Tom Bishop emerged from the Bern train station, dodging commuters as he struggled to orient himself. There was the church Reto had mentioned, and there was the covered tram station, and in between was the large open space where Reto said they’d meet.

Tom quickly crossed the street and stood where he felt he’d be most visible. Placing his carry-on between his feet, he surveyed his surroundings.

He’d been abroad before, for pleasure as well as business, but he was always struck by the age of the rest of the world and America’s relative youth. The country he was now standing in had existed, in one form or another, for more than 700 years, and some of these buildings were perhaps as old as the country itself.

Yet Switzerland was the leader of nothing and had always been, while the United States, half a millennium younger, had been the leader of the free world for more than fifty years.

Tom, who loved his country, felt this was something to be proud of, yet it also inspired perspective. Not far to the south was Italy, a country that had once ruled the modern world and had given it so much. Today it was a theme-park version of its former self and in precipitous decline. What would the United States be like in fifty or a hundred years? Would it still be admired for what it was, or best remembered for what it had been?

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It was Walker who decided they wouldn’t go back for the others. The only way to go was forward, he insisted.

“We know what’s behind us. The army and those creatures,” Walker explained. They stood in a tight circle beside a dirt road that led away from the restaurant and into the hills. “If we go back, we’ll be walking straight into danger, and we know it.”

“What about Harry and Tanja?” Nic asked, talking to Walker but looking at Hélène, who still hadn’t left the other man’s side. “And Markus?”

“Hopefully they’ll make it,” Walker said, “and once we’re safe, we’ll find a place to stop and we’ll wait for them.”

The five of them walked along the road for the next couple of hours, keeping to the edge of the forest. Walker and Hélène were in front, with Jane and Ryan in the middle and Nic bringing up the rear. It was uphill all they way, the quiet air gradually thinning and cooling. When the sun rose, a view of the lake opened up behind them, far below.

“Daylight,” Jane said with a sigh of relief. It had been the longest night of her life. She found Ryan’s hand and squeezed it. “Thank god.”

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When his alarm went off at 5:45am, Tom Bishop, who hadn’t been sleeping, climbed out of bed wearing only boxer shorts, pulled on a T-shirt, and moved down the hallway to Alice’s room.

He opened the door quietly, not wanting to disturb her, only to find his wife sitting up in bed watching television. He watched her for a moment, not thinking or feeling anything, just giving her the opportunity to let him know if she wanted or needed anything. When she finally looked at him, she didn’t speak, and there was nothing like a question or request in her eyes. Eventually her attention returned to the TV. Tom closed the door and walked away.

After showering and shaving, he put on a pair of pressed black slacks and a crisp white dress shirt. His usual uniform. Standing in front of his bedroom mirror, he put on a black necktie, tying a perfect four-in-hand knot on his first attempt. As usual. Then he grabbed a suit jacket out of the closet and went downstairs.

It was only when he was standing in the kitchen, leaning against the counter and staring into a freshly-brewed cup of coffee, that he realized he had nowhere to go.

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The stone staircase turned left, then left again. When Hélène reached the bottom, she stopped, looked, and listened.

The basement was deep, and as silent as a tomb. She was at least three full meters below the restaurant, maybe more, and whatever was happening upstairs she couldn’t hear. Everything down here except the ceiling was built of stone, and it was at least five degrees cooler.

She stood at the end of a long, narrow corridor, lit by bare fluorescent lamps spaced several meters apart, with gloomy gaps of near-darkness between them. She couldn’t see the other end of the corridor, but she was certain it stretched beyond the end of the restaurant above.

She lowered her bound hands until they were behind her thighs, then she sat on the stairs. Facing a short hallway across the corridor that led to a women’s restroom, she lifted her legs, bent her knees and brought her hands around in front of her. Her eyes fixed on the restroom, she freed her hands using the knife she’d picked up in the kitchen. Tossing the binds aside and rubbing her wrists, she realized that she couldn’t continue down the corridor without first making sure that the restroom was clear. She took a deep breath and stood. Knife in hand, she advanced into the short hallway.

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It started with their son Kaspar.

He’d been out in the fields late in the evening, tending to the cows and goats. When he returned to the farmhouse, he was wide-eyed and white as a ghost and bleeding from a large wound on his shoulder. He claimed a man had emerged from the darkness and attacked him. He’d fought back and was afraid he’d killed the man, but he couldn’t be sure. Early the next morning, they were still trying to figure out what they should do when Kaspar died.

Sandra and her husband Bruno wrapped him in a blanket and loaded him into the back of their Subaru Outback. Then they put their two younger children, Luca and Paula, in the back seat and started driving down the hill. They’d been underway for just a few minutes when Paula let out a piercing scream. When Sandra turned around, she discovered Kaspar inexplicably sitting up and twisting Luca’s head as if he wanted to rip it off. The twelve-year-old boy was clawing in vain at his brother’s wrists and making an awful gurgling sound. Just as Sandra called out for her husband to do something, the boy’s neck snapped.

When Bruno turned and saw what was happening, he immediately drove the car off the road and into a ditch. Unfazed by the crash, he grabbed a hammer from the glove compartment and leapt out of the car. When he flung open the back door, Paula spilled out onto the ground, and he struck Kaspar several times in the head, killing their older son for the second time. After a moment of frozen perplexity, Bruno picked up Luca’s limp body and started walking back to the farmhouse. Sandra helped Paula to her feet and together they walked after them.

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The sun had just peeked over the horizon, and its weak light seeped through the curtained front window, filling the Sheffields’ living room with a hazy glow. A heavy silence hung in the air, complementing the room’s stillness. Devoid of people — devoid of any movement or sound whatsoever — it wasn’t hard to perceive the room’s current state as something permanent. As the sun rose and set, only the light would change.

Then, almost simultaneously, the front and back doors crashed inward, and two columns of F.B.I. agents surged into the house. Voices were raised, barking out orders, and rifles and handguns were swung and pointed in all directions.

Two groups of agents broke off from the others, one rushing upstairs, the other descending swiftly to the basement. Both groups were quick and thorough. Neither found any sign of life.

It took the agents perhaps half a minute to secure the house and determine that it was empty. The Sheffields had left, and Michelle Bishop wasn’t there.

Carol Shaw met the lead agent at the front door and together they toured the house. This was not the result that they’d been hoping for, but her decision to finally act on Tom Bishop’s conviction had been somewhat vindicated. It was six-thirty in the morning on a Wednesday. Someone should’ve been there. The Sheffields were guilty of something.

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The restaurant was long and narrow, its ceiling high. Helene sat in a booth at one end, her eyes wide and alert.

To her left was a door that led down to a restroom: a sign next to it read ‘WC’; a slot below the sign demanded a franc for entry. Beyond the door was a large island counter topped by shelves loaded with glasses and bottles of liquor. Facing her at the near end was a coffee machine; at the other end, she thought she saw a sink. Opposite the island counter, to her right, was a wall of sectioned glass, six windows that reached the ceiling, now boarded up.

At the far end of the restaurant stood a booth like the one she was sitting in, facing hers, its mirror image. Otherwise it was all long wooden tables and chairs from one end of the restaurant to the other.

Helene’s hands were bound behind her. She had no idea where she was and only a vague idea of how she’d gotten there. It had all happened in darkness, and with a rough, discourteous urgency.

The lights in the restaurant were bright, certainly brighter than they needed to be. The light hurt her eyes, but she wouldn’t close them, or even blink unless absolutely necessary. When something happened, she would be ready.

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Walker stumbled as he hurried through the front door, his cell phone pressed against his ear as he waited for Jane to pick up. He barely managed to close the door behind him before regaining his footing and leaping awkwardly down the steps to his car.

“Jane Sheffield.”

She sounded like a robot. Good. Better that than the fit she’d thrown when her boyfriend had gone missing.

“It’s me,” he said.

He climbed in behind the wheel and slammed the door. Then, after tossing his cell phone from one hand to the other, he started the car and revved the engine. He didn’t stop to wonder what he looked like — to realize that now he was the one having a fit. In his mind, he was still in control, a man of action. He put the car in drive and pulled away from the curb.

“What do you want?” Jane asked. She didn’t sound pleased that he’d called, but he was sure this was only because he reminded her of how pathetic and loathsome she was.

“The police were just here,” he informed her.

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The next time the forest opened up, they found themselves beside a freeway. An Autobahn, Jane told herself, although who knew what the Swiss called it. Their version of German was a persistent wonder.

Four lanes of pavement spread out before them, littered with various vehicles, many with doors hanging open, all evidently unoccupied. Down the middle of the freeway ran a strip of unpaved earth in which a miserable-looking hedge stood sandwiched between a pair of guardrails. Beyond that was a tour bus, turned sideways across both southbound lanes. Bits of glass, plastic and metal were strewn everywhere. Yet whatever violence had occurred here, all was now cold and quiet. Still and funereal, like an auto scrapyard.

“Now we know where they came from.”

Harry’s daughter was standing nearby, peering out at the wreckage. Back on the train, Jane had guessed that she understood English. Apparently she’d guessed correctly.

“I’m sorry,” Jane said, “but I’ve forgotten your name.”

“Tanja.”

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From the intersection, he could see one of their cars parked at the curb. Someone was home. He crossed the street and continued along the top of the hill. To disarm them, he would enter from the alley.

His phone rang. It was Carol Shaw, his boss. He sighed and took the call.

“Bishop.”

“Tom, it’s Carol.”

“Nice to hear from you,” he said. “Curious to know how I’m enjoying my involuntary vacation?”

“I’m curious to know why your wife called here looking for you.”

He could picture Carol in her office. She would be standing — she rarely sat — and most likely gazing from her office window at the mountains to the west. Her status as Special Agent in Charge had earned her an office with a view of the Olympics.

“I’m sorry she bothered you,” he said.

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