Page 11

HUNTER

T he three-star hotel was two stories, with a single elevator that was out of order. Hunter took a swift, adequate shower and went down to the hotel bar.

The bartender was a tougher nut than Hunter himself and had no interest in conversation, but a group of three young men who looked related came in, joined a few moments later by a rowdy woman with long, loose hair who seemed to want to pick a fight.

To his surprise, there was a tingle of instinct suggesting one or more of them was a shifter; he wouldn’t be able to tell which without getting closer. Hunter eavesdropped shamelessly, nursing his craft beer and pretending to scroll on his phone.

“I can’t believe you’re working for the oligarchy!” the woman protested, dropping down at their table in a familiar fashion. “Was the money that good?”

“Not me,” one of them protested. “Talon is a slave driver, besides being a total hag.”

Hackles rose on the back of Hunter’s neck and his grip on his glass tightened .

“She’s okay,” one of the others said, barely soothing Hunter’s ire. “Just because she’s not going to pay for naps on the job or let you show up stoned. It’s just work, Feather. There’s not a surplus of jobs in this dead end town and she’s paying overtime.”

“You’re spineless, Kyle. It’s going to be an eyesore. A blight on the town.”

“It’s a quarter mile back in the woods, who cares if a billionaire builds an ugly house on their own property.”

“What about the wildlife being disrupted?”

“You aren’t drinking that Coalition for Nature Kool Aid, are you, Feather? It’s one house, not like a whole development. How much wildlife is going to be impacted?”

“It starts with a house,” Feather said ominously. “Can I get a Red Bull and rum?”

“No wonder you’re so paranoid!” one of the men who wasn’t Kyle scoffed.

“It’s not paranoia if they’re out to get you,” Feather smirked.

The conversation changed to the topic of the predicted snow and climate change.

Hunter’s pretend phone scrolling turned into actually searching for the Coalition for Nature, which proved to be a glossy-fronted nonprofit that appeared to be in the business of encouraging outrage.

They had a well-indexed webpage that featured wilderness criminals , and sure enough, there was the Carthridge house.

The Coalition claimed that the construction impacted salmon sources and threatened the rural Alaska way of life.

Most of the other projects listed on the page were industrial in nature.

Hunter’s first suspicion was that the objection was personal in nature, and the unflattering screed about Carthridge himself lent credence to his guess.

Hunter copied the link and sent it to his brother Baxter. “ I need everything you can dig up about Carthridge and the Coalition for Nature,” he typed with his thumbs.

“Another beer?” the bartender wanted to know.

Hunter was tempted, but only for a moment. “I’ve got work in the morning.” He settled his tab and took the stairs up to his utilitarian room, where he spent a long restless night wishing there was someone beside him.