Brad had drawn a mental image of Alistair Renault as a distinguished man of stately bearing dressed in finely tailored sports clothes easily recognizable among the other disembarking passengers, so he’d not bothered making a homemade sign stating his client’s name. To his surprise and even shock, the man who started toward him by apparent instinct matched nothing of the description he’d envisioned from their phone conversation. He was less than medium height, walked with a sort of shuffling gait, wore a faded brown jacket, and overall looked about as ordinary and common as a bait bucket. Brad felt a moment’s disappointment. He’d been looking forward to meeting a client of his grand expectations. “Brad Hudson?” the man called in the rich, well-modulated voice that had conjured up Brad’s misperception.

Brad held out his hand. What the hell. The guy was a paying customer. “Yes sir. Welcome to Colorado, Mr. Renault.”

“Thank you. Good of you to meet me.” He carried the sparse travel luggage of an experienced fisherman—one small suitcase for clothes, not an entire wardrobe, and a well-worn angler’s case in sturdy canvas. He set down the small suitcase to return Brad’s grip, its force a surprise and his direct gaze even more so. Experiencing another flash of disconcertment, Brad perceived this man was not as he appeared. “You’ll want to see some identification, I’m sure,” his client said, releasing Brad’s hand to reach inside his brown jacket.

“Yes sir,” Brad said. It had not occurred to him to ask for identification, but he squinted at the man’s driver’s license as if the procedure were customary, nodded, then picked up the suitcase. “My truck’s in the parking lot over there, if you’ll just follow me,” he said, feeling his telephone impression somewhat justified. In outward appearance, Alistair Renault might possess all the distinction of a prairie chicken, but unless his instincts were way off base, Brad felt sure there was a lot more to the man than met the eye.

“Meeker’s only an hour-and-a-half drive,” he said. “I’ll drive you straight to the hotel, and we can make an early start in the morning. There’s a café next door where you can get a home-cooked meal. We’ll leave at sunrise and have all day tomorrow and Sunday to fish. Am I right to understand you’ll be leaving early Monday morning?”

“That’s correct,” Alistair said. “Train leaves at seven.”