He lapsed again into silence, the old questions still whirling about in his mind. Who were the men who were after him? What did they want? How much had the FAA learned of the plane? Had they found something to pin it on him? What were these tiny, fleeting thoughts that cropped up in his mind? Was his mind trying to tell him something via the nightmares? And what of his best friend, Nolan Brice. Where has he been? What is he up to? It struck Nick as odd that he had not encountered the detective yet: surely he and Beth had been close the past year. How close? Suppose Brice stumbled upon Andy Hocum. Would the old man talk? Feeling more helpless than he had ever felt in his life, at least the life he remembered, Nick stared at the road until Beth turned off on another road that was little more than a wagon track beside a small creek. A few minutes of bouncing over ruts and stones, and she turned off again, parking beside a grey, frame cabin. "Here we are, darling." They got out, each taking a box from the back seat, and Nick followed her up the stairs to the porch. Beth set her box down and found the key. A moment later the lock clicked and she shoved the door open. "Wait'll I find the light, Nick," she whispered. A moment later, the light snapped on and a soft glow filled the front room of the cabin. They took the boxes to the kitchen and set them on the table, then went back into the front room. Nick studied the place. He liked the room a lot; there was a rugged manliness in the stone fireplace and the knotty pine walls, mingled with just a touch of Beth's femininity to make it neat. All in all, it was a well laid out place. He was attracted to the oil paintings that hung about the walls. "Like it?" Beth asked. He nodded. "But it doesn't bring back any memories?" "No. Hell, honey, I can't even remember what I did for a living." She smiled sadly. "Want to see?" When he nodded, she motioned him to the other side of the front room and opened the door. She flicked on the light and he stepped into a small study filled with the trappings of an artist. Tubes of paint lay on small tables, beside cans of turpentine, lacquer and old paint rags. A half finished nude adorned one of the heavy easels. There were a few water color sketches laying around as well as several oils. "Want to see some of your favorite models?" He nodded numbly, and she drew open a drawer in the table and pulled out four fairly large oil paintings done on commercial painting boards.