Claws

by Ozzie Cheek

  “F-me,” Stan said. “Katy, I’m so sorry.”

  “Nothing like asking me first, Stan.”

  “But I did,” Stan argued. “You said if the injunction hit a snag, I could use your name as a supporter. Katy, we didn’t hit a snag; we hit a brick wall. The good judge I told you about; well, we lost him. He had emergency bypass surgery today. So our hearing got reassigned, and this time we drew some Bush appointee. A black female judge that’s so far right she makes Justice Thomas look like Martin Luther King. We don’t have a chance in hell.”

  “You still should have cleared it with me,” Katy said, but even as she said it, her words were losing their sting.

  “My Hollywood connection says there’s no such thing as bad publicity. Controversy will help you sell books.”

  “Your Hollywood connection probably isn’t surrounded by angry hunters with big guns,” Katy told him.

  As Shane slid the Toyota to a dusty stop outside the dark house, Jesse turned off the blaring music. At least he was playing Black-Eyed Peas instead of 50 Cent. Jesse’s tastes ran to Taylor Swift, Josh Ritter, and the Beatles.

  “You don’t have to hang around,” Jesse said.

  “Maybe I want to.”

  “You don’t even like horses.”

  “But I like you.”

  She smiled at him but still shook her head. “Touie could be nervous. He doesn’t like being away from home.”

  “Maybe it’s you that’s nervous?” He ran his hand up the inside of her jeans and kept going until she clamped his hand between warm thighs. “Maybe you’re afraid you can’t trust yourself in the barn? All that soft hay –”

  “You wish!” she said with a giggle. “Okay, but if you’re coming in, stay behind me.” She squirmed out of the truck and, without looking back at Shane, hurried to the barn in the glow of an outside light.

  Jesse slid the barn door open. Even before she turned on the interior lights, she knew something was wrong. Touie was stomping and snorting inside his stall. “Stay back,” she told Shane. He was too close behind her.

  Jesse spoke softly as she approached the gelding, but he still pawed the straw on the floor, threw his head around, and flared his nostrils. When she reached her horse, she offered him a sugar cube, something she seldom did, since it was unhealthy for Touie. At first Touie ignored her, but as she continued to coo and offer the treat, he finally took it out of her hand. She felt his hard teeth and large, soft lips, the hairs around them tickling her skin, and said, “I’m glad you’re home too.”

  “Do I have to stay out here all night?” Shane said. He didn’t wait for an answer before he stepped inside.

  Touie immediately pulled away from Jesse and snorted. “Easy, easy, boy,” Jesse said. “Shane, I told you –”

  “I didn’t do nothing,” Shane said.

  “Easy, easy.”

  “So what’s wrong with him?” Shane asked.

  “I don’t know. Something’s got him –”

  Before Jesse could say, “spooked,” they heard the growl of a big cat. Touie reared and struck the air with his hooves. Jesse jumped back to avoid being hit and stumbled. With nothing but air to grab onto, she fell and smacked her head against a large, wood support beam. Her face drained of blood, her eyes rolled, and she dropped to the floor.

  “Jesse!” Shane ran toward her. “Jesse,” he said again as he knelt over her. “Jesse, come on!”

  When Shane heard a second growl, he looked up and saw the giant cat in the open doorway. Kali’s head was lowered. Her amber eyes swung from the panicked horse in the stall to Jesse and Shane and then back to the horse. Kali showed her teeth and gave a half-growl and half-hiss.

  Shane looked around for an escape route or for a weapon. Another door was at the opposite end of the barn, but it was closed. There were stairs going up to the loft, but they were too far away. Closer, he saw a ladder to the same loft. Maybe he could carry Jesse over his shoulder like a fireman and climb the ladder. Maybe. He said her name again, and this time she moaned. Shane glimpsed something metal and a second later realized it was a pitchfork. He looked back at Kali; she had crept closer.

  Shane got up slowly and inched his way toward Touie’s stall. Shane’s eyes never left the liger, and Kali’s eyes never left the horse and the boy. Touie was banging and kicking against his stall. A wooden slat splintered.

  In slow motion Shane picked up the pitchfork. With his other hand, he nudged open the gate to the stall. At first Touie didn’t react to the offered escape. He continued to rear up and snort, his eyes wild with fear.

  By the time Shane returned to Jesse, Kali was seconds away from reaching them. Shane felt his body react to the fear. He fought against it. No way he was going to let this become the aspen grove all over again. “Jesse, wake up,” Shane pleaded. “Please. You gotta wake up.”

  Kali unleashed a louder growl and dropped into a crouch as Touie bolted from the stall, racing toward the open barn door. Kali sprang at the gelding, but the liger was positioned to spring forward, not sideways, and there was little thrust to her attack. Touie easily avoided Kali and disappeared into the night. In a flash Kali recovered and went after the horse. Kali had failed once to kill the prey; she didn’t intend to fail again.

  Shane wobbled on weak legs to the barn door and shut it with a bang. He then slid to the ground, leaned back against the door, and sucked in his first deep breath in minutes. A moment later Jesse opened her eyes and moaned.

  Twenty-Five

  Angie parked her Subaru behind the Methodist Church, three blocks from Sharon’s bungalow on Grouse Road. She had her police uniform in a garment bag and other items in the Buckhorn Bank gifted carryall slung over her shoulder. There was no traffic, and in most houses the curtains were drawn. She was a block from Sharon’s house when she saw the truck. The lights switched from low to high blinding her, and she shielded her eyes until the pickup sped past, its radio spewing country music. She turned and watched the truck speed off. The rear of the truck was crusted with mud. In the dark and with the truck moving, she could not read the license plate number. It was an Idaho tag. The pickup left her feeling uneasy, and when she arrived at Sharon’s house, she did not mention her encounter. She simply listened to Sharon prattle on and on about school.

  When the phone rang, they were on the couch, with candles their only light, and neither of them interested in talking except to say, “yes, yes,” or “do that,” or “don’t stop.” The machine picked up the call. Seconds later, they heard heavy, sexual panting and faint country music.

  “What the hell’s that?” Angie asked. She lifted her head off Sharon’s stomach and eyed the answering machine.

  “Kids from school, I guess.”

  “Doesn’t sound like kids to me,” Angie said.

  Sharon turned away. “It’s not the first time.”

  “First time?” Angie said. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “He never speaks. Just breathes like that.”

  Angie sat up. “You said he.”

  “So?”

  “How do you know it’s a man?”

  Sharon shrugged. “I’m just guessing.”

  “Well, he’s not guessing. He knows about us.”

  “Let him. I don’t care.”

  “Yes, you do,” Angie said. “You’ll lose your job.”

  “Then I’ll do something else.”

  “Well, I don’t want to do something else. I’m a cop and –” Angie stopped. “Damnit! Why’s this happening?”

  “You’re not the one he’s bothering, Ang.”

  Angie went to her carryall and took out the rubber dildo that she had cut off her locker door. “This was super-glued inside my locker at the station.”

  Sharon made a noise much like a puppy dog whine.

  The phone rang again. Before Sharon could stop her, Angie jumped up, grabbed the receiver, and said, “I’ll find you, asshole. Just wait. I’ll find you.”

  The Knights of the Golden Circle had never
met twice in one week until Wednesday night. This time there was no pretense of a card game. Each man made his own excuse to his wife or girlfriend or made none at all. The meeting was again held at the Umfleet’s log house. It sat a half-mile off the blacktop on a dirt and gravel road that was a dead end. By nine-thirty six vehicles had traveled down the road. The last person to arrive was Tucker Thule.

  “Nice of you to come,” Fred Bulcher quipped as Tucker set down a twelve-pack of Miller cans.

  “Had something to do,” Tucker said. “And I had to help with the big panty investigation.” To everyone’s delight, Tucker shared the details of Katy’s lingerie spectacle. Besides Fred and Jerry, tonight’s group included a corrections officer, a middle-school teacher, and a sawmill worker. “So what’s going on here?” Tucker asked as the laughter subsided.

  “We’ll tell you,” Jerry said, “while you hand out them beers.” Marcy, Jerry’s wife, unwilling to play hostess again, was in their bedroom watching taped episodes of American Idol. “The law find Ronnie yet?”

  “Nope. But I think the Big Chief knows something.”

  Fred snorted. “I’ll tell you exactly where Ronnie Greathouse is. He’s laying in a ditch somewhere dead.”

  “Or ratting us out,” the schoolteacher said. He wore an outdated crewcut and had a beer belly.

  Everybody started talking at once. After five minutes, Fred hushed the bickering by saying, “Bag this shit tonight. The main thing you missed out on,” he told Tucker, “is hearing this plan Rip has for us to make money off the Idaho Lion Hunt thing.” Rip Baxter was a corrections officer at the Saint Anthony Work Camp.

  “Thought we were robbing a bank?” Tucker said.

  “Ronnie’s big idea?” Fred snorted again. “We’re patriots, not bank robbers. Our fight’s with baby-killers and the godless politicians in Washington. And we don’t need to play Jesse James to get rid of the mud people and wetbacks. Just listen to Rip’s plan. And next time we meet, Tucker, get your ass here on time.”

  “So you in charge now, Fred?” Tucker asked.

  Fred laughed. “Hell, I’ve always been in charge.”

  Jesse and Katy were snuggled up on the couch drinking hot chocolate and talking about horses when Jackson got home Wednesday night. After saying hello, he locked up his handgun and removed his equipment belt and joined them.

  “I see you two have met already.”

  “Jesse’s been the perfect host,” Katy said.

  “God, Dad, her life is so cool.”

  Jackson smiled.

  Katy quickly said, “Jesse’s been telling me about Touie and this race she’s training for.”

  “What’d Doc Willis say? How’s Touie?”

  “Good, he’s good. But really skittish.” Jesse did not mention that it had taken Shane and her an hour to locate Touie and return him to the barn. Touie was unhurt, and they did not see the liger again. Nor did she say that she had barely gotten home before Katy arrived. “But I’m going to keep Touie in the barn. Not out in the corral.”

  Jackson was surprised. “Touie hates being locked up.”

  “I know but … it’s better than some stupid hunter shooting him.”

  “Speaking of hunters,” Katy said, “how’d it go today?”

  Jackson scoffed. “Just one tiger killed. At this rate, we’ll be hunting lions and tigers at Thanksgiving.”

  Jesse yawned and soon went to bed. After Jackson and Katy made plans to go liger hunting on the farm Thursday afternoon, Jackson also said goodnight. In the bedroom his blue uniform was still tossed across a ragged old armchair he was too fond of to throw away. He had left the uniform there after Ed’s funeral on Tuesday. He folded the trousers and slid them over a wood hanger, hung the shirt over the pants, saw the black armband, and finally remembered Ed’s letter. He had forgotten to go see Eileen Stevens and get the letter. I’m losing it, he thought.

  The first thing Katy did when she was alone in the guest room was to take out her 13 inch Macbook Pro. Before Jackson came home, while she was alone with Jesse, she felt chilled and had asked her about lighting a fire. The fireplace was laid with logs but was unusually clean.

  “We never use it,” Jesse had said. “Well, Mom and me, we used it a few times when Daddy was gone. But he could smell it, so we stopped doing even that.”

  “Your father doesn’t like a fireplace?”

  Jesse shook her head no. “Doesn’t like fire.”

  When Jesse didn’t say anything more, Katy dropped the matter. Now she googled Jackson Hobbs; Fort Collins, Colorado; Nancy Larsen; and methamphetamine bust. By the time she shut down the computer and went to bed, she had a better idea of why Jackson didn’t use the fireplace.

  On Thursday morning Jesse had her dad drop her at school a half-hour early. “You’re not gonna believe this,” Jesse said the moment she reached Missy, waiting for her outside the entrance. Jesse dragged her friend off to the side where nobody could hear them. She told Missy about the liger, being knocked out, Touie’s escape, and all the rest.

  “Shut up!” Missy said when Jesse paused for breath.

  “Don’t never, ever tell anybody. Not even Buzz.”

  “Oh my god! You could’ve been killed.”

  “I would have if Shane hadn’t been there.”

  “Shane? So what, now you really do like him? But you said –” Jesse’s face got red. Missy gasped, her mouth wide. “Oh my god! You’re finally going to do him.”

  Jackson drove from the high school to Reynolds’ Auction Barn on Hawk Owl Road. The wood siding was faded, the paint flaking, and the cattle pens needed repair. But none of that mattered today. Today, the auction barn was the center of attention. It was where the killed lions and tigers were weighed, measured, and photographed. Then the animals were picked up by taxidermists or skinned out and the remains destroyed.

  Although it was not yet eight o’clock, the barn was crowded with hunters and gawkers. A group stood around the spot where a lion and two tigers were laid out side by side on tarps. The animals looked dirty and their skins dull. Flies swarmed over them. Jackson didn’t know if he believed in an afterlife or rebirth or a judgment, but he was certain there was something magical about life, and that whatever is magical was gone out of the cats now.

  A large whiteboard was set up. It tallied seven cats already killed. According to the scoreboard, and Jackson’s own calculations, six tigers, nine lions, and one liger remained. Jackson knew that at least four people had died. The scoreboard did not keep count of the people.

  Jackson left after a few minutes. On his way out he spotted Dell Tapper and Fred Bulcher in the parking lot. He couldn’t hear them, but their conversation appeared to be heated. He thought about the gun that Dell owned and the bullet that might have been fired at him, but it wasn’t the right time or place to ask about it. He avoided the two men, drove off, and headed to the police station.

  It had been five days since Ed was killed and Jesse narrowly escaped with her life; four days since they found the Cheneys and learned how many big cats now were roaming free; three days since he first saw Katy in Utah; two days since Wade died; and one day since somebody shot at him. He couldn’t begin to imagine what Thursday would bring.

  Twenty-Six

  Parked along a logging road that skirted the Placett farm, Katy sat in the Ford and drank a thermos of coffee, ate fruit, cheese, and bread, and watched a red smear of light spread pink and then flame yellow. When she set out, she chose a trail that avoided the house. Katy did not want to intrude on the family with their grief. She crossed fields to reach the hunting blind, examined the few remains of the doe left by scavengers, and then scouted the area where Shaka had been shot. She found Kali’s tracks in the woods and followed them for an hour. The area was far from Jackson’s property, but the female liger was headed in that direction.

  At nine o’clock Katy returned to the pickup. She poured the coffee dregs, but it was cold, so she tossed it. She felt restless. Jackson would not return to the ra
nch for hours. She hoped that his cattle herd had not suffered loss and that they could safely round up his two horses. But mostly she wanted to find Kali’s tracks again. She wanted to locate Kali before some hunter got lucky.

  Kali dropped the female cub to the ground. The dirt was hard-packed and dry, and the hole in the side of the hill was dark. The female cub hissed once and then nestled against the male. The new mother had one more cub to move.

  Kali did not know that the mounds north of Jackson’s house were thought to be Native American graves or that humans tended to avoid the area. She merely sensed that her cubs were safer here than in the tall grass. She also knew that she could not move them far today. In her weakened state, for birth had exhausted her, and she had not eaten in a day, distance mattered. The dirt cave would do. For her good fortune, Kali had Floyd Moonie to thank.

  In 1862 Floyd Moonie had built a rough-hewn log cabin that backed against the mounds. His fourteen-year-old wife, Lottie, having come from Missouri, was terrified of thunderstorms and tornadoes and asked her husband for one consideration – a root cellar. Eager to please his bride, twenty years his junior, and already his third wife, the first having died in childbirth and the second lost to the Kiowa, Floyd complied. Since that time the cabin had disappeared, while the cellar had provided shelter to wolves, snakes, and mountain lions, as well as refuge to Indians, missionaries, buffalo hunters, bandits, and one time, to three whores on their way to Montana. Before Iris moved into town, Jackson and his family twice had used the cellar, some two hundred feet from their own house, once during a tornado and once when it appeared that a grassfire might reach them. A thunderstorm had drenched the flames.

  Kali cared about none of this as she returned to the prairie. The only thing that mattered was protecting her cubs and finding food. Moving slowly, she trampled the delicate yellow flowers of a patch of Missouri primrose. She was entering a sea of bluebunch wheatgrass when she heard and then smelled the wolves. Kali tore through the wheatgrass and into the taller rye grass at full speed.