In the Company of Wolves: Thinning The Herd Read online

  Stray Dog resumed shuffling literature into neat piles. “Then you’re rich.”

  Here we go again. The truth was that Quin wasn’t rich at all. When he was a young boy, his Indian mother had left the reservation and fallen in love with a white man. For many years she had abandoned the tribe, and when she returned to the tribe’s newfound prosperity, they wouldn’t let her and Quin share in the wealth. But why go into all that with omega?

  Quin noticed his reflection in a crystal carafe on the table. Better remove the feathered earring. As he began pulling it off, Stray Dog stopped him.

  “What are you doing?”

  Quin looked at them both. “I want to look more corporate.”

  “No, no,” Stray Dog said, waving his hand. “Rebecca is very artistic. She’ll like the earring, trust me.”

  “Here she comes,” Big Ben said. “Quin, put it back on.”

  He complied and stood up to greet the person who followed the receptionist to the conference room. This was indeed the same elegant woman he’d run into in the lobby on his first day. She was the one with the long legs, the dark brown eyes. In his mind before the meeting, he’d pictured a sickly person who would be dragging an oxygen tank or moving around in a wheelchair. Rebecca Baron looked healthy and alive.

  The canned lights above illuminated her hair, like a golden halo. She had a slender frame with smooth curves along her shoulders, her breasts, and long thighs. She wore a red sweater, blue jeans, and knee-high brown leather riding boots.

  Rebecca shook hands with Big Ben and Stray Dog, joking about the winter weather. She was chatty and confident for a person who had so much to worry about. What did Stray Dog say was wrong with her? A brain tumor?

  “Hello again. Rebecca Baron,” she said to Quin with a flirtatious smile.

  “Quin Lighthorn,” he said, holding her warm hand and meeting her deep brown eyes.

  She immediately noticed his earring and reached up, touching the feather. “How beautiful,” she said. “Where did you buy this?”

  Of all the people who had noticed the earring and commented on it, nobody had ever asked him about it before. “I made it.”

  “It’s a dream catcher, right?”

  Dream catchers look like spider webs that catch nightmares and let the happy dreams pass through. Quin had woven it and attached a hummingbird feather to it, his own artistic flair.

  She moved closer to admire the iridescent blue. He could feel the heat from her body rising up along his neck. She had a strong life force for somebody so close to death.

  “You’re a good artist, Quin.”

  As a child, he would spend hours drawing pictures of Indians and wolves. It was amazing that Rebecca had noticed his artistic side so quickly. She had strong intuition.

  “Shall we sit and have some coffee?” Big Ben asked.

  Rebecca stepped away, closer to the table, and took a seat. “Yes, coffee would be nice.”

  Stray Dog scurried back and forth between the table and the beverage cart, fawning over his prospect. Big Ben prepared his laptop.

  Quin sat across from her, pretending to be busy jotting important notes for the meeting. What else could the new intern do?

  “Are you Native American, Quin?” she asked.

  “My mother was Sioux. My father was Irish,” he replied. He always felt he had to explain why he wasn’t exactly Indian or white.

  “Then you are Native American,” she said, as if she were reminding him: Don’t deny your heritage; you are who you are. His grandfather had said that to him all the time.

  How old was she? Late thirties? Certainly no older than forty-five, he thought. She was a woman who was in the prime of her life, young enough to retain her beauty, old enough to have weathered most of life’s storms such as marriage and kids. He noticed she wore only a silver pinky ring on her right hand and no wedding band.

  “Shall we get started?” Big Ben asked, standing at the front of the room with a wireless remote in his hand.

  He spoke for twenty-five minutes, giving Rebecca a brief history of the viatical settlement industry, using charts and graphs. He showed her how his company, Safe Haven LLC, had helped real people in their final days. He had a picture of a client with AIDS taking a dream cruise with a group of friends. He also had a photo of a healthy-looking woman who had extended her life by using her cash settlement to purchase treatments her HMO wouldn’t cover.

  Quin wrote down as many of the client names as possible. It was the photo of Munroe Pilson that made Quin wake up and take notice of what was really going on. The picture was of Munroe sitting in a boat, duck hunting with his buddies last fall. Big Ben described how Pilson was able to retire and buy himself a rustic cabin and a new boat in his last days—all with money offered by Safe Haven LLC. He never mentioned that Pilson was killed just outside this very conference room window two days before. His boss sold the dream by covering up the nightmare. Maybe Big Ben should be the one to wear a dream catcher.

  Quin watched Rebecca for her reactions, but he felt she was watching him. Occasionally she would look across the table and steal a glance. Was she interested in him?

  He realized Lunde was right. This wonderfully alive woman was in danger. Even if Big Ben could come up with the money for her policy, the investors certainly couldn’t wait long for her to die. Quin wanted to reach out and whisper—no, yell to her, Run away from here! These men are setting you up. You’ll be the newest slide in their next big presentation!

  He looked to Stray Dog, who pretended to take copious notes on his pad. Quin had heard enough; he had to slow this thing down. He had to get ahold of the FBI.

  He reached for the pencil. Stray Dog watched him pick it up and looked at Rebecca, and then at his boss. Quin could see the look in Stray Dog’s eyes, the bewilderment. He could almost hear him screaming, “What’s wrong with you?”

  Quin tapped the pencil three times. “How about we take a break and stretch our legs?”

  Big Ben stopped midsentence, frowning at him. “Sure. That’s a great idea,” he said with hesitation. “Christopher, would you turn up the lights?”

  Rebecca stood, shuffling the literature in front of her. “Everything looks very impressive so far.”

  Quin stood as well, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Would his boss be angry with him for ending the presentation early?

  “We’ve helped many people in your situation,” Stray Dog said, turning the switch to brighten the room again. “You’d be in good hands here, Rebecca.”

  “We have the physician’s affidavit verifying your state of health. Did you bring the signed release waiver from your current beneficiary?” Big Ben asked.

  “Yes,” she said, handing Big Ben a document she had tucked in a folder. “The doctors say I have three to six months to live.” Her voice wavered slightly. “How much do you think you can offer me—just a ballpark estimate?”

  Three to six months? Quin couldn’t believe it.

  Big Ben leaned on a chair, running numbers in his head. “I’m confident we can offer $8 million,” he said. “But I’d like to have the actuaries look at all your paperwork.”

  Quin knew his boss was stalling until he could actually come up with the funds. The pressure would be on.

  “When can I get your written offer?” Rebecca asked.

  Stray Dog looked at his boss, his eyes bulging, almost salivating on the expensive conference room carpet. She was practically begging to sign up. He was going to close this deal. All they needed was money.

  Big Ben glanced at Quin, and then back at Rebecca. “How about tomorrow afternoon? I’ll have Quin deliver the offer personally.”

  She smiled. “Good, I’ll look forward to seeing you,” she said, shaking Quin’s hand.

  This was an unusual turn of events. Ben had positioned Quin, not Stray Dog, as the person to woo the client. Was he plotting something, forcing him to get involved with the client so he’d feel obligated to help raise capital?

  “Excellent,�
�� Big Ben said. “Christopher, would you show Rebecca around the office on her way out? We’ll have the offer to you tomorrow.”

  Stray Dog helped her with her coat, and as she walked out the door, he turned back, and Quin heard him whisper to Big Ben, “I don’t care what Quin delivers tomorrow, she’s still my commission.”

  He stormed out of the room, running down the hall to catch up with the client.

  “Way to go, Quin,” his boss said.

  “What did I do?” he asked. He wasn’t being modest; he really had no idea.

  “You ended the meeting at the perfect time. We hooked her,” Big Ben said. “Besides, Rebecca is smitten by you. Couldn’t you feel it?”

  He did feel it. He had noticed she was watching him during the presentation, but how could that influence her decision? “She’s probably interested in my Indian heritage. I wouldn’t say she has a crush on me.”

  “Call it what you want, but she couldn’t take her eyes off of you,” Big Ben said with a big, cheesy smile. “Now if you could help us come up with the money, we’d be set.“

  “I can’t do that, Ben.”

  Big Ben moved about the room, peering out the window toward the gray-and-white horizon. He was clearly rethinking his strategy, searching for another way in. Alpha wolves are smart and cunning. They get what they want. Quin knew Big Ben wanted this policy.

  “Can you come up with the funds for three or four days? Think of it as a temporary loan. That would buy me enough time to pull together the right kind of investors,” Big Ben said. “Your tribe would make a hefty profit, and their money would only be tied up for a week. Surely, a couple of million dollars flows into that casino in any given night. Why not make money on the money?”

  Damn, he’s not giving up easily. Let Big Ben think you’re interested. By the time things get rolling, the FBI will step in and bust the whole operation. “Well, if it’s only for a few days, I might be able to come up with the funds to help you out.”

  Big Ben’s face brightened, his sharp smile reappearing. “Now you’re talking, Quin.”

  “Of course, I’ll have to go home and talk to some of my people about it,” he said, bluffing. He might need an exit strategy before the shit hit Safe Haven’s fan.

  “Definitely, you can leave tomorrow after you drop off the written offer to Rebecca,” Big Ben said. “All I ask is that you do me one favor.”

  One favor? He wanted him to come up with at least $8 million, and he had the nerve to ask for one more favor? “What is it?”

  Big Ben’s smile faded, his dark eyes fixed into a cold stare. “I don’t care how attracted she is to you, don’t sleep with her.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I saw the way you two looked at each other during the presentation. Keep your dick in your pants, Quin. You don’t want to get emotionally involved with her. This woman is dying. Don’t fool yourself into thinking otherwise.”

  “I’ll keep everything business. I promise.”

  Big Ben nodded. “Yeah, we’ll see.”

  Quin was seated on a black leather couch in the corner of Spyhouse, hiding behind yesterday’s copy of The Wall Street Journal. There was another story about the young Minnesota senator who surprised all of Washington by winning his race, but all Quin really cared about at this moment was meeting with Lunde.

  He kept peering around his newspaper at the executives lunching and the Gen Y moms feeding their yuppie Y-puppies expensive biscotti.

  Big Lunde entered the café searching over the crowd of urban heads before noticing Quin sitting on the couch. He waved, ordered a cup of coffee, and joined Quin in the corner of the room, stepping over a guitar case.

  “This place is a zoo,” he said. “What do you have for me?”

  Quin handed him a small piece of paper. “Here’s the $10 million client.”

  Lunde grabbed the folded sheet and opened it quickly, as if he were reading the winning numbers on a lottery ticket. “Rebecca Baron.”

  It gets better. This woman is good looking and sexy, and she has the hots for me. “She lives on Lake Minnetonka, Wayzata Bay,” Quin said. “I wrote her address down. I’m supposed to drop off Safe Haven’s written offer tomorrow.”

  Lunde stuck the paper in his leather jacket and sipped his coffee. “How much are they offering her?”

  “$8 million,” he said, folding the newspaper.

  “Excellent work, Quin. We can save her now. Although you’ll have to make sure she doesn’t sign that agreement.”

  Oh great, Lunde was upping the ante again, using his big bear-like size to squeeze more work out of him. “Why do I have to make sure she doesn’t sign? That’s your job. Step in now. Take action, Lunde.”

  “Where’s the client list? The prospect list? Where’s the investor list?” Lunde asked. “I need evidence in hand before we go in there and make any arrests.”

  Quin had been afraid he’d say that. Lunde really wanted those lists. All Quin wanted was to collect his money and head up to the north woods again. “I think I can make copies of the lists, but I’ll need more time.”

  “You’ll have to hurry,” Lunde said, licking his lips the way a bear does, over and over after finding peanut butter in a campsite. “These men move fast.”

  “I’m delivering the offer to Rebecca tomorrow,” he said. “How can I get her to wait long enough for me to find the other evidence you need?”

  The timing of all this was crucial, and Quin felt anxious. His medications weren’t helping, either. Maybe he needed a bigger dose now that he was working again. The pressure of saving this beautiful woman’s life seemed rather ironic because she would die soon anyway. It was like covering your flowers in the autumn to protect them from a killer frost; the growing season was over, and the flowers would die. Why work so hard?

  “We’ll make her a competitive offer, so she’ll slow down the bidding process,” Lunde said.

  “Brilliant idea,” Quin said. “You can get money from the bureau?”

  “No. That much money would draw attention to this case,” he said. “But I think I can strike a deal with the people over at Benson & White. These two companies compete for clients all the time, and this would slow down her decision. It would seem perfectly natural.”

  The brilliant idea lost its luster. “Why involve another death broker? How about I just tell her what’s going on?” Quin suggested. “I explain I’m working with the feds and that I recommend she not sign anything.”

  Lunde sat up in his chair suddenly, dripping coffee across his lap. “No! I can’t risk that. Shit,” he said, wiping the latte stain on his pants. A young boy across the café who was sitting in his mother’s lap started laughing at Lunde.

  What was the big deal? Why was he so secretive about this case? “When will you let the bureau know that two of your agents have died working on this case and that you’re about to bust it wide open?”

  “Not yet, Quin,” he said, voice still growling. “Here’s how I’ll make it work: Benson & White will make her an offer slightly higher than Safe Haven’s. While she thinks it over, you make copies of the lists I need. She’ll sign with Benson & White and no longer be in any danger. Then I’ll make the arrests.”

  He was forgetting something rather important. “And after that, I collect my bounty of $50,000, right?”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Lunde said, still mopping up his spill with napkins. “Not bad for a week’s work.”

  Not bad at all. Quin liked the idea of ending this case early, and he liked the idea of dragging away a stack of money even more. Plus, his working relationship with the bureau would be reinstated. He could feel his tension easing already. Maybe he wouldn’t need those group sessions anymore. Maybe if he had steady work, he wouldn’t need medications either. Kirsten would see he was a changed man.

  He sipped more of his homebrew tea. He had better write to her and tell her the news, that things might be looking up. “I have to head back to the apartment before returning to the office,” h
e said. “I’ll call you later.”

  Lunde tossed his empty coffee cup in the trash. Most of his expensive Columbian Blend was splattered all over his khaki pants. “Remember, Rebecca doesn’t need to know the details. You’ll frighten her.”

  Quin dodged a tiny Chihuahua sitting by the door, walked up the sidewalk, and entered the staircase to his apartment. The building had a musty smell that the landlord claimed had only begun recently, but Quin knew better. This place had probably never smelled any better than the dump it was. He’d have to talk to Lunde about the crappy apartment. It had been his idea for Quin to stay here while he worked the assignment.

  Inside, he threw his trench coat on a chair in the kitchen. He popped a few more pills, upping the dosage flowing through his veins. Because he’d had an outburst last night and nearly wrung Lunde’s neck, Quin popped one extra pill for good measure.

  He booted up his laptop and waited for the old computer to roar to life. He’d purchased the unit from a friend who said that it was too slow and heavy. His friend was right, but the laptop had been in Quin’s price range. He’d buy a bigger, better, faster one with his bounty.

  He opened his inbox to write to Kirsten and noticed he had a message already waiting for him. She had responded to a previous message about Lunde that Quin had sent earlier this morning:

  Quin,

  Got your letter. I’m confused. Who is Spencer Lunde? I haven’t authorized you to go back to work. What kind of assignment is it?

  P.S. We watched wolves run down deer yesterday, it was both exhilarating and sad at the same time.

  Kirsten

  It wasn’t as if Quin was under house arrest or anything. He could move about freely from Saint Francis Clinic as long as he continued his medications and checked with the staff. That was the deal he’d struck with the district attorney’s office when his anger had gotten out of control. He’d agreed to it reluctantly because he didn’t want to go to prison. Too many Indians had already died in a white man’s prison.

  He was confused now, too. When Lunde said he’d pulled strings to get him out of the clinic and on assignment, Quin had assumed he’d spoken to his shrink. The bureau was a large maze of small departments, and Kirsten couldn’t possibly know everyone at the FBI.