Dusk, light mist.

On a country road, a Porsche Cayenne was slowly driving by.

There were two people in the car.

The man driving was surnamed Clark, about thirty-seven or thirty-eight years old, broad-shouldered and thick-waisted, with a wide back. His willow-leaf eyes seemed never to open fully, but they were sharp and lively, as if he had four eyebrows, with a smile that hid a knife.