Prey (5 page)

Any other day, any
other
Sunday for that matter, no problem. All they had to do was to get a fix on the target, give him a call, and he'd be out the door with hiking boots, cammo and survival gear, a twenty-eight-hundred-dollar bolt-action McMillan Signature Alaskan rifle, a Zeiss 3-9x variable scope, and fifty rounds of .300 Winchester Magnum jacketed soft points all packed and ready to go.

But not
this
Sunday.

Marie might be a problem, though. She had spent the last two months working overtime and trading shifts to get five days off in a row. He was supposed to take her to the Helena National Forest for a long-promised backpacking trip along the continental divide.

So it was all a matter of timing now—no matter whether she managed to get off early from her last shift of the week or worked late and called after the final buzzer.

After it would be nice, he thought as he waved his hand over the steaming Belgian waffle iron and then raised the lid and forked the golden-brown almond waffle to the plate. Very nice indeed, but hardly likely, he reminded himself as he poured thick, hot blueberry sauce over the steaming waffle. He'd discovered that having an emergency-room nurse for a girlfriend was just about as bad as being a homicide cop, especially when it came to making plans for days off.

Timed to perfection, the perking coffeepot rumbled one last time and then fell silent.

Henry Lightstone wasn't the least bit surprised to hear the phone ring just as the referee lofted the ball for the tip-off. The jarring sound caught him with a mug of steaming coffee in one hand and a forkful of waffle in the other, forcing him at last to make a decision. Basketball or Marie. One or the other, and he was probably going to have to decide right now. He stared into his coffee cup. It should have been an easy decision, because Marie Pascalaura was the best thing that had happened to him in years. The incredibly sensuous emergency-room nurse of Hispanic and American Indian descent preferred long hikes, tent-and-shovel camping, and slow dancing over almost everything—except sex.

And most important—despite her career—she wasn't the least bit concerned about the guns.

"Hello," he mumbled through his mouthful of waffle, forcing his voice to remain casual as he watched Drexler steal a bad pass from Scott.

"Henry Lightner, please?"

The voice, instead of warm and lively, was jarringly cold, whispery- hoarse, and all too familiar.

"Yeah, this is Lightner. Who is this?" he asked, trying to stall for time.

"Henry, surely we know each other too well for such games? I call you today to tell you the most important thing—that it is time to go. My brothers and I have found him."

The voice had shifted in tone, now vaguely French, decidedly Cajun, and discreetly mocking.

"Hello, Alex." Lightstone responded cautiously, because Alex Chareaux was known to be a coldhearted kill-freak who had lulled more than one victim to a horribly slow death. His pressed-linen suits, his slickly combed long black hair, his gentle phrases, and his silk-smooth Cajun charm belied his favorite passion: traditional French-Indian combat. The confrontation required each combatant to clutch a razor-sharp frog knife in one hand and the opposing end of a large white handkerchief in the other, while they fought to stay alive without letting go. The femoral artery, right at the point where the groin and upper leg intersect, was the target of choice, because—as a Louisiana warden had once explained to Lightstone—you could stand there and watch the life fade from a man's eyes while the spurting arterial blood turned the clothes of the two adversaries a bright red.

It was said by those who had experienced the horror of watching Alex Chareaux fight that the fiery glaze in his dark, reddened eyes was a permanent result of staring at too many piles of blood-soaked white linen burning hot and bright in the midnight darkness of the humid Terrebonne swamps.

But the incredible part of the Chareauxs' reputation was that Alex Chareaux was considered by far the most civilized of the three Chareaux brothers.

Henry Lightstone had decided long ago that he wouldn't mind at all if he never met the other two. He felt mildly disturbed by the realization that he had never really severed his long, depressing association with psychopathic freaks, even though it was over ten months since he'd worked his last homicide case. Lightstone shook his head slowly and then hit the record button. All that Special Agent Henry Lightstone could really do now was to play his character and see how it flowed. Alex Chareaux was an exceedingly dangerous individual who, more than anything, loved to play with things before he watched them die. It was very important to listen carefully to what he said.

"Henry, I know. This was supposed to be a special day for you," the whispery-hoarse voice chuckled sympathetically, "but who among us can ever say how fate will play her hand, no? My brothers, they searched all the night and all the day looking for that one special creature who would best satisfy your needs. I know today is your Sunday, but when he appeared, it was as though fate herself had smiled on us all. What could I do?"

There was a silent pause.

"Henry," he went on quietly, "if you do not want him now, I will understand. He is yours first, as we agreed, but we have other clients who would be happy to take your place. You understand, surely, that there are not so many like this one that we can just let him go."

"What's he like?" Lightstone whispered, unable to help himself because he was fully in character now, and this was what he got paid for. And besides, Alex was right. Henry Allen Lightner, wealthy businessman, sportsman, and safari hunter par excellence, had been waiting for this one for a very long time.

"I am telling you straight, Henry. He is Boone and Crockett, without question. So obvious, it will not even be necessary that they make the measurements."

"Wow," Lightstone whispered.

"He is an amazing creature, Henry," Chareaux went on. "Huge and terrifying. Even Sonny, I think, is a little afraid of him. When you see him, you will understand."

"Where?" Exactly the question Henry Allen Lightner should be asking, because he would be salivating. Lightstone knew the man all too well. He had created him, and lived him for six months: an ex-jock from San Diego State University with a bachelor's degree in marketing, a decent stake of family money, and a kickback friendly attitude that masked the true disposition of a game-player who was willing to go for the jugular to make a deal. Lightner had moved to Montana and made his fortune in record time. But deep down inside, he was an aggressive, greedy, and dedicated killer. A man who would pay almost anything to fill up all the empty spaces on the basement walls of his secret trophy room.

"He is just north of Yellowstone now, a few miles east of Gardiner. My brothers, they spotted him in the park about an hour ago, but he kept moving, so it took them a while to get to a phone," Chareaux added.

"You found him
inside
the park?" Lightstone blinked in genuine surprise.

"But of course, Henry. Where do you think the big ones live? Outside, where they can be killed by any penniless fool with barely the money to buy the bullets and a tag?"

"So you guys moved him out?"

Alex Chareaux laughed. "They are smart, these creatures, and I think they know that the park is their sanctuary. But," he added conspiratorially, "they have no real sense of boundaries, so you see, it is not so difficult after all."

"For Christ's sake, Alex, that place is crawling with park rangers and federal agents. Are you guys out of your living minds?"

Really into character now, Lightstone nodded, because Henry Allen Lightner was extremely worried about getting caught by the Feds. He'd made that very clear at his first meeting with Alex Chareaux and had continued to emphasize it during their subsequent conversations.

And now, after weeks of work, he just might have the bastard.

It was better than he could have hoped for, and at the same time, far worse, because Yellowstone was about two hundred and twenty-five miles south of Great Falls, which meant a good four-hour drive even if the roads were clear. Which they weren't, Lightstone knew, because the radio stations had been putting out storm advisories all morning.

Lightstone felt his chest tighten as he realized that the only viable option was to fly down to Bozeman and then rent a car and pick up Highway 89 at Livingston.

"You should not worry about these federal people, Henry," Alex Chareaux advised cheerfully. "My brothers and I have been outsmarting them since we were little children. You have heard the story, of course, that most of the federal judges are chosen from the lowest ten percent of the law-school students?"

"Oh, yeah?"

"I am told that it is absolutely true," Chareaux said. "But even if it is not, I can assure you that none of these federal judges or prosecutors or policemen are so smart that you need to be concerned. They are simply people who have neither the brains nor the ambition to find honest work, so they take it upon themselves to hinder the honest work of others."

Under normal circumstances, Lightstone might have enjoyed the idea of egging Alex Chareaux on, but he really wasn't paying all that much attention to the outlaw guide now. Mostly because he was desperately trying to figure out some other way to get down to Gardiner without having to go up in an airplane during storm-advisory conditions.

He hated to fly. Absolutely hated it. From Henry Lightstone's decidedly nervous perspective, modern airplanes were made up of thousands of complex parts, each of which had to work perfectly in order for the plane to continue to fly extremely fast so that it wouldn't fall out of the sky.

"Yeah, well, that's fine of course, unless we
do
get caught," Lightstone said. "I'm the one who'd go to the goddamned state pen for the next twenty years."

"Actually, it would be a
federal
prison, Henry;" Chareaux corrected. "And only for ten years at the most. But none of that matters, because you and I are going to do this together, and we are
not
going to get caught. You have my word on that. After all, for what do you think we charge you so much money?"

In spite of himself, Henry Lightstone smiled.

Henry Allen Lightner had a reputation for snap decisions and aggressive action. He was also gutsy enough to have made just over four and a half million in his multifaceted business deals; smart enough to have kept a goodly part of it away from the IRS; and self-serving enough to indulge himself with some of the nicer things that money could buy. All in all, he was exactly the type of client that had made Alex Chareaux and his brothers very wealthy, and increasingly greedy over the past few years.

"What about the locals? Anybody see him?"

"Sonny and Butch are with him, but they're staying back because he is very edgy now," Chareaux spoke. "Perhaps he knows you are coming. Sometimes they can sense that sort of thing, you know. Especially the big ones."

"Really?"

Very nice touch, Alex, Lightstone nodded approvingly. A gentle ego massage for all those born-again clients who were always trying to forge an emotional link between themselves and their intended prey, but were still just a little bit nervous about spending the next ten years in a federal penitentiary.

"Oh yes, I am almost certain of that, Henry," Alex Chareaux said, carefully reinforcing the point. "They are funny that way. Absolutely fearless, but incredibly sensitive also. That is why it is so important that they die well. We owe them that."

Hemingway, Lightstone smiled. Christ, how could Lightner resist?

The point being, of course, that he couldn't. Henry Allen Lightner, moderately wealthy businessman, infamous slayer of the great ones, and proud teller of even greater tales, was hooked.

"Amazing."

"I think you will cherish the memory of this one, Henry," Chareaux agreed. "He has a younger one with him. A thousand pounds perhaps. Too small for your trophy room, of course; but I think he will try to protect her, so you must be quick. The shot must come fast, and be well placed."

"Is she part of the deal, too?" Lightstone asked eagerly, vaguely discomforted by the ease with which the words seemed to flow from the warped soul of his borrowed persona.

The voice on the other end of the line hesitated for a moment, calculating.

"A significant bonus certainly if he is coerced into a charge," Chareaux said finally. "Perhaps an extra two thousand for the charge, but no more than that."

Lightstone remained silent, and Chareaux went on quickly. "It is a shot that only a handful of men ever experience and live to tell about, Henry."

"But you will be there, too, just in
case ..."

Lightstone had been careful to include a few well-chosen flaws in Henry Allen Lightner's persona. Henry Allen Lightner, the young and wealthy Great Falls businessman, was just a little too tight with his money to play the role of a big spender, and perhaps a little too nervous to stand and face a full-grown grizzly all by himself.

For that, he would need the spine-bracing presence of a Cajun coon-ass swamp boy who had faced death a thousand times from the day he could first stand.

"But of course," Chareaux replied immediately. Lightstone thought he could detect a trace of contempt in the guide's well-controlled voice. "But only to watch for others. Your meeting with the dark one is a private affair, Henry. My brothers and I will be there, certainly, but I can tell you now that you will neither want nor need us on that day."