direction,” the other attorney added. “At least nobody spit on us today.”
“Finally some good news,” Diego said tonelessly, staring at his bruised knuckles. “That’s so encouraging.”
NINETEEN
Pruitt was staying at the first-floor apartment of a divorced sister who was away for the winter, working as a pansexual escort in London. Paul Ryskamp was able to locate the poacher because the genius had gone online and ordered ten boxes of Remington bullets on a stolen AmEx card. The ammo was delivered by UPS to the sister’s address, signature required.
Angie Armstrong arrived before dawn and found an unlocked sliding door in the back. After shooing Pruitt’s Bichon and Labradoodle out of the apartment, she carried the hissing travel kennel to the threshold and set loose the occupant—a robust male bobcat weighing twenty-four pounds. Angie had captured it at an orchid farm where it had been feasting on the owner’s juicy domestic ducks.
She watched as the nub-tailed cat darted down the hallway seeking an escape. There was a cry, and Pruitt emerged at a run wearing only tartan boxer shorts and his mechanical hand. He was searching for the deer rifle that Angie had already kicked underneath the sofa.
Pruitt looked up and shouted, “The fuck are you doin’ here?”
“I heard you were in need of a specialist.” She stood blocking his way and wielding the long-handled noose. From the bedroom arose a low, feral rumble.
Pruitt said, “Get that goddamn cat outta here.”
“First we need to reach an agreement.”
“Just ’cause I only got one hand don’t mean you can take me, bitch. I’ll go all Jaime Lannister on your ass.”
Pruitt grabbed a mop and charged back down the hall. Angie heard tables overturn and lamps crash as he flailed at the agile intruder. Moments later he lurched out of the bedroom and flung the mangled mop.
“I’m gonna call the cops!” Pruitt rasped. “Say you busted into my place.”
“Great idea. When they come, they can bring your outstanding warrants.”
Through a doorway Angie could see the bobcat. Agitated but unharmed, it was crouched on the handlebar of a Peloton bike.
Pruitt himself looked wobbly and distraught, his pale legs striated with bleeding claw marks. He shook his polymer fist at Angie and told her to go fuck herself with the catch pole.
Without blinking she slipped the noose around his neck and jerked with sufficient emphasis to put him on his knees.
“Ever bother my stepson again, I’ll kill you,” she said, “and not in a statutorily humane way.”
Pruitt shook his head back and forth, swiping at the capture pole. Angie hung on easily and waited for him to tire. Soon he fell wheezing on the carpet; his watery eyes were half-open, his cheeks the color of ripe turnips.
“Listen up, Señor Fuckwhistle,” Angie said. “I’m about to remove the noose from your neck and chase after the bobcat. I suggest you shelter.”
Pruitt grunted. “Don’t trash this fuckin’ place. It ain’t even mine.”
As soon as he was freed, he crabbed into the bathroom, climbed up on the toilet seat, and knee-shut the door. Angie put on her canvas gloves and entered the bedroom, which had been newly redecorated in rose, pale blue, and white, as if a little girl lived there. The soft décor reflected charmingly on Pruitt’s worldly sister, though it also reminded Angie that she herself hadn’t gone on a shopping spree in years, possibly because she didn’t have any close female friends. Still there was no aching void in her life. She probably would have met some interesting women had she learned to play tennis, joined a gym, or gone down the yoga path, but she’d always preferred the unstructured Zen of solitary boat trips through the Ten Thousand Islands, or camping alone in a cypress forest. Moreover, she’d chosen a predominantly male occupation, and in any case covered so much territory that there was no central after-hours gathering spot to connect with colleagues and develop relationships. At the end of a day as a wildlife wrangler, all you wanted to do was go home, scrub off the stink, and dress your wounds.
When Angie stepped forward to extend the capture pole, the bobcat bounded from the Peloton to a bookshelf to the pleated window drapes, which turned to shreds during the struggle that followed. Afterward she hauled the thrashing animal through the apartment, pausing momentarily to rap on the bathroom door. Pruitt peeked out and quailed at the sight, a tawny blur of fangs and claws.
“Remember what I told you,” Angie said, “or I’ll come back