Prey: A Novel Page 7

  Chad enjoyed the disconnect between the way people perceived him and how he really was. No one, literally no one, had any idea what he was capable of, but then he’d spent almost his entire life carefully building his persona, crafting his mask, as if he’d known from childhood that one day his life would depend on it. He’d been blessed—or cursed, depending on how you looked at it—with ordinary features, and he’d worked hard to make himself even more ordinary. He kept himself in fairly good shape, something no one would ever guess to look at him, because he deliberately dressed in clothes that never quite fit properly, that made him look shorter and heavier, and as dweebish as possible. Who would ever be wary or suspicious of a slightly plump Woody Allen? No one. And so he’d gone about his life all but invisible, and all the while he’d been amassing a fortune right under their noses.

  It was second nature to him now; he didn’t even have to think about stuttering, or the slightly off-balance way he’d taught himself to walk, or the fumbling way he handled everything from a water glass to a cell phone. God, the CIA could take lessons from him in undercover guises.

  Mitchell Davis approached the baggage claim area, pulling a rolling duffel behind him and carrying a computer bag in his other hand. Chad stumbled to his feet, dropping his cell phone and sending it skittering across the floor. Clumsily he lurched for it, and when he straightened his face was red from being bent over. He didn’t let himself even glance at the computer bag, though it was a solid confirmation, if he’d needed one, that Davis was on his electronic trail. He felt a little bit of a thrill, because Mitchell Davis would have him killed without a second’s hesitation if he could find what he was looking for, but at the same time Chad was contemptuous of Davis, not only for bringing the laptop but evidently not being aware enough of where they were going to realize that not only would there not be wifi everywhere, there wouldn’t even be cellular service.

  “Good flight?” he asked, automatically monitoring the amount of nervousness he let enter his tone. He judged it to be perfect.

  Davis grunted. He was several inches taller, his hair going gray, his eyes cold and hard. “I hope you’ve already got the rental.”

  “It’s waiting for us. I got a four-wheel-drive SUV, is that okay? I thought we’d need one for, um, the room in back and all that. But I can change if—”

  “It’s fine,” Davis said curtly. “Let’s go.”

  Davis was accustomed to people kissing his ass, but he wasn’t usually that brusque. He’d want to be certain, though. Chad was too good at what he did for Davis to have him eliminated without solid proof. There were money launderers, and then there were true currency geniuses, and Chad was the latter. To some people, those more astute than others, that would have been a tip-off, so Chad had countered that signal with his degree in accounting and the implication that his talent with money was more along the lines of savant than savviness. That way his talent could be regarded as an oddity, an outlier, rather than an integral part of his overall intelligence. For this he thanked that Tom Cruise/Dustin Hoffman movie about the autistic savant, because that was the image that had been planted in people’s minds.

  Davis followed the signs to the rental parking area, with Chad trailing behind, pulling his own duffel. “It’s the red one,” he said, keeping the uncertainty and nervousness foremost in his tone. “Is that okay? Red’s kind of—We can get another color, maybe something black, if you don’t—”

  “Who cares what fucking color it is?” Davis interrupted impatiently, and held out his hand. “Give me the keys.”

  “Keys? Oh. Oh, sure.” Chad released his duffel and let it fall, rather than standing it upright, as he fumbled in his pocket for the keys to the rental. No way would his character’s persona argue about who was driving, the way a more dominant man would, even though he’d been to the Powell place before and actually knew where he was going. He’d fudge on that, too, consulting maps and directing Davis to make at least one wrong turn. The very last thing he wanted was to have Davis the least bit on guard.

  Perception. It was all about perception.

  Angie couldn’t remember what Chad Krugman looked like, but she did remember that he didn’t ride very well, which meant it was a good thing they were trailering the horses most of the way. She’d made arrangements for a place to park her truck and trailer, and they’d ride the final eight, maybe ten miles. Unless Krugman had been practicing his horsemanship, he’d still have a sore ass, but there wasn’t anything she could do about that other than offer her sympathy, and she’d have to do that silently, because in her experience most men got all bent out of shape if she so much as hinted that they couldn’t do something as well as she could, even when it was glaringly obvious.

  When he and his client drove up just before dark, she automatically looked at the man who got out of the driver’s seat, but he wasn’t familiar at all. She was a little surprised, because logically Krugman should have been driving—he’d been here before, therefore he was more familiar with the sometimes confusing twists of the dirt roads, which might or might not be marked. She then looked at the passenger, and even though she’d refreshed her memory by looking at his photograph, there was still a blank moment before she had a vague “oh, yeah, now I remember” kind of thing that underscored how unremarkable Chad Krugman was.

  He was an inch or two taller than she, soft around the middle, with thinning dark hair and forgettable features. His clothes were kind of baggy, and just as forgettable. He wasn’t ugly, he wasn’t attractive, he was just nondescript. If his personality had been stronger none of that would have mattered, but he might as well have been born with “ineffectual” stamped on his forehead in glowing neon, except that would have been too memorable. Whatever he did for a living, Angie was fairly certain he’d never be a howling success at it. He’d muddle by, mostly by escaping notice, and that would pretty much define his life.

  His client, Mitchell Davis, was almost Krugman’s polar opposite. Angie smiled at both of them as she went down the steps to greet them. Krugman smiled hesitantly in return, but Davis merely gave her a dismissive look, as if he had more important things to do than being polite.

  “Ms. Powell, it’s nice to see you again,” said Krugman, and when Angie held out her hand he hastened to grab it in a slightly moist grip.

  “You, too,” Angie said easily. “And please call me Angie.”

  “Of course. And I’m Chad.” He looked pleased, then that expression was chased away by an anxious one as he said, “Mr. Davis, this is our guide, Angie Powell. Angie, Mitchell Davis.”

  Davis merely nodded his head while he looked around, his sharp gaze taking in her less-than-new truck and the horse trailer that had seen better days; his upper lip curled slightly. She kept her face bland. Maybe her truck and equipment weren’t brand new, but they were in good shape and got the job done. “I’m glad to meet you,” she said, keeping her manners in place even if he wasn’t making any effort to do the same.

  Davis was everything Krugman wasn’t. He was taller, leaner, his dark hair touched with gray at the temples. His features were hard and chiseled, his eyes a clear gray. His movements were crisp, authoritative. His clothes fit him as if they’d been custom made for him.

  Angie disliked him on sight.

  She could already tell this was going to be a long, long week. With any luck, Davis would bag his bear almost immediately, and neither of them would see any need to hang around for the rest of the week doing nothing. If not, well, she’d keep her mouth shut and a smile in place, and get through it as best as possible. Like anyone who worked with the public, she’d had clients before whom she disliked, and they’d gone home none the wiser. Davis wouldn’t be any different. Maybe.

  “Let me show you to your cabins,” she said after the men had gotten their duffels from the back of their rented SUV. Krugman knew the way, of course, but she led them down the path that led to a patch of ponderosa pines behind the house. The cabins were tucked among the trees, partially visib
le from the house but positioned so both she and her clients had a sense of privacy. She had already turned on the lamps inside, and turned up the heat. Each cabin also had a working fireplace, if someone wanted the ambiance of a real fire, but the shared heating unit was more efficient and less work. Most people didn’t bother with a fire.

  “I’ve put the boxes with your rifles inside your cabins,” she said. “Chad, the first cabin is yours.” She unlocked the door and gave him the key. “Mr. Davis, this one is yours.”

  “Yeah, great,” he said as he took the key from her, his tone making it plain he wasn’t impressed by the accommodations, either. She pushed her annoyance away. She would be polite to him.

  “I’ll leave you to unpack,” she said to both of them. “If either of you brought your laptop and need to go online, Internet is available at the house. There’s also a television room, if you want to watch anything tonight. Supper will be served at seven. It isn’t anything fancy, just stew and biscuits. I’ll see you then, or you can come in earlier to watch television or talk.”

  “Sounds wonderful,” Chad said, smiling nervously. Davis’s hard, cold eyes said he disagreed, but at least he kept his opinion to himself.

  As she strode back to the house, Angie reminded herself that this wasn’t about her, it was more about the dynamics between Chad and his client, and they weren’t good. He was trying so hard to impress Mr. Davis, and Davis was making it plain that he thought the entire trip was second-rate at best.

  The success of the trip would depend on whether or not the hunt was a good one. Though it was getting late in the year, not all the bears would have denned yet; the weather had been relatively mild, so some bears would still be active. She would find Mr. Davis a bear or bust a gut trying.

  She half-expected Chad to come up to the house before the dinner hour, but to her surprise it was Mr. Davis who showed up. He carried a laptop case. “I need to check some reports,” he said brusquely.

  “Sure. Right in here,” she said, showing him to the small den outfitted with a flat-screen television and satellite Internet; in the corner was a desk with a wifi modem. She gave him an index card with a string of numbers typed on it. “This is the wifi password.”

  “Thanks.” He was already taking out his laptop, but at least he’d made a nod toward manners.

  “You’re welcome.”

  She left to give him some privacy, and finished setting the table. People didn’t come on hunting trips expecting bone china and silver utensils, so she didn’t even try to go that route. The plates and bowls she set out were sturdy earthenware, glazed a dark green with black rims, and she used a particularly heavy set of stainless steel. She did put out cloth napkins, made from a thick, heavy-duty, dark green cotton that didn’t show stains.

  The meal was a simple one, with the stew, fresh homemade biscuits, and chocolate cake. She knew all three were above average. Maybe she wasn’t a great cook but she was a darn good one, and she enjoyed it when she had the time. When she’d lived in Billings, with access to a greater variety of ingredients, she’d liked experimenting with different dishes. Maybe someday she’d be able to try her hand at different stuff again, but right now all she could handle was the basic, hearty dishes. Part of this stew, for instance, had already been put in the freezer for next week, when she was back from this hunt. With nothing else on her books, and no anticipation of any further income for the next several months, she couldn’t afford to throw away any food.

  At ten to seven, Chad appeared in the door to the dining room. “Smells good,” he said.

  “Thank you.” She gave him a smile, keeping it neutral, but a smile all the same. “Mr. Davis is in the den, on his laptop.”

  Chad made an awkward gesture. “I won’t disturb him. Is there, ah, any way I can help?”

  “Just by eating your fill,” she replied. “Everything’s under control.” She checked the time. “The biscuits are ready to come out of the oven, so if you’ll excuse me—”

  “I’m sorry. Sure. I didn’t mean—”

  “You’re my guest,” she said, breaking in on his stammered apology. She tried another smile on him, hoping to settle him down. “It’ll take just a minute to bring in the food. I hope you like chocolate cake!”

  “I love it,” he said, looking relieved at the change of subject.

  Dinner conversation was going to be heavy-going, but at least she didn’t have to be in there, she reflected as she took the biscuits out of the oven and placed them in a napkin-lined bread basket, which she placed on a tray along with the big tureen of stew. She carried the tray into the dining room and set everything on the table, then put the tray aside. “What would you like to drink? I have milk, hot tea, coffee, and beer. Water, too, of course.”

  “Ah, beer.” He seemed a little self-conscious as he said it, though she couldn’t think why.

  “A beer for me, too,” said Mr. Davis as he came into the dining room.

  Angie returned to the kitchen, got two beers from the refrigerator, and poured them into glasses. As she set the glasses down in front of the men, Chad said, “Aren’t you eating with us?” When he’d been here before she’d done exactly that, but the company had been more convivial. She didn’t have any hard-and-fast rule about eating with clients, but neither did she believe in torturing herself if she could get out of it, so no way was she having a meal with these two tonight.

  “I’ve already eaten,” she said, which was a bald-faced lie, but so what? She’d get something to eat in the kitchen, either that or wait until she was cleaning up and have a bowl of stew then. She’d rather do without entirely than eat with them.

  “Have you scouted out the area where we’re going?” Davis asked as they sat down to eat.

  She paused on her way out of the dining room. “I have, a few days ago when I took supplies up to the camp I’ve leased. There was fresh bear sign.”

  “But you didn’t actually see a bear?”

  “No, but I wasn’t trying to. I didn’t want to make contact with one beforehand.” She’d been armed, of course, but she’d also been alone. Bears gave her the heebie-jeebies, even when she was with a hunting party, so she sure wasn’t about to go looking for one when she was by herself. That was something she’d keep to herself, of course; knowing your guide was afraid wasn’t something that would make a client feel confident.

  “So you don’t know if the bear is a decent size.”

  The tone of his voice made it plain he thought she’d already failed test number two of guiding, the first one being not having a shiny new dual-axle pickup like Dare Callahan’s. Chad looked embarrassed and fumbled his spoon, making a clattering noise when he dropped it on his plate. For his sake, Angie kept her voice bland and didn’t let any hint of irritation show through. “I do, going by how high the claw marks are on the trees. I estimate this particular bear is about seven feet long, which is big for a black bear.”

  “And how do you know it’s a black bear?”

  “By the fur that was snagged on some chokeberry bushes. It’s always possible a brown bear is also in the territory and didn’t snag any of its fur,” she said, before he could make that argument, “but I know a black bear is in the vicinity.” She kept a death grip on her patience, and her tone pleasantly neutral.

  “What’s your plan if this bear has gone to den in the time since you’ve been up there?”

  Every sentence was like an interrogation with this man. Angie reached for a larger supply of patience. “If we don’t find fresh scat the first day or two, we move farther afield. A bear’s territory is usually two to ten miles. This time of year they aren’t as active as they would have been earlier, but some are still moving around. The weather is still relatively mild, thank goodness. This time last year, we were already a foot deep in snow.” Last winter had been horrendous, beginning early and hanging on weeks later than normal, taking a huge chunk out of time when she normally had at least some photographers wanting to go out, and that had been another nail i
n her financial coffin.

  “If you don’t mind me asking, Miss Powell, how long have you been guiding?”

  “Most of my life. When I was a kid, I helped my dad, and as I got older I began taking out clients on my own.” That was all true; she kept to herself that her teenage solo trips had been mostly photography, some bird hunting. She had gone with her dad on a lot of his hunts, though, so she wasn’t a novice. He’d loved teaching her what he knew about reading sign, how to call game to the hunter’s location, and how to shoot. What she’d learned had gone deep; when he’d died and she moved back home, she’d stepped into the life with barely a pause.

  “These are great biscuits,” Chad offered, making an obvious stab at changing the subject, and taking a big bite of biscuit to prove his statement. “Did your mother teach you how to cook?”

  “No, I learned by trial and error, and there were a lot of errors along the way.” She put humor in her tone, and completely bypassed the mention of her mother because it was irrelevant. Some people had great mothers; she wasn’t one of them. She’d had a great dad, so fifty percent wasn’t bad. Life was what it was, and she’d been luckier than some.

  She tried to leave again, but Mitchell Davis asked a few more pointed questions as if he were trying to trip her up. Chad kept awkwardly trying to change the subject and eventually earned himself a cold, pointed stare from Davis, which was when he gave up and simply sat there in squirming misery, eating some but otherwise withdrawn. Through it all, Angie stood without fidgeting and answered Davis’s questions as if they were nothing out of the norm, keeping her expression bland, not letting him get to her.