The prey had been unusually resourceful. The wily animal splashed up a stream, ran along the top of a fallen tree and doubled back in an attempt to throw off its pursuers. But, in the end, the pack cornered the doomed animal against a thick privet hedge Gant had had planted to funnel hunted foxes to a dead end against a stone wall. Even then, the fox had attempted to defend itself before being ripped to pieces.

Gant had sent the other hunters back to his house to celebrate the satisfying conclusion. He dismounted near the hedge, and relived the fox's final moments. The hunt was a savage practice, but he considered it a metaphor for what life was all about. The life-and-death struggle between the strong and the weak.

A horse whinnied. Gant looked up at a low hill and he scowled. A horseman was silhouetted against the blue sky. No one was supposed to be riding in his fields and meadows except the foxhunters. He remounted, dug his heels in and galloped up the hill.

The man watched Gant's approach from the saddle of a chestnut-colored Arabian. Unlike the red-jacketed foxhunters, he was dressed simply in faded jeans and turquoise polo shirt. A black baseball cap with a Harley-Davidson emblem on the crown covered his platinum-silver hair.

Gant brought his mount to a wheeling stop. “You're trespassing,” he snapped. “This is private property.”

The man appeared unruffled, and his light blue eyes barely flickered.

“Do tell,” he said.

“I could have you arrested for breaking the law,” Gant said, upping the ante.

The man's lips parted in a humorless smile. “And I could have you arrested for foxhunting. Even the Brits have banned it.”

Gant wasn't used to being challenged. He stood in his stirrups. “I own more than two hundred acres of land and every living thing on it. I'll do whatever I want to do with my property.” His hand went to a portable radio clipped to his jacket. “Will you leave on your own or do I have to call my security people?”

“No need to call in the cavalry. I know the way out. The animal rights people won't be happy when they hear that you've had your mutts chewing up the local wildlife.”

“They're not mutts. They are purebred foxhounds. I paid a great deal of money to have them brought in from England.”

The stranger nodded, and picked up his reins.

“Wait,” Gant said. “Who are you?”

“Kurt Austin. I'm with the National Underwater and Marine Agency.”

Gant almost fell off his horse with surprise. He recovered nicely, and pasted a fake smile on his lips.

“I always thought of NUMA in terms of sea horses, not Arabian mares, Mr. Austin.”

“There's a lot you don't know about us, Mr. Gant.”

Gant let a momentary flash of irritation show on his face. “You know my name.”

“Of course. I came here to talk to you.”