THE MAN WHO called himself Pyotyr saw with intense clarity, all of his senses operating at their fullest, taking in everything around him. Canyon Road was lined with mostly single-story buildings, many of which boasted pueblo-revival architecture, their flat roofs, rounded edges, and earth-colored stucco so distinctive that visitors marveled. The majority of the buildings— some of them dating back to the eighteenth century—had been converted into art galleries, hundreds of them, making this street one of the most popular art scenes in the United States. Tonight, their outlines were emphasized by countless flickering candles—what the locals called farolitos—that were set in sand poured into paper bags and placed next to walkways. Some of the candles had been knocked over accidentally, the paper bags burning, but most remained intact, their shimmer not yet affected by the settling snow. Bonfires lit each side of the road, their occasional loud crackles causing him to flinch as if from gunshots. The wood 10  they burned had been cut from pine trees known as pi.ons, and the fragrant smoke reminded him of incense. Your mind’s drifting, he warned himself, trying to ignore the pain in his arm. Forget the damned smoke. Pay attention. Find a way out of here. His real name was Paul Kagan, but over the years, in other places, he had used many other names. Tonight, he’d decided to become himself. The left pocket of his parka was torn open, the result of someone grabbing for him when he’d escaped. He recalled the shock he’d felt when he’d reached for his cell phone and discovered that it had fallen out............