and her left brain refuses to sort out the information into neat data points and conclusions. Something about Kriegesmann bothers her, beyond her general distaste for the sort of old-style coroporate solipsism he seems to represent—and, to be truthful, she has no firm evidence for that except for his offhanded contempt for the spiritual community whose property his bank (His family’s bank? There is that recurring ‘us.’) has apparently managed not only well but conscientiously.

Whatever it is, it cannot be her concern. She and Kirsten will have a good supper, she will look at the children as requested, and they will be back on the trail tomorrow after a night in a comfortable bed, richer by half an antelope.

Still, she intends to sleep in her boots, with one hand on her gun.

Kriegesmann sets off up the stone-paved path toward the rear of the lodge, waving them ahead of him with an exaggerated deference and a small bow. Closer to, the smell of meat and herbs wafts along the air, together with the scent of cornbread baking. Kirsten’s stomach rumbles audibly, and Koda flashes her a sympathetic grin. Whatever the ethical shortcomings of their host, his family and their corporation, they have evidently managed a comfortable sort of survival. Like every such enclave, they will have gathered in what livestock they could, raided what supermarkets and warehouses they could. Perhaps she can barter her veterinary services for some cornmeal and flour, maybe even a pack horse.

The door opens onto a substantial receiving area stacked with carboard boxes almost to the ceiling. Some few appear to be empty, but most, everything from canned beans and tomatoes to stomach acid remedies, are still stapled shut. Koda glances back at Kriegesmann. “You pretty much clean out Caspar, or what?”

“Or what. We got down to Boulder, too, before the gas ran out.”

“How bad is it in Caspar?” Kirsten asks, her eyes running over the piles of supplies. Koda can almost see the numbers cascading in her head. How many refugees at Elk Mountain? How long will this feed them? How long until they turn to preying on other survivors?

“It’s bad,” Kriegesmann answers, grimacing. “Even worse in Boulder. Lots and lots of droids for such a back-to-nature place.”

“Looks like you’ve got enough here to do you for a while.”

“Yeah. We found some seed, too, and some farm stuff. We’ve started growing what we can.”

Koda raises an eyebrow at him. “Kind of a change from banking, isn’t it?”

“I don’t do dirt.” Kriegesmann flashes her a grin. “I hunt. Lots more fun.” He bangs on the door that leads to the kitchen. “Yo! I’m back! There’s company!”

The woman who opens the door stands not much taller than Kirsten, but the legs below her running shorts are brown and tightly muscled. Her tank top does nothing to conceal washboard abs; the tendons in her hands and wrists run rippling under tanned skin. Her grey eyes slide past Kriegesmann, hardly acknowledging him. Her gaze lingers, though, on Koda herself and on Kirsten, appreciative but cool, almost aloof. She gives Kriegesmann a tight smile. “So I see. I’m Tanya Kriegesmann. Come in. You’re just in time for supper.”

“Sis, this is Dakota Rivers. Doctor Dakota Rivers. And meet Annie—” He pauses, his hand describing small circles in the air.

“Rivers,” Kirsten supplies, firmly. “Doctor Annie Rivers.”

“Funny,” Kriegesmann says, “you don’t look like sisters.”

It is either dry humor or stupidity; Koda opts for the former. “We aren’t. We are hungry, though. Chasing that antelope right into your sights was hard work.”

Tanya gives a small, amused snort. She says, “Ari’s good at shooting things. Particularly if he doesn’t have to get off his ass to do it.” She gestures toward a double swinging door, steel clad and further reinforced at the bottom for waiters with their hands full. “Supper’s this way.”

She leads them through the kitchen, still equipped to feed perhaps a hundred guests. Industrial-sized pots hang from tracks anchored to the ceiling; the sinks, all shining steel, are deep and long as bathtubs. A dusting of flour remains at one end of a polished pine workbench that anywhere else would pass for a banquet table. Kirsten walks between Koda and Tanya, her shoulders drawn in, hands on the straps of her pack. Consciously or not, she appears to avoid touching anything in the room, and a wisp of memory floats through Dakota’s mind. Persephone in the underworld, condemned to remain if she ate or drank from the table of Hades. For half a second she considers bolting here and now. Beside her, sensitive to her mood, Asi whines, and she reaches down to pat him.

Food first. Then a bath. If we still feel spooked, we can leave before dawn, no one the wiser.

The kitchen opens onto the dining room, its tables still white-draped like ghosts. In the darkened lobby, a cavernous room with exposed rafters, stuffed animal heads punctuate the walls. There are deer and elk, bear and buffalo. A pair of moose antlers over the mantle stretches almost the width of the large fireplace. Through the window Koda can see half a dozen children chasing a ball down the driveway, shepherding it for a stretch between their feet, then kicking. A woman follows them slowly, her body heavily pregnant. Her face, a little bloated with the nearness of her time, seems peaceful in the fading light, her hands clasped under her breasts as she paces. A golden retriever lopes along the path, shuttling between her and the children. Asi, his interest pricked at last, trots to the window and utters a sharp bark. The retriever looks around, puzzled, then resumes her care of her human family. “Shall we let him out?” Tanya asks, running her own hand down Asi’s back. “Or would you rather have him with you since he doesn’t know the area?”

“His feet are tired, too,” Kirsten says with a smile. “Let’s let him rest.”

A smaller room leads off the lobby to one side of the hearth. Bottles still line the wall

Behind the antique walnut bar, but half the shelves stand empty. Attrition has set in among the glassware, too; the stems for alexanders and whisky sours that hang above the bar show chips on some of the rims, and here, too, many seem to be missing. “Family dining room’s this way,” Kriegesmann says, turning to open a door carved with a line of quail, the young ones strung out between their parents as they make their way through a jungle of columbine and lupines. A discreet sign beside the jamb names it The Covey. “This used to be the VIP club. Still is, so to speak.”

The room is brightly lit by lamps and candles. Seven people sit at a long table in the center, staring at them as they enter. Tanya crosses the small room to a sideboard and begins to set two more places, while her brother introduces them. “My dad, Julius Kriegesmann.” The man seated at the head of the table, his white beard and hair impeccably trimmed, nods in greeting. “My mother, Harriet.” Harriet looks decades younger than her husband; not, in fact, much older than her son. Kirsten smiles at her, murmuring “Beaucoup Botox,” under her breath so quietly that even Koda barely hears her. Another sister, Diotima, who is evidently the mother of the two children lately afflicted with spots, waves and gives a blinding smile when introduced; neither offspring, however, can be coaxed to look up from their mashed potatoes long enough to greet the visitors. “Errolllll,” their mother whispers. “Vanesssa. Manners. Please.” Humphrey Smith, Diotima’s husband, and a black haired woman with uptilted black eyes, introduced merely as Elaine, round out the company. Tension hums around the room, running a three-pointed current among Harriet and the two daughters, between Julius and Elaine, between Tanya and Ariel.