Slowly, the group in front of him moved in unison downriver. He stepped carefully toward his snagged fly.
Reaching it, he slipped his hand underwater and followed the taut line. He pricked his finger on the sharp hook and happened to glance up.
A cougar. Less than ten yards away.
For an instant he was stunned-awed-by the sight. Then something more primordial kicked in as he realized he was too close.
The cat was poised, ready to pounce. To strike.
This wasn’t a Discovery Channel moment: She was hunting, and he was meat.
He turned and ran, splashing forward, slipping on the mossy stones, sucking the waders heavily out of the water.
Down the river, the sound drew the attention of the others, who turned hopefully, expecting to see Danny Cutter in control of some massive trout. Instead they saw him stumbling frantically across the river, aimed slightly downriver to allow the current to help his movement. His running was awkward and urgent.
“Bees,” Fiona Kenshaw said. “He got into-” But she cut herself off as the cougar burst offshore into the river as if running on the surface, her paws weightless, her flight graceful and undisturbed.
“Good God!”
Danny heard the charge behind him. It sounded like a bull elephant.
In desperation, he glanced over his shoulder, turning slightly upstream. With this motion, his rod moved like a whip. With the cougar one pounce away from striking, the graphite tip of the nine-foot rod sharply struck the cat on the nose.
The animal dropped its head and went head over heels-a half flip that threw a shower of water at Danny and knocked him down into the river.
The cougar took off in the opposite direction without an ounce of lost momentum. It hit the shore in full stride, blurred into the tawny grasses, and vanished, living up to its nickname: ghost of the Rockies.
Cutter lost his rod as his waders filled. Fishermen drowned in less water, unable to regain balance, victimized by the panic and the weight of water-filled waders. Danny aimed his feet and legs downstream. He used the current to help him stand. Chilled to shivering, he staggered toward the river’s edge and collapsed onto terra firma, winded and dazed.
Somehow-miraculously-he’d escaped a cougar attack. He was alive. Unhurt. He took it as an omen, an arbitrary warning of the preciousness of life. And he swore to God it would not go unheeded.
Nine
W alt’s office door swung open, followed by a strong wind that turned out to be his sister-in-law, Myra. She, of the nervous constitution and skeletal frame.
Her voice could crack glass. “What if you showed Kevin one of those horrible shots of a car all smashed up by a drunken teenager? Maybe that would shock him into thinking straight. Maybe he’d forget about those canyon parties. Or maybe you could lock him up for an afternoon, you know, right here in your jail, and show him what that’s like if you’re busted for drugs. He’s your nephew after all.”
“I’ll take care of it, Myra, I’ll speak to him,” Walt said without turning from his computer. “You can go now.”
“Am I interrupting?”
He knew that voice. He angled to see Fiona just behind Myra, who blocked the door. Fiona wore the small tight T-shirt and hiking shorts he’d seen her in earlier, though her hair looked worse for wear and her face was shiny with sunscreen.
“I called you,” Walt reminded. “How could you be interrupting? Myra? Anything else? Good. Then get out of the doorway and let her in.”
Myra was none too subtle about looking Fiona up and down and then glancing back to Walt judgmentally.
“ Myra!” Walt chastised.
But Myra couldn’t help herself. “I like what you’ve done with the uniforms,” she told him. Then she added, “You’d better call Kevin.”
“Out!”
She huffed off.
Fiona entered, slack-jawed.
“My brother’s widow,” Walt explained, “has installed me as a surrogate father-sometimes an awkward fit.”
“I had a stepmother I hated,” she said, sliding into a captain’s chair that faced his desk in the impossibly small office. She kept her legs extended. Long legs, made longer by the shorts, but cut off by the desk, which was something Walt regretted.
“Thanks for saving me,” he said.
“Anytime.”
“I called because-”
“You need help with some photos. You explained over the phone.”
“It’s been a long day.”
“Danny Cutter was nearly killed by a cougar.”
“You want to run that by me again?”
She explained her witnessing the attack from thirty yards downriver.
“We packed up and came back early, and Danny headed off to lunch with his brother. Men. You can’t really just pick back up like that, can you? Let me tell you something; if that had happened to me, the first thing I’d have done is spend half the day on the phone telling anyone who’d listen. Then I’d have a long hot bath, or two. And then a bottle of wine. Or two. Business as usual? Forget it!”
“That’s two attacks in ten days. The yellow Lab…”
“I shot the photos, remember? That was disgusting. You ought to do something about it.”
“The cougar? Not my department. Fish and Game. But you’re right: They should certainly hear about the attack on Danny.”
“What do you think of him?”
“Danny? He’s okay.”
“Not professionally. I know you busted him. I mean as a person.”
“Don’t really know him. Kind of difficult to separate the two.”
“But first impressions?” she asked.
“He asked you out,” Walt stated.
“Yeah. Is that bad?”
Walt knew Danny Cutter as a womanizing playboy who’d had a two-thousand-dollar-a-week cocaine habit prior to the bust. He thought the cocaine part had gone away. He wasn’t sure the other part ever changed. He liked the man in spite of his criminal record.
“We got some crime-scene photos from Salt Lake,” he told her. “Pretty gruesome stuff. But they’re lousy photos. I’d like to enlarge some, crop and zoom some others. Above my skill set.”
She looked out the top of her eyes at him and said disdainfully, “I see.”
“I need them pretty quickly.”
“It’s a date, is all.”
“A guy named Capshaw-TSA down in Salt Lake -thought it important enough to send these. I have a five o’clock with everyone who’s anyone connected to C3 security. But as I said, the photos are pretty heavy. If you’d rather not do them, maybe you could give me a five-minute course in Photoshop for Dummies.”
“I’ll do them myself.” She sounded angry. “Just tell me what you want.”
The surprise in the photos, especially under enlargement, was the degree of the horrors. The victim’s fingers had been cut off with precision. Teeth had been pulled, shown in the photos with a latex-gloved thumb holding the dead man’s upper lip up over the gap. But worst of all: The face was disfigured and both eyes had been carved out of the sockets. Fiona battled her way through the work.
“None of my business,” she said, “but why do you even want these? You realize they’re far more disgusting as close-ups, right? But evidence is evidence. You can see everything in the originals, so I don’t get it.”
“Can you load them into PowerPoint and burn a disk for me?”
“Of course I can. But it won’t make them any easier to take.”
“What is it they say about first impressions?” Walt asked rhetorically.
“You’re a diseased individual,” she said.
“But you’d watch it?” he tested.
“Of course I would. But I’m sick that way. Like you.”
“This goes no further than this office.” He paused to make sure he had her attention. “There’s been a credible threat on Liz Shaler’s life.” He watched as the shock registered. “At first I wondered if this killing in Salt Lake might be related
. Happened this morning-less than eight hours ago. But once I saw these, once I went through what you just went through, it was no longer if, but how.”
“Jesus. This guy’s here?”
He lowered his voice. “Now I need to get several others to make that same jump.”
Ten
C ristina’s lunch crowd had thinned out an hour earlier, leaving only a few tables occupied on the restaurant’s back deck at 3:30. The wait staff, dressed in all black, hurried about servicing the remaining tables.
“A cougar? Are you sure?” Patrick Cutter wore a pink golf shirt with the C3 logo embroidered on the breast. He focused intently across the table at his brother.
“Of course I’m sure. Give me a break!”
“Did you tell anyone?” Patrick asked.
“I got out of the shower about ten minutes ago. Besides, in case you’ve missed the news: I’m not overly eager to spend time with Walt Fleming.”
“Walt could have been a lot harder on you.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“What about Liz? She’s all right?”
Danny set down his fork, eyed his brother with disbelief. “I almost get mauled by a cougar, and all you can think about is your keynote speaker?”
Patrick pursed his lips.
“Fear not, Paddy: She’s all yours. She’s going to give her talk, announce her candidacy, and your precious conference will go down in history. Congratulations.”
Patrick shook his head but not a hair moved.
“That is what it’s all about, right?” Danny asked. “How many millions of your own money do you spend on this thing? And for what? A little respect? You’re the Rodney Dangerfield of Wall Street, Paddy. The sad thing is, nobody has the balls to tell you.”
“If it was all about my vanity, would Bill Gates attend? Warren Buffett? Ian Cumming? The conference serves its purpose or I wouldn’t do it.”
“That money could be put to better use.”
“Says the man who can’t hold on to a dime. You’re hardly one to talk. You’re off fishing and chasing tail when you’re still ten short on your angel round.”
“It irks you, doesn’t it? My turning you down?” Danny asked, his tone softened.
“The offer still stands,” Patrick said.
“And it’s an incredibly generous one, but one I can’t accept.”
“It just seems to me-”
“Don’t start! Please.” Danny placed his napkin on the table and pushed his plate away, growing more serious.
“Keeping it in the family-”
“And I wish I could, but I can’t.”
“Of course you can,” Patrick said. “You choose not to. There’s a big difference.”
“I choose not to because you’ve bailed me out of every one of my screwups for as long as I can remember. Not that this is a screwup. It’s not. For once I’ve got a chance at something that could actually work. And your help with the business plan-”
“Was minimal.”
“It was not minimal. There you go again. Don’t do that. You helped, and I’m grateful, but when it comes to financing it, I’ve got to do it myself. You’re the one with all the right gut instincts. You don’t become a billionaire on luck. I’ve got to do this, Paddy. That’s all. You know that feeling when you know you’re right.”
“Then at least start with Stu Holms. This fits right into his latest round of acquisitions.”
Danny joked, “Don’t tell that to Liz. She’ll slap another antitrust suit on him.”
“Heaven help us,” Patrick said.
“Any tricks to Stuart Holms? Other than not mentioning Liz Shaler?”
Patrick grinned and stabbed at the slices of chicken in his salad. “He’s old school. You won’t get a second chance. Practice on Sharples and Jenkins. Save Holms for when you’re ready. You’ve got several strong talking points: Trilogy has done well regionally; the push to national distribution isn’t that big a stretch; lean on the fact that the big bottlers filter the water and that your source is two miles deep. Stu likes a good story, so don’t be shy. He’ll appreciate the evolution and growth. You’ve done a good job, Danny. That’ll mean something to him. You won the trademark on ‘organic water.’ That’s huge. He’ll see the value. Save that for last.”
“All good stuff,” Danny said.
Patrick dripped some dressing onto his shirt.
Danny couldn’t help himself. “The pink shirt doesn’t work, Paddy. You look like you’re wearing house insulation.”
“You think?” Patrick blushed, tugged on his shirt, and then looked around the restaurant self-consciously.
Danny saw surprise register on his brother’s face, just before he heard the warm, soothing voice behind him.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in. Hey, you two.”
Ailia Holms was strong and fit, like so many of the Sun Valley women. Soon to be middle-aged, with a body that peeled off ten years, she held back a restless playfulness. Her red hair forewarned her personality. She was a comfortable flirt in a bright green top and Oilily stretch pants that cleaved to her backside as she bent to peck Patrick on the cheek.
“Speak of the devil,” Patrick said.
She faux-patted the top of her head, taking advantage of the moment to show off the latest augmentation to her breasts. “Devil? Are my horns showing?”
She gave Danny an awkward hug that perhaps intentionally thrust her breasts into his chin. “Long time no see, stranger.”
“True story.”
“Everything good?” Ailia asked unflinchingly.
“For a guy who just spent fourteen months in Club Fed, you mean?”
“I don’t care where you’ve been, Danny. It’s good to see you, is all. You look good.”
“And you.”
“So…Ailia…” Patrick said. “Tell us about London.”
“We didn’t go, as it turns out. Stu got hung up with some deal. Surprise.”
“You’ve been here…all along?” Patrick asked. Danny was suprised by the obvious disappointment on his brother’s face.
“We knew you’d be busy preparing for the conference. Looks like a great one, by the way. Elizabeth Shaler! You waited long enough to announce that!”
Patrick reached for a chair from an empty table. Ailia waved away the offer.
“I’d love to, but I can’t stay. Stu’s waiting.” She leaned into Danny a second time and pecked him on the cheek. “See you tonight, I hope,” she whispered.
She gave Patrick an air kiss. “Looking forward to tonight,” and hurried off.
Both men tracked her through the tables.
“Don’t go there,” Patrick cautioned. “You’re damn lucky Stu never found out about you two the first time.”
“Who said he didn’t?”
“Stu is many things but charitable is not one of them. Nor is he forgiving.”
“I thought the whole town knew.”
“Apparently not.”
Patrick flagged a busboy. “We’ll take the check.”
The scrawny kid turned around and clearly recognized him. “Ah…yes, sir.” He lingered a little longer. “You’re Mr. Cutter, right?”
“Yes, I am.”
“I’m all over the G-six.” He patted his pocket.
“Did you opt for multiplayer?” Patrick asked.
“It’s bitchin’.”
“Kevin?” Cristina, the proprietor, called from the next table. She’d overheard.
“Check,” Kevin said to her, spinning around to tend to the vacated table.
Danny asked his brother, “The G-six?”
“A gaming cell phone. Multiuser over EVDO-high-speed wireless. Teens are our fastest-growing market.”
“You never stop.”
Patrick took it as a compliment.
“You really think the pink doesn’t work?”
Eleven
W ith the contact lenses removed, his full vision restored, Milav Trevalian studied the mirrored reflection of Rafe Nagler. Th
e corners of his lips twisted up, stretching the theatrical facial hair glued to his face, a grin of satisfaction for having made it through the loss of the dog.
Ricky was no prop; he needed the dog. He’d also left his backpack behind, a calculated risk necessitated by the incompetence of the airline. The Brasilia ’s lack of overhead baggage space had required all passengers to gate-check their carry-ons. But either the Salt Lake or Sun Valley ground crews had mixed it in with the checked baggage. When it failed to appear on the pickup cart, Trevalian had lost his temper, quickly changing horses and directing his rage at the baggage handlers. With the unexpected loss of the dog, and the sheriff all over him, he’d feared trying to recover the backpack. This, because he couldn’t be sure if he hadn’t left an old airline identity tag attached to it. With the opaque contacts in place, making him truly blind (he carried two sets, one translucent), he hadn’t been able to see if there was a tag there or not. He couldn’t afford close scrutiny so the bag and its contents had been left behind.
Trevalian unpacked Nagler’s suitcase, tried on the unfamiliar clothes, and discovered the dead man’s shirts fit fine; the pants, though big in the waist, could be made to work with the help of a belt. He noticed small bumps of thread had been sewn into tight knots on the insides of the back pockets of the pants-Braille-like personal codes allowing Nagler to determine color. He found the same hand-sewn bumps on the shirttails, and also on the socks.
He unpacked the man’s clothes into the dresser drawers, hung shirts and pants in the closet, and spread items from the toilet kit on the bathroom counter. He even smeared some toothpaste to imitate the man missing his toothbrush.
Still contemplating a way around the death of the dog, he settled down onto the bed and lay back. Waiting came easy for him. Milav Trevalian had the patience of a saint.
Twelve
I t felt strange to enter his own vehicle as a guest, but the Secret Service would occupy the Blaine County Sheriff Office’s Mobile Command Center-the MCC-for the next four days.
A rock-and-roll tour bus confiscated in a drug bust and remodeled and equipped with every conceivable trick, the MCC was currently parked in front of the post office in the obnoxiously large parking lot that fronted the Sun Valley resort.
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