What do I do? Stay here, frozen in place? Or walk calmly away? What if I’m walking directly toward its den? Then it’ll definitely attack. For the hundredth time this month, I curse myself for not watching more National Geographic.
I summon every last drop of courage inside me and take a step backward. Then two steps. And, in a little patch of moonlight that’s broken through the trees, I see a brown paw step cautiously forward not more than ten feet away. It is followed by a head the size of my torso. A brown-and-white head with black stripes. Oh my God, I’m being stalked by a tiger. That crazy-ass billionaire imported a fucking tiger to the middle of New Mexico. And I’m going to be its next meal.
There’s no way I’ll be able to dig the crossbow out of my bag, put it together, load, and shoot. I can’t even move—my feet are rooted to the ground.
As if in slow motion, the tiger pulls its front paws together and crouches low to the ground. It flicks its tail jerkily back and forth, like my mom’s cat did when ambushing a chipmunk.
My mouth is open. I try to scream, but nothing comes out. A lightning bolt of fear sizzles behind my eyes as I realize I’m about to die.
I clench my teeth. The tiger pounces.
35
JUNEAU
“WELL, NOW. WHO’VE WE GOT HERE?” CALLS A booming voice as I follow Whit into a cavernous front hallway. The light from an enormous deer-antler chandelier is reflected from a gleaming parquet floor.
A man walks toward me. He’s a good head taller than anyone in my clan, and wears a fawn-colored cowboy hat and matching boots. He claps his hands and rubs them together like he’s getting ready to eat me whole. He leans over to get a good look at my starburst and, satisfied, takes one of my hands in his big meaty fist and shakes the life out of it.
“You must be our little Juneau. My name’s Randall Bradford Avery the Third, but for obvious reasons”—and he spreads his arms out to indicate the mansion, the shooting range, everything around—“everyone calls me Hunt. Let me tell you, I have been waiting to meet you for the longest time now. Haven’t I, Whit?”
There are so many things wrong with this little introduction that I decide not to respond, and settle for a scowl. Avery laughs, like I’ve made a joke. Grasping me by the shoulder, he ushers me toward a door. “Why don’t we all just grab a drink and get acquainted.”
I don’t even put up a fight. All I want to do is find Badger and get him out of here. If that means following this idiot around until I come up with a plan, well, so be it.
Whit follows us through a double set of doors, and then closes them behind us. I enter a room that could fit ten of my clan’s yurts inside. The floor is thickly carpeted, and the walls are lined with mostly empty bookshelves and topped with mounted animal heads. Every species you could possibly imagine has a representative hanging glaze-eyed on the wall.
Instinctively, I look back at Whit in horror, and see him squirm. He doesn’t like this violent display any more than I do.
“Welcome to my trophy room,” Mr. Avery says, affectionately scratching the chin of an enormous tusked boar before walking over to a copper-topped bar installed in one corner. He squeezes behind it and makes conversation while lining up glasses and bottles. “Made my money in oil. This wildlife hunting range is just one of my little hobbies.” Glancing up, he winks at me.
Although he is trying his best to display an easy manner, I can tell by the way he talks and moves that he is uncomfortable. He’s trying to size me up, but doesn’t know what to expect. And for a big-game hunter, not knowing your prey makes you vulnerable.
He drops some ice cubes into a glass, and pours in a caramel-colored liquid from a crystal decanter. “This is for you, Whit,” he says, handing him the glass.
And as he extends his hand, I see the ice cubes tremble—the drink sloshes slightly back and forth inside the glass. Avery’s hand is shaking. I glance to his face—his expression is neutral. He’s not nervous or upset. Why is he shaking? His other hand clutches the side of the bar, anchoring him.
He is looking at me, shaking his head in faux-dismay. “Where are my manners? I should have served the lady first. Though I doubt you’re a whiskey drinker, Juneau. You just don’t have the look.” He turns back to the bar and runs his hand over a stack of bottles. When he pauses over one, I see his fingers tremble again.
“I’ve got every alcohol known to man,” he says. “Or if you’re a teetotaler, I can offer you a nice cold tonic and lime.”
“Sure, I’ll have a nice cold tonic and lime,” I say, and he gets this relieved look on his face, “. . . as soon as you have one delivered to everyone in my clan.” I make my voice as blank as my face.