Page 61 of Easy, Tiger

The autumn fundraiser transforms Red Pine's main street into a maze of craft booths and food vendors.

"Halsey!" Ben waves from his woodcarving booth, where Mayor Tapper is admiring a newly finished owl sculpture. "How's the field guide coming? Oh, and by the way, we got that suspension bridge trail closed off. Still can't believe the cables snapped like that."

"Thanks for the heads up, Ben. The guide is nearly finished. Only need a few more winter bird references before the snow flies."

"Well, the whole town is buzzing about it," Mayor Tapper adds, giving me a warm, encouraging smile. "Can't wait to see Red Pine's wildlife put to paper by a true professional."

"Thank you, Mayor," I reply, appreciating the genuine support.

"Halsey, dear, try this!" Mrs. Doyle hands over a warm apple cider into my hands, while Margie Harrington waves from her pottery display next door. Beckham and Murphy are arguing good-naturedly over the price of a hand-carved walking stick, their booming laughs adding to the festive noise. Dave Morrison strolls past, chatting easily with visitors. The crowd flows around us, families with children clutching balloon animals, elderly couples examining hand-knitted scarves. Normal, peaceful, exactly what Red Pine should be.

That's why the stranger stands out.

Lean with the physique of someone who stays fit out of necessity rather than vanity; he has close-cropped brown hair going gray at the temples and a weathered face that could belong to any age between forty and sixty. Dressed the part of a casual tourist in a clean flannel and dark jeans with the crisp feel of garments freshly bought rather than broken in, he wears the kind of outfit someone chooses after deciphering local fashion instead of simply being a part of it. Lingering on the periphery of conversations with an expensive camera hanging from his neck, he asks questions that probe a little too deeply while his gray eyes move over the crowd with the same cataloging scrutiny I recognize from my own fieldwork—except he is documenting people instead of wildlife.

"Fascinating local wildlife," he tells Grace, adjusting his telephoto lens. "I'm particularly interested in migration patterns. Large predators, specifically."

Grace smiles politely, though something in her posture stiffens slightly. "We get the usual mix out here. Deer, some black bears."

"What about cats? Mountain lions, perhaps?"

Altering my stance, I pretend to examine a display of vintage postcards while listening.

"You'd have to ask the ranger station about anything like that. I mostly stick to books, not tracking." Grace's tone stays pleasant, but she redirects her presence past him toward the next booth, the same practiced deflection she probably gives every overly curious tourist.

The stranger doesn't take the hint easily. "Surely you've heard something. Small towns talk."

Eyeing him for a few minutes, my confidence grows as I rely on the observational skills that made me a successful illustrator. Subtle inconsistencies in his behavior stand out: handling his camera like a weapon, checking for exits instead of lighting, and standing far too rigidly for a casual tourist. He is surveilling the community, not the wildlife.

It hits me with startling clarity—this is him. My growing confidence allows me to identify him before he can even act.

Catching Nolan's eye across the crowd, I tap my temple twice, our signal for potential threat. He excuses himself from his conversation and begins moving through the crowd toward us.

"I really wouldn't know." Grace's smile turns a shade more polite, a shade less warm. "You'd want Owen Maren over at the ranger station for anything like that."

"Thank you for the help. I'd love to photograph some of those tracks if I'm lucky enough to find them."

That's when I observe his boots—aggressive tread pattern, caked with mountain mud. The same prints I found at the surveillance sites.

Nolan reaches my side right as the stranger melts back into the crowd, disappearing between the craft booths without a backward glance.

"Did you get a good look at him?"

"Good enough." I finish the last line of his face in my notebook and lift it up. "Face, boots, camera gear. And thanks to Owen's routes, I know exactly which trail he'll be stalking tomorrow."

Nolan reviews the sketch, something dangerous flickering behind his eyes. "Then tomorrow, we make sure he finds exactly what we want him to find."

Closing the notebook, my pulse remains stubbornly even despite the man somewhere in this crowd, close enough to touch. Ever since the bridge collapsed under me, the fear feels smaller than the resolve sitting right beside it.

22

NOLAN

We circle the fundraiser twice, weaving between craft booths and food vendors, but the stranger has vanished like smoke. Halsey stays close to my side, her hand occasionally brushing mine as we navigate the crowd.

"He's gone," she murmurs, shutting her sketchbook. "Professional enough to know when he's been made."

"Which means we need to move fast," I guide her toward the edge of town where the forest begins. "Emergency meeting. The enclave needs to know what we're dealing with."