the restless brilliance of a pair of shrewd dark eyes, which lingered on Neri for a considering moment. She was worth the attention, a long- limbed blonde with creamy skin that flushed easily, heavy-lidded blue eyes, and a lush red mouth that hinted to most men of soft kisses and lazy Sunday afternoons.
Mannaro knew his niece rather better than most men, however. There was nothing soft or lazy about Neri. "Wulver makes a good point," he said. "The last two times the Board of Game proposed a hunt, there was an outpouring of sentiment - and may I say, sentimentality - from the larger community. E-mails, letters, and phone calls poured into the commissioner's office. 'Predators are a necessary part of the food chain.' 'Predators are a vital and beautiful part of the balance of nature.' 'These predators cull only the weak and infirm, thereby keeping the prey herd healthy and viable, which in turn keeps the predator population healthy and viable.'"
He held up a hand. "I know, you've heard all this before. Very well. We are agreed that action is necessary, are we not?"
There were nods from around the table. "We are also agreed that this pack is out of control. Reluctantly, we agree that the sole action left to us is elimination. Such a draconian decision is arrived at only after repeated attempts at remedial action, all resulting in failure of effect, and after extensive deliberation over what will benefit the greater good."
Again, no outward dissent.
Mannaro looked at Wulver. "But Wulver is also correct in that every time we propose controlling the population, there is a backlash of epic proportion, and as the controlling body we're left hanging out there all alone, the target of every rights group with an in-house attorney. And he makes a very good point in that the season will exacerbate reaction community-wide."
"But something has to be done," Lucas said. "Their actions have become too widespread to safely ignore. Any more publicity will result in full-scale vigilantism, putting the greater population at risk. It's not like it hasn't happened before."
"Indeed." Mannaro inclined his head in a graceful acceptance of the challenge that Lucas' near snarl had flung down. "What we need is to turn this action into a gift. So let me put it to you. Who will this action benefit, other than ourselves?"
He was looking at Neri as he spoke. "To whom," he said, "may we offer it as something befitting the season? As, say, the perfect gift?"
She met his eyes for a startled moment before comprehension came.
And then she laughed, a full-throated sound of amusement, with an underlying excitement sharp enough to cut.
Mannaro smiled, content.
The Alaska state troopers in Anchorage worked out of a five-story rectangular building with a dull gray exterior and an interior cut into matching gray cubicles. Littered surfaces of metal desks were lit by fluorescent tubes, every third or fourth one burned out.
Lobison thought it worked as a metaphor for the job, although it would have been as much as his life was worth to use a word like metaphor in here. He dumped four packets of creamer and six packets of sugar into his coffee mug and went to his desk, where the stack of case files had not miraculously diminished overnight.
His partner was already at work, sleek head bent over a series of crime scene photographs, the graphic nature of which made the human in him wince away and gave even the cop in him pause.
"Morning, Ben," she said.
"How do you do that?" he said. "I didn't make a sound. You must have ears like a cat."
She looked up and fluttered her eyelashes. "Maybe I just have a sixth sense for big good-looking doofuses."
They'd been partners for a year and their working relationship had evolved into a low-key flirtatious raillery that never overstepped the rule of no departmental fraternization. Romanov was so hot she sizzled, but Lobison had too much respect for the job to hit on his partner, or that's what he told himself whenever his imagination went into overdrive.
"I think that's doofusi," he said. He sat down across from her and pointed at the photographs. "Why are you looking at those again? It's not like the MO is going to change if you stare at them long enough."
"I know." She sat back and rubbed her eyes with thumb and forefinger. "How many have there been now? Twelve?"
"Thirteen," he said grimly, "if you count that kid in Chickaloon, and I do."
"Thirteen deaths by exsanguination over