Unwilling to concede entirely, Henley began questioning whether Sam truly counted as company or whether the fact that he was receiving payment from her father meant that he was help. She came close to succeeding. Paige was at the point of losing her temper completely when Jefferson emerged from his study to tell them that Sara's car was approaching. Sam breathed a hearty sigh of relief.
The slick black Cadillac cruised over the gravel and came to a halt just outside the house. It was driven by a man, who wore a ponytail, with an air of carefully studied coolness. In the passenger seat was the kind of expensively groomed woman whose age could never be guessed. With her perfectly cut hair, falling past her shoulders like the darkest liquid chocolate, and skin that had certainly had the benefit of a good dermatologist (if not a plastic surgeon), her birth date was as much a mystery as her past.
She's completely constructed, Sam thought. There's not one thing about her that gives away where she comes from or what kind of person she is when she's not working.
Dinner itself was a polite affair. Paige was a truly excellent cook and had put out an impressive spread — clear tomato soup with homemade spelt bread, a roasted guinea fowl with sage and blood orange, and finally a chocolate marquise, so rich that it had to be served in tiny portions. By the end of the meal, Sam was suffused with the pleasant sensation of having eaten far more than he actually required.
The food also served as an excellent means of keeping the conversation flowing. Seated with Paige on one side and Henley on the other, all Sam had to do was keep asking Paige about her many engagements as hostess and her time spent learning fine cooking, while protecting her from occasional barbs from her daughter. He had little occasion to talk at all to Sara and Cody. It seemed as though the room had split into two separate diner parties, with Jefferson talking FireStorm business at the far end of the table, while Sam kept Paige and Henley entertained.
Seems like a bit of a weird way to do things if I'm meant to be writing a book about these people, Sam thought. But mine is not to reason why. There'll be plenty of time to spend with them once we're out there. No sense in overdoing it.
By the time dinner was done and the brandies had been drunk, Sam was in urgent need of a cigarette — not just for a nicotine fix, although that was always welcome, but to escape from the small talk. It was not hard to keep a trained hostess talking, but it was a little wearing after a while.
During his chat with Paige, Sam had eavesdropped snatches of Jefferson's conversation with Sara and overheard a few too many references to communal sharing of emotional experiences and to something called "The Hunt," which sounded more physical than Sam usually cared for. He was beginning to wonder whether accepting this job had really been such a great idea, even if the money was good.
"Ach, you're just winding yourself up," he said to himself, walking back toward his cottage. "You'll be fine. It's not for long. Besides, you could be doing with a nice, quiet, boring job after—"
A sound caught his attention. It was something familiar, he knew, made unfamiliar by the cold, dark night.
Sam listened intently — whistling wind, a faint chirp of crickets, rustling grass, and his own shallow breathing, nothing else — then something. Footsteps. Slow, careful footsteps. Then… a click. Sam held his breath. He waited for the gunshot.
It did not come. Instead he heard a soft thump — and then, a few moments later, a louder one. It was, he realized, a door — a car door. The unseen person must have tried to close it silently, failed and tried again.
As stealthily as he could, Sam crept toward the source of the noise. I must be insane, he thought. If I had any sense I would get Jefferson. He's bound to have a gun, and even if he doesn't, at least there'd be two of us, rather than just me and a lighter.
There was just enough moonlight for him to make out the shape of the car. Sam dropped to a crouch, wondering what he was going to do next. He settled on the idea of finding a place to hide and waiting to see what the intruder would do next, but to do that he was going to need more light. Shielding his lighter with his hand, he flicked the spark wheel.
The gasp from the car told him that he had misjudged the angle. In a heartbeat Sam was on his feet, ready to run — but even quicker, the car door swung open and a figure leaped out.
"I'm sorry!"
Sam heard the voice ring out from behind him. Its vulnerability caught him off-guard and he turned, holding the lighter up.
"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to — look; please don't call the police, ok? I'm not trying to rob the place or anything, I swear. Oh, please, I'm so sorry, I'm really, really sorry—"
The woman was young, maybe twenty-five at most, and looked more terrified than anyone Sam had ever seen. Her hands were raised in a classic gesture of surrender. Sam had no idea what she was doing, but he was absolutely certain that he did not want to raise the alarm — at least, not yet. Raising a finger to his lips, he beckoned her to follow him back toward the guest cottage. She hesitated, clearly aware of the dangers of following strange men into strange houses, but the sound of the front door to the farmhouse opening made her rethink. She fell into line behind Sam, and the two of them hurried quietly toward the cottage door. As soon as they were inside Sam silently pulled it shut, and they both froze and waited until Sara and Cody's car was out of earshot.
"Wait," the woman said, looking closely at Sam. "You're not Jefferson Daniels. This is his place, isn't it? So who are you?"
"You're asking me?" Sam hissed back, still with half an ear listening for any further movement on the dark driveway. "I'm someone who's got an invitation to be here, that's all you need to know. I take it you haven't?"
She looked away, abashed. "No," she said. "But please don't call the cops. I'll get in so much trouble, and I swear I'm not here to do anything wrong."
Sam could not help but laugh. "You're sneaking around someone else's property in the middle of the night, begging me not to get the police, and you expect me to believe that you're not doing anything wrong? Come with me." He led the woman, now looking more alarmed than ever, into the den. Jefferson was a good host and had furnished Sam with a decent bottle of Laphroaig, from which Sam poured two glasses. He handed one to the woman. "There. Now, have a seat. If you're not doing anything wrong, tell me what you are doing here. In fact, even if you are doing something wrong—especially if you are." He dropped into one of the overstuffed armchairs.
Tentatively, the young woman perched on the edge of the other seat, clutching the tumbler. "Ok… I'm not casing the place, I promise. I'm a journalist. I'm working on a story about Sara Stromer."
"What kind of story?"
"About her and this thing she runs called FireStorm. It's kind of a religion, but there's a lot of other stuff going on, such as land acquisition and links to major companies. No one knows a lot about it — it's really secretive — I'm just trying to learn more about it, and her."
"By sneaking around here at night?"
She looked down at her hands. "I've been following her since I heard she was in Montana. Rumor is that she's trying to set up a base here and I would love to break that news, but I need details. I know she was meeting someone up by the Ear Mountain State Game Refuge today, but the car drove into a gated area and must have come out another way, because I lost her. But I'd heard her talking to that guy who assists her about dinner at Jefferson Daniels' place, so I tracked it down and waited here. I know it's a little unethical, but I don't think I'm doing anything criminal. I certainly don't intend to. It's just—"