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eBook Category: Suspense/Thriller
eBook Description: A mild-mannered Alaskan hunting guide is forced to the brink of madness in a fight, not only against bears but against humans--the most skillful predators of all. Sam Eastman has just lost his guide license. An old friend and mentor, Bill Harms, tells him about a job nursemaiding some unique clients. At first, Eastman's job seems simple enough--babysit reclusive Mr. Nakamura and his beautiful young secretary, Yosi, through a six-week wilderness vacation on one of Alaska's Aleutian Islands. Sam soon finds his clients have a secret and he finds himself fighting for survival.

eBook Publisher: The Fiction Works, Published: http://www.fictionworks.com, 2003
Fictionwise Release Date: March 2004

14 Reader Ratings:

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Available eBook Formats [MultiFormat - What's this?]: eReader (PDB) [223 KB] , ePub (EPUB) [185 KB] , Rocket/REB1100 (RB) [187 KB] , Adobe Acrobat (PDF) [661 KB] , Palm Doc (PDB) [209 KB] , Microsoft Reader (LIT) [180 KB] , Franklin eBookMan (FUB) [227 KB] , hiebook (KML) [480 KB] , Sony Reader (LRF) [269 KB] , iSilo (PDB) [173 KB] , Mobipocket (PRC) [215 KB] , Kindle Compatible (MOBI) [257 KB] , OEBFF Format (IMP) [287 KB]
Words: 68500
Reading time: 195-274 min.
Microsoft Reader (LIT) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
Portable Document Format (PDF) Format:  Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud DISABLED
All Other formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED

Trish would be waiting ... waiting to pounce, Sam Eastman thought. He walked down the hallway of the Federal Fish and Wildlife Agency, in Cold Harbor, Alaska. The old wooden floorboards drummed under his quick step and he wondered how many men had trod the floors of this old building. Probably more than he could count.

Sam's thoughts wrestled with why he had been summoned. Likely it was because of the bear. There shouldn't be any sweat--just some formalities to satisfy Fish and Wildlife and he would be on his way.

Trish knew he followed the rules, even out in the bush, so she'd make just enough noise to remind him she was an F & W Agent. He would explain the extra bear he'd shot, because it had wandered into camp and threatened his clients. She'd fill out the paperwork and that would be that. Simple. That night she'd show up at his door looking for that special something only he could give--Northern Exposure reruns. It was nice owning one of the few TV's in town.

He paused at her office door to tug his shirt down over his growing stomach. It was his special red flannel shirt. The one he wore to official meetings because it had all its buttons. His brown Carhartts pants were at least clean. Only a small hole here and there. Maybe his clothes weren't perfect, but what the hell, they fit the locale. He looked at his rubber boots. Yep, they were free of mud. As a gesture of respect, he removed his cap and smoothed back his full head of brown hair. The beard, shaggy as it was, would have to do. He took a deep breath, turned his grin into a big smile, and knocked on the door

"Come in, Mr. Eastman." Her poacher voice, harsh and sharp, split through the door. Sam's head jerked back. Now what? This was supposed to be a friendly admin visit, not a sentencing. Her voice told him differently. It was the one she used on real lawbreakers, certainly not on the buddy who let her watch his TV. Sam kept his smile and opened the door.

Trish stood, all five-feet seven-inches of her, behind her desk. Behind Trish, her boss, Harold Acmon, a man gone sour, a middle-aged man with heavy jowls jiggling on a sallow face. He sat peering from a shadowy corner.

Well, that explained the "officialism."

Sam went on the alert. He felt his face turn to stone, his smile dropped. He shivered from the sudden chill in the air.

"Good morning, Trish."

"Good morning, Mr. Eastman." Her eyes flickered toward Acmon. She gave Sam a discrete wink.

"You know my supervisor, Mr. Acmon?"

Sam nodded to both the introduction and the wink. She was on his side, but protocol had to be observed. Acmon once had Trish's job. Acmon had taken a dislike to him then and Sam happily returned the feeling. Sam had neglected to fill out the proper paperwork a few times when game was taken, and he was younger. In his beginning years, he considered paperwork a waste of time. He got to it when he absolutely had nothing else to do. Acmon was not one to forget this paper oversight, and he thought of Sam as a rebel--someone that always pushed the system, and therefore had to be watched. Even though Sam now filled out his paperwork completely, and on time, there was nothing he could do to please Acmon. So to hell with him.

"Mr. Eastman, are you with me this morning?"

Sam jerked his head up to stare Trish in the eye.

"Yes, Ms. O'Day, I'm with you."

Sensing his sarcasm she straightened her shoulders, a sure sign she was going to do something she didn't like.

"The report says you shot an extra bear on your last trip out with clients. Is that true?"

"Yes. I had to. It's in the report."

Trish opened a file. "Had to?"

"The bear came into the camp and I couldn't scare him off. He was hungry and really didn't care who or what he ate. It was that simple--him or us."

"That's not what your client said."

The hairs on the nape of his neck stood up, his early warning radar. He knew which client it was, the investment banker from Portland who was upset because his bear wasn't a record breaker. The arrogant bastard was striking back.

"I'm the one who made the judgement call," Sam said. "It was my client's life or the bear's life, and in that situation I'll choose the client every time."

Trish looked up and nodded. "Very well, then, I think we can..."

"That's not the story he gave us," Acmon said, his jowls jiggling.

Sam remained quiet and measured what needed to be said. Acmon was out for blood.

"I don't know what the client told you, but it was a decision that needed to be made in seconds. I made it. If I were faced by the same situation again, I'd do the same."

"In any event," Acmon said, "a formal hearing will be held. Your guide license is in jeopardy."

"I see. When is this hearing?"

"About two months."

"Two months! Bear season will be over."

Acmon curled his lips into a full smile and bent his head down. Sam realized that nothing he said would make any difference. Acmon wanted him out of the guiding business. The client's complaint was just a handy tool.

"Damn it Acmon, it's not fair! You..."

"Sam," Trish said, "I need your license."

"Trish, you can't tell me you support..."

"Sam," she said quietly, "You're suspended until the hearing. License, please."

Sam's mouth became a thin line. He knew Trish was on his side. The battle was with Acmon. Without another word, he pulled his wallet and put his license on the desk. He stared hard at Trish, but she kept her eyes focused on the file. Without glancing at Acmon, he turned and left, closing the door softly. He stomped down the hallway with his fists clinched. The floorboards now sounded like rifle shots of doom.

Outside, he looked up at the fog-filled sky. About two o'clock. Another nine hours of light before five or six hours of what passed for night in late spring. The tourist season would begin shortly. Prime guiding time. The time when he made the money that carried him through the winter. And he couldn't work.

Acmon had always been an asshole. The nerve, still an asshole ... taking his license. How could he make a living, sitting in his house watching TV?

He made his way along the wet, muddy path to his home, built a fire in the stove, and grabbed the bottle of bourbon he kept for such emergencies. Drinking was not part of his make-up, but this was a crisis--his livelihood was on the line.

Wine is a mocker, strong drink is raging, and whosoever is deceived thereby is not wise.

Damn. He'd left his Kansas mother's strict Methodist fold when he'd joined the army and never looked back. He didn't hear she'd died until he got back from Korea. Sometimes he still heard her voice giving him choice bits of advice in Midwest-accented Elizabethan English. He could probably see a shrink and make her go away, but the nearest shrink was in Anchorage, a good two-hour flight. It was a lot easier to ignore the voice. It had always worked when he was a teenager.

He took the phone off the hook, flopped back on the couch, and poured until the bourbon rose over his fourth finger in the water glass. That ought to do it. He turned on the TV. He'd figure out how to make some money, tomorrow.