Bear Bait (9781101611548) (37 page)

“It’s the podium!”

“Look out at the room,” Nicole directed, whispering. “We’re not alone.”

Frowning, Sam followed her lead. Shit, she was lousy at this pretending business.

Leaning close, Nicole pointed up to the projection window, and then waved a hand around the room as if demonstrating its features to her. “Now tell me—softly—why you said that.”

“Jack Winner owns a woodworking business. I saw a podium like this in his workshop. Actually, I saw several.”

“I see.” Her gaze flitted to Sam’s face briefly. Then she nodded, reached over, and bent the reading light down a fraction of an inch.

“Don’t touch it!” Sam hissed. “It might explode or something.” Her imagination conjured up the crater of the Lucky Molly Mine. She suddenly pictured a similar hole right where she stood.

“The C-4, Nicole. The C-4 stolen from the mine over on the Peninsula.” Her hands began to shake.

“I understand. Calm down.” Nicole smiled and took her hand, gently pulling her toward the steps at the edge of the stage as if she were reassuring a hysterical celebrity. “Tomorrow’s the big day, Summer. We’ll have it all under control. If there are explosives in this room, we’ll find them tonight.”

Sam certainly hoped so. Now she’d scared herself so badly she was quivering like a hypothermic Chihuahua.

“Get a grip on yourself,” Nicole told her in the parking lot. “And don’t say anything to anyone about this.” Then, raising her voice, she called, “See you tomorrow,” and waved cheerily as she headed back for the building.

Sam sat in the car doing deep breathing exercises for five minutes before she felt calm enough to drive the eighty-five miles home.

FIVE
hours later, she was sitting in the dark at the kitchen table, listening to her most tranquilizing Andean flute tape on her ancient Walkman and sipping her third glass of wine when Chase finally called. “You were right—the podium was packed with C-4 and a nifty little detonation device.”

“Did you check them all? Did you check the seats, too?”

“Of course. But only yours was rigged. The conference schedule’s been out for a couple of weeks now, so they knew which room you’d be in.”

“That makes me feel
so
much better.”

“It’s safe now.”

Was that really true? “Any sign of Jack Winner or Philip King?”

“No. We made sure the place was clear before we did our sweep. Winner’s company set up the electronics in the podiums a couple of days ago; it was in the Winner Woodworking contract. They or some of their cohorts will probably show up tomorrow.”

“Probably? Some of their cohorts?”
His vagueness was ratcheting up her anxiety level.

“Summer, listen. This is important.”

There was more to come? She took a gulp of wine.

“Are you
drinking
?”

She swallowed. “What makes you think I’m drinking?”

He sighed heavily. “Are you sober enough to remember what I tell you?”

“I’m way too sober, believe me.” She thunked the wineglass down on the tabletop. A drip splashed over the rim. She swiped at it with a fingertip.

“The explosives are gone. We replaced the detonator with a receiver in the podium, rigged up to a little red light—you’ll see it at the edge of the book platform. When the receiver gets the signal to set off the bomb, the light will blink. At that point, we want you to raise your right hand and run your fingers through your hair.”

“But you’ll know who it is, right, Chase?”
Just in case the guy has a Plan B, like a gun in his pocket?

“We might need confirmation. When the light blinks, raise your right hand and run your fingers through your hair. Got that?”

“Got it,” she replied grimly.

“We still want you to wear the Kevlar. Be at Door F a half hour ahead of time. A female agent will be there to help you with the vest.”

He seemed much more an FBI agent than a lover now. She was having a hard time remembering how safe she’d felt in his arms. “Where will you be?”

“Around. These people might have seen me with you before. We don’t want them tipped off.”

He was right; Winner, King, various cohorts—whoever that might be—could have seen her with him in the woods, in her truck, in the fire tower, at Mack’s apartment. Seeing her with him might blow the whole deal. And it might make him a target, too. “Shit.”

“You okay,
querida
?”

“I could sure use a hug.” She upended her glass, filling her mouth with the last of the wine.

“That’ll have to wait until tomorrow night. Sleep tight, Summer.
Te quiero
.”

She had to swallow first, so he’d already hung up by the time she got the words out. “Me, too.”

Blake appeared next to the refrigerator in his pajama bottoms and T-shirt. “Did I hear a request for a hug?” He held open his arms.

“Oh jeez, yes.” She hugged her housemate tight.

“Don’t get too invested, Sammy,” he murmured into the top of her hair. “Chase Perez is a nice guy, but he’s the love ’em and leave ’em type.”

She pulled back to look at Blake. “And how would you know that?”

“How many times has he breezed through here so far? How many times have you two made plans and then he didn’t show up?” He tweaked a strand of her hair. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Thanks for caring.” She hugged him again. He wasn’t being exactly fair. Criminals didn’t work on a set schedule, so neither did Chase, and a lot of what he did was necessarily secret. But Blake had precisely named her fear. Could he read Chase better than she could?

Before falling into bed, she scribbled out a will of sorts, leaving Blake the cabin. Just in case her speech didn’t end well tomorrow.

SAM
felt like she was wearing a corset. Was the Kevlar vest too tight, or was this the crushing squeeze of anxiety? She would be murdered by terrorists, or pummeled by rotten fruit thrown by a disappointed audience. One way or another, she was sure she was going to die. And she had to sit in this chair at the edge of the stage and pretend that this was a normal day.

The conference host introduced some guy she’d never heard of, a bigwig in the Department of the Interior. As this stranger read the ridiculously overblown introduction provided by
The Edge
, she scanned the crowd. It looked like there were thousands out there. What were they hoping for? Entertainment? Enlightenment? Clothing ranged from T-shirts and jeans to suits and blazers. The men in ties were a tad overdressed for Seattle. These employees from at least a dozen government agencies had no idea that a group of thugs wanted them all dead. Or maybe, like Peter Hoyle, they were accustomed to receiving death threats, and she was the naive one.

Conservation groups were also in attendance. She recognized a face from World Wildlife Fund, another from The Nature Conservancy, and two from the Save the Wilderness Fund. A cluster of people sported Sierra Club shirts. A couple other familiar profiles were in the room, too. Wasn’t that the silver brush haircut of Jerry Thompson, Superintendent of Heritage National Monument in
Utah? He looked up in that instant, met her gaze, gave her a thumbs-up.

She blushed. The summary of her exploits in his park made her sound like some kind of superhero. In fact, the introduction made her sound like an award-winning outdoor adventure writer instead of a mostly unemployed one. What an imposter she was. But maybe, if she pulled this speech off, she’d become that successful writer. Assuming there was a future.

She took a deep breath, tried to relax her shoulders. Why was she doing this? She wasn’t a soldier who could be court-martialed; she was free to leave. The exit door backstage pulled at her like a magnetic field. But if she walked out, then they’d get away, at least some of them. Or maybe they’d kill someone else here. Or kill her another day. She wiped her damp palms on her pant legs.

Similar scenes were playing themselves out all over the country right now. It was 10
A.M.
here on the Pacific Coast. How many murders of government personnel had already been attempted in the East? How many had succeeded?
Suck it up, Westin
. She licked her lips for the hundredth time. Her lipstick had probably disappeared fifteen minutes ago.

Up front were a couple of print reporters with cameras around their necks and pads and pens in hand. In the center aisle was a television camera on a stand, manned by a guy with a shaved head that gleamed softly under the lights. He covered a yawn with an upraised hand. She hoped he’d stay bored.

There was no station tag on the TV camera. It was probably a private operation, then; the conference was probably being taped for later distribution throughout government agencies.

In the second row, Richard Best was seated beside a young woman with a bright pink camera strap around her neck. He gave Sam two thumbs-ups and mouthed “Knock ’em dead.” An unfortunate choice of words. She saw no sign of Jack Winner or Philip King. Chase had shown her
multiple photos of the two men. But would she recognize either one in disguise? She doubted it. And if “one of their cohorts” had come to kill her, it could be
anyone
out there.

The bomb was gone, she reminded herself. She tried not to think about how much better the FBI was at solving crimes than at thwarting the plots in the first place.
You never hear about the crimes we succeed in preventing,
Chase had argued.

Where was Chase, anyway? She glanced toward the door backstage again. The big red
EXIT
light above it seemed like a command. Exit! Now!

“Please welcome Summer Westin.”

The crowd clapped. Time to get it over with. She stood, amazed that her legs still obeyed her, and walked to the podium. The slick of nervous perspiration under the Kevlar was chilly against her skin. Her hands, too, were cold and damp; they stuck to the pages as she spread her notes across the dark wood. Where was the light Chase had mentioned? There, a tiny bulb in the upper left corner.

So far, so good. Still alive. She could do this. She looked up at the audience. An ocean of expectant faces.

Oh God, that bearded man at the back of the room! What was that in his hand? Something metallic, something small. Her heart hammered. The man lifted the device to his ear and pushed his way toward the door. A cell phone.

Get a grip, Westin.
She released the death hold she’d taken on the podium edges, flattened her hands on top of her notes. She’d rehearsed this speech so many times, Blake had taken to wearing his iPod around the house. She could do this talk in her sleep.

Get on with it, then.
Taking a deep breath, she leaned toward the microphone, and began. “I am an environmentalist.”

She paused for effect, as she’d practiced. A few uncertain claps filled the void. Better than the gunshot she’d feared. She flinched as the flash of a camera went off close by, then another. Suddenly her vision was filled with blinding white. Now, when she most needed to see everything!

She forced herself to say the next lines. “Today, that statement means different things to different people. Some automatically believe I’m a noble person who seeks to protect the natural environment for the good of all…”

The white fog finally dissolved, revealing a man up front punching a handheld gadget! Oh God, was it Philip King? King was blond; this guy had wheat-colored hair. But this man wasn’t looking at her. King would want to watch her die, wouldn’t he? The guy punched more buttons, using his thumbs. A smart phone, then. A nice, normal modern phone.

She realized she wasn’t breathing. Or talking. Where had she left off? Had it really been mid-sentence? They’d think she was an idiot. She
was
an idiot, a stuttering, blithering idiot. She made herself continue, “But there are others who believe that I am an enemy to be stopped, even killed.”

The bulb in the corner flashed red, and her words slammed to a stop. Someone was signaling the detonator. It was really happening. Just like Chase had said it would. Her gaze swept the crowd. Shit, it could be anyone, anywhere! She raised her right hand, which now shook violently. She raked her fingers through her hair.

If the bomb was still here, she’d be dead. They really wanted her dead. The light continued to flash. She continued to comb her hair with her fingers. Where the hell was the FBI? Had something gone wrong? Please God, don’t let the terrorists have a Plan B.

B for Bullet
. It suddenly occurred to her that the TV camera aimed in her direction might not be
only
a video cam. She stared at it. Could a rifle be disguised as a camera? That glass lens could shatter at any moment, and the bullet would smash into her skull…Damn her overactive imagination! She peeled her gaze away from the camera’s fixed glassy eye, forced herself to scan the audience again.

“How did we get to this point?” she said into the microphone. It was the next line in her speech, curiously appropriate right now. How in the hell had she arrived at this
point in her life? She wasn’t a representative of the government, for chrissakes. She wasn’t a ranger. She was no longer sure what she was, other than a total wreck.

A muffled thump issued from the projection booth overhead. Glancing up, she saw a brief flash as a man hit the window. Blue jacket. Black baseball cap. Was that a pistol in his upraised hand? Several hands were smashed against the window, gripping his upraised arm, his shoulder. Then they all slid out of sight.

Was it over? Did they have the bomber?

The flashing stopped. Good. That meant they had him, didn’t it? The situation was under control. She was so tired of being frightened. Quite a few of the audience were twisting in their seats, trying to get a look overhead. An ordinary-looking man appeared behind the Plexiglas. He briefly flashed what looked like a law enforcement badge and then gave her an okay signal.

She took a deep breath and smiled woodenly, trying to reassure the crowd. Just as she’d planned, the first photo appeared on the screen behind her, an old sepia-tinted photo of a lone scout on a cliff overlooking a vast territory below. Taking a deep breath, she plunged into the history of the environmental movement, beginning with John Muir.