High Hunt by David Eddings

still out in their yards, guys cutting their lawns and kids playing on the fresh-cut grass and the like. Suddenly, for no particular reason, it turned into a very special kind of evening for me.
    Ruston perches up on the side of the hill that rises steeply up from both sides of Point Defiance. The plush part, where Sloane lived, overlooks the Narrows, a long neck of salt water that runs down another thirty miles to Olympia. The Narrows Bridge lies off to the south, the towers spearing into the sky and the bridge itself arching in one long step across the mile or so of open water. The ridge that rises sharply from the beach over on the peninsula is thick with dark fir trees, and the evening sky is almost always spectacular. It may just be one of the most beautiful places in the whole damned world. At least I’ve always thought so.
    Sloane’s house was one of the older places on the hill—easily distinguishable from the newer places because the shrubs and trees were full grown.
    We pulled up behind McKlearey’s car in the deepening twilight and got out. Jack’s Plymouth and McKlearey’s beat-upold Chevy looked badly out of place—sort of like a mobile poverty area.
    â€œPretty plush, huh?” Jack said, his voice a little louder than necessary. The automatic impulse up here was to lower your voice. Jack resisted it.
    â€œI smell money,” I answered.
    â€œIt’s all over the neighborhood,” Mike said. “They gotta have guys come in with special rakes to keep it from littering the streets.”
    â€œUnsightly stuff,” I agreed as we went up Sloane’s brick front walkway.
    Jack rang the doorbell, and I could hear it chime way back in the house.
    A small woman in a dark suit opened the door. “Hello, Jack—Mike,” she said. She had the deepest voice I’ve ever heard come out of a woman. “And you must be Dan,” she said. “I’ve heard so much about you.” She held her hand out to me with a grace that you’ve got to be born with. I’m just enough of a slob myself to appreciate good breeding. I straightened up and took her hand.
    â€œIt’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Sloane,” I said.
    â€œClaudia,” she said, smiling. “Please call me Claudia.”
    â€œClaudia,” I said, smiling back at her.
    We went on into the house. The layout was a bit odd, but I could see the reason for it. The house faced the street with its back to the view—at least that’s how it looked from outside. Actually, the front door simply opened onto a long hallway that ran on through to the back where the living room, dining room, and kitchen were. The carpets were deep, and the paneling was rich.
    â€œYou have a lovely home,” I said. I guess that’s what you’re supposed to say.
    â€œWhy, thank you, Dan,” she said. She seemed genuinely pleased.
    The living room was huge, and the west wall was all glass. Over beyond the dark upswell of the peninsula, the sky was slowly darkening. Down on the water, a small boat that looked like a lighted toy from up there bucked the tide, moving very slowly and kicking up a lot of wake.
    â€œHow on earth do you ever get anything done?” I asked. “I’d never be able to get away from the window.”
    She laughed, her deep voice making the sound musical. “I pull the drapes,” she said. She looked up at me. She couldn’thave been much over five feet tall. Her dark hair was very smooth—almost sleek. I quickly looked back out the window to cover my confusion. This was one helluva lot of woman.
    There was a patio out back, and I could see Sloane manhandling a beer keg across the flagstones. McKlearey sprawled in a lawn chair, and it didn’t look as if he was planning to offer any help. Sloane glanced, red-faced, up at the window.
    â€œHey, you drunks, get the hell on out here!” he bellowed.
    â€œWe’re set up on the