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placed it on a stand and offered to unpack it. Nagler declined.
    As the bellman retreated toward the door, Nagler stopped him, saying, “There’s a movie theater, isn’t there?”
    “The Opera House. Yes.”
    “Does it run a matinee, by any chance?”
    “ Sun Valley Serenade shows every day at five.”
    “Sonja Henie and John Payne with Glenn Miller. Excellent.”
    “Can I escort you over?”
    “Yes, please.”
    “Around four forty-five?”
    “That would be perfect.”
    “See you then. The name is Karl, sir.”
    “Thank you, Karl, for everything.”
    “My pleasure, sir. I’ll see you later this afternoon.” The door clicked shut. Nagler was alone. He locked the door and threw the security lock; he then felt his way into the bathroom, closed the door, and locked this as well. He located the sink, closed the drain, and washed and dried his hands. He removed the mirrored sunglasses and, with his left index finger, held his eyebrow firm as he pulled down his lower lid with the other hand, exposing his eye—a bloodshot, yellowish orb. Then he pinched the surface of his eyeball and removed the contact lens.
    And he could see again.

Eight
    D anny Cutter made two mistakes: The first was to look it in the eye; the second was to turn and run from it.
    He’d been struggling at the time to catch up. He’d hooked into a snag off the western bank of the narrow Big Wood River. At first he’d thought it was a submerged branch, because he’d felt a little give as he tugged on the fly rod; but then, with no more give left in it, he was thinking rock: that the Adam’s fly, intended to float, had nonetheless dipped below the surface and was currently tangled in some green moss adhered to a rock. Far in the recesses of his angler’s mind lurked the distant possibility that he was actually onto a fish—a lunker—and that it had “sat down” and was awaiting his next move; so he moved toward it. But a moment later, he was certain he’d snagged.
    He wanted to catch up with Fiona, the guide, and Liz Shaler, now about thirty yards downstream, for two very different reasons. Liz was an important friend; Fiona was hot. Never mind that a pair of Secret Service agents, one on each side of the river, crept through the thick underbrush and shadowed the attorney general as best as possible. Never mind the ease with which they’d eavesdrop on any conversation, given the amazing quiet of the river. He could work around that.
    Fiona had led them across a private bridge to a secluded estate hidden deep within the Starweather subdivision. They were mid-valley, about five miles north of Hailey.
    The river turned slightly east about a half mile down. The water was knee deep and moving swiftly, the bottom rocky, uneven, and slippery. It was framed within walls of towering cottonwood trees on either side, broken by stands of aspen, tangles of chokecherry, and the colorful shock of golden willow.
    Slowly, the group in front of him moved in unison downriver. He stepped carefully toward his snagged fly.
    Reaching it, he slipped his hand underwater and followed the taut line. He pricked his finger on the sharp hook and happened to glance up.
    A cougar. Less than ten yards away.
    For an instant he was stunned—awed—by the sight. Then something more primordial kicked in as he realized he was too close.
    The cat was poised, ready to pounce. To strike.
    This wasn’t a Discovery Channel moment: She was hunting, and he was meat .
    He turned and ran, splashing forward, slipping on the mossy stones, sucking the waders heavily out of the water.
    Down the river, the sound drew the attention of the others, who turned hopefully, expecting to see Danny Cutter in control of some massive trout. Instead they saw him stumbling frantically across the river, aimed slightly downriver to allow the current to help his movement. His running was awkward and urgent.
    “Bees,” Fiona Kenshaw said. “He got into—” But she cut herself off as the cougar burst