The Cat Dancers

by P. T. Deutermann

  Kenny nodded. “You called us cowboys. We’re not.”

  “You know what I mean. Guys in law enforcement who ride the edge all the time. The cops who want to draw their weapons. Who live to draw their weapons. The cops who hate the bad guys. Who substitute passion for professionalism.”

  “You wouldn’t understand,” Kenny said.

  “Got that right. Like I told you, we’re meeting this morning. You coming in?”

  “I will if there’s a warrant, although I don’t think you’ll get one. You have no evidence.”

  “I have what we’ve just been talking about.”

  “You’re tainted. You’re the guy who became a millionaire when Bellamy went up. The only thing keeping you from suspension is that the Bureau doesn’t believe it.”

  “I’ll take my chances,” Cam said. “I know I didn’t do the bombing or anything else like that. You, on the other hand, know what you’ve been doing.”

  “We didn’t do that bombing or the shooting into her house, partner. So who did that? Got any clues for that?”

  “My guess is it was your cell, if not you personally. We can probably make that stick, too, once we tie you people to the killings.”

  “Never happen, Cam, because we didn’t do that. Just like you didn’t do it. So there’s a mystery for you: Who did?”

  “I give up. Who?”

  Kenny stood and zipped up his jacket. “I have a theory, but no incentive to share it with you.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m taking some impromptu leave,” Kenny said. “I feel the need to do some dancing. Maybe one last time, especially if you guys do get lucky. You want me in the next two weeks, come on out to the Chop.”

  “What the hell is the Chop?”

  “The park rangers know where it is. Ask that pretty one, Mary something.”

  “Was her boyfriend one of the club? Joel Hatch?”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Mary Ellen. She admitted to knowing what cat dancing was.”

  Kenny scoffed. “Hatch was a fucking jock-sniffer. White Eye blew him off. Bangs on the door of a boiler room at midnight and says, ‘Open up in the name of the law!’ Shit. No wonder they offed him. Adios, partner.”

  Cam thought about trying to stop him, but he realized that was pointless and probably not even possible. Even if he pointed a gun at Kenny and told him he was under arrest, Kenny would laugh at him. They both knew neither one of them could ever pull that trigger.

  Dawn was beginning to break outside. Cam finished his coffee and went upstairs to get ready for the day’s coming festivities. He thought about what Kenny had said. What if the vigilante cell had not done the bombing? If not them, then who the hell had done that? And why?

  50

  THREE DAYS LATER, CAM was back in Carrigan County, headed for a 5:00 P.M. meeting with the park rangers. His letters had formally initiated the opening of a case-action file by the SBI, which had set up shop in Manceford County to lead the investigation with the full cooperation of the Sheriff’s Office and the concurrence of the FBI. Bobby Lee had made his calls to the sheriffs of all the counties in North Carolina, achieving mixed results, as he had expected. Some of the sheriffs had said go away, others had said they didn’t have any cowboys, and still others had surfaced a total of nine names. These had been turned over to Jaspreet for her pattern analysis of phone records, phone booths, dead criminals, and the locations and service histories of the nine named officers.

  Cam had briefed the sheriff privately on his discussion with Kenny Cox, which, as far as he was concerned, confirmed the existence of the cell, even though they had no substantive evidence yet. Kenny had dropped leave papers down in the personnel office the night before he’d come to see Cam, with the leave address blank. Neither Cam nor the sheriff informed the SBI that Kenny had as much as confessed, deciding instead to wait and see if Jay-Kay’s pattern analysis would fold Kenny into the mix. They did make sure that his name was on the analysis target list.

  By the end of the second day, Jaspreet was ready to report. She had identified a statistically significant pattern of phone calls that tied two of the target names, as well as that of Sergeant Cox, to the phone booths in the locations where some of the criminals had been killed. She had then gone back and sifted through James Marlor’s phone records and found more ties to the same general network of phone booths. One of the two names was that of an active-duty officer, and a search of the relevant Sheriff’s Office records found congruent absences over the past five years. The second name was that of senior sergeant who’d been forced into retirement after a suspicious shooting incident. It would have been interesting to be able to tie in White Eye Mitchell’s records to the pattern analysis, but, as the sheriff in Carrigan County reported, they’d found no records or even bank accounts. Apparently, White Eye had not believed in paperwork, and his mattress had been his bank. Interestingly, Indian guide White Eye Mitchell had been a police officer in Detroit—his real name was Junious Mitchell Smith—before becoming an “Indian” guide in the Great Smokies. Smith’s contract had not been renewed, due to what was termed “temperamental unsuitability.” They’d searched his property but had found no evidence of big cats.

  The SBI had sent for Kenny Cox’s army records, but it was going to take at least two weeks to retrieve them from the federal depository in St. Louis. They would need those records to help them determine why he’d changed his name from Marlor to Cox. None of the MCAT guys, including Cam, could shed any light on Kenny’s back story. When they did kick it around, it became clear that none of them knew very much at all about where Kenny went on his free time, and they concluded that perhaps all the stories about him being the Manceford County Sheriff’s Office premier assbandit may have been cover and deception. Bobby Lee had decided the final strategy: Cam was dispatched to go find Kenny Cox and convince him to come in. If they could break Kenny, then they’d go after the two other known names and try to break up the entire cell. If Kenny wouldn’t come in, or they couldn’t find him, they’d let the Bureau handle it.

  Two of Twenty Mile’s three rangers were waiting for Cam when he arrived at the station. It was fully dark outside and the station had been shut down for the day. One of them was Mary Ellen, and the other, who appeared to be older than she was, introduced himself as Ranger Marshall. He said he was the station chief. After getting some coffee, they repaired to the conference room, where Cam explained why he was there.

  “We need to find one of our deputies,” he began. “He’s become the subject of an Internal Affairs investigation ongoing in Manceford County.”

  “What kind of investigation, exactly?” Marshall asked.

  Cam danced around the true nature of the problem, which provoked another question: Did this have something to do with White Eye Mitchell’s demise during Cam’s previous visit. Cam said it did. They waited. Mary Ellen pretended total ignorance.

  “So what do you want from us?” Marshall asked bluntly.

  “I have reason to believe that Sergeant Cox is in an area called the Chop? Does that name ring a bell?”

  They nodded. “The Chop is a geological formation in the northwestern part of the park,” Mary Ellen said. “It’s partly in North Carolina and partly in Tennessee.”

  “What’s the name mean?”

  “Think of God picking up a hatchet and making one spectacular ten- to twelve-mile-long chop through the backbone of the mountains. It’s a place where a large mountain split down the middle a million years ago. A fast river goes through it, and it’s about as remote as you can get in the park.”

  “How would I get to it this time of year?”

  “Helo,” Marshall said. “But not for very much longer.”

  “Weather?” Cam asked.

  They nodded. “There’s a front predicted to arrive in about seventy-two hours, which will make it impossible to get there.”

  “Even by helicopter?”

  “Think twenty-five feet of snow
, Lieutenant,” Mary Ellen said, keeping it formal. Obviously, she wanted to keep the fact that they had met off-line from her supervisor. “No place to land except near the entrance, where the winds will be fifty to sixty knots, and no way to get down into the Chop, short of a parachute. If you’re going out there, we need to call the park dispatch center in Gatlinburg right now. They have the helos and the pilots under contract who are qualified to do this.”

  “Are you qualified to go out into a real wilderness area?” Marshall asked.

  Cam said yes, although he told them he would appreciate any advice on winter trekking.

  “What the hell is this guy doing way out there?” Marshall asked.

  “Cat dancing, I think.”

  “Aw, c’mon,” he said with disdain. “I heard about that when you came up here the last time. There aren’t any wild panthers left out there. Even that hair taken from the print the last time you were here was ID’d as that of a western cat.”

  Cam shrugged. “The one I shot had been tamed and trained to attack a human,” he said. “I learned that the hard way, if you’ll remember. My guess is that none of us knows what’s living way out there.”

  Mary Ellen intervened. “Look,” she said. “That’s true—that we don’t know. It’s highly unlikely, but Mitchell was obviously doing something that involved the big cats. Did this guy tell you he was going to the Chop?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “Any idea of how he was going in?”

  “It’s been almost four days. He’s been coming out here for years, so he probably had some form of transport prepositioned. Snowmobile? I don’t know. Here’s my other question: Can I get some help with this? I’m comfortable in the backcountry, but I don’t know this ground, and I sure won’t know it if we get twenty-five feet of snow.”

  There was a moment of silence around the table, and then Mary Ellen leaned forward. “Did he suggest there’s a wild mountain lion out there in or around the Chop?”

  Cam nodded. “In fact, I asked him what the Chop was, and he said to ask you guys—that you’d been there.”

  “Yes, I’ve been there. I’ve been all over this park. Most of us have. But I didn’t go there looking for a mountain lion.”

  “Is this deputy going to come back in peacefully?” Marshall asked.

  Cam hesitated. “The truth is, I don’t know. But this will be between him and me. He wouldn’t hurt another cop.”

  “Just how dangerous is this guy? Is he deranged?”

  “Do you know what NAFOD means?” Cam asked. He got blank looks.

  “Law enforcement these days is all about teamwork. From two-man partners all the way up to full-blown SWAT teams. You rely on the guy who has your back—for your life. The one guy who cannot function in that setting is a guy who has no apparent fear of death. NAFOD is a military aviation term. A guy who’s NAFOD can and probably will get someone on his team killed because he’s fearless. Kenny’s dangerous in that sense.”

  “Is this personal, you and him?”

  “He was my number two in Manceford County. I’ve known and worked with him for many years. I thought I knew him, but now I’ve found out he goes face-to-face with wild mountain lions for the thrill of it. I’m going to ask him to come in. I’m going to tell him I’ve told the right people where he is. If he says no, we’ll leave, and turn it over to some people who probably won’t just ask.”

  “Okay,” Marshall said. “I’ll go along and help you set up a base camp. I’ll show you what the Chop looks like, and how to get into it. But I’m not chasing down any whacked-out cop with a death wish, and I’m not going to pat a mountain lion on the ass, either.”

  Cam winced at the description “whacked-out cop,” but then he nodded.

  “And we’re leaving before the storm arrives, which means, if we can get out there by, say, noon tomorrow, you’ll have maybe forty-eight hours to surface this guy, and then we’re out of there. Agreed?”

  Like I have much choice, Cam thought. “Yes, absolutely, agreed. And for the record, I’m definitely not NAFOD.”

  They talked logistics for a few minutes while Mary Ellen went to contact the dispatch center. When Cam was ready to leave, she had a flight laid on for ten o’clock the next morning, staging out of the ranger station’s parking lot. Marshall got one of the local outfitters to open up his store that evening so they could equip their little expedition. Mary Ellen stopped Cam in the hallway as he was leaving.

  “Two things,” she said.

  “Shoot.”

  “Billy Marshall is an ex–Marine Corps recon guy. He’s commissioned as a law-enforcement officer. The only reason he volunteered to go with you is to keep you safe, but he’s taking you at your word that you’ve been in the backcountry before. Have you?”

  Cam said yes. “I’ll have my dogs with me, and I’ve brought my own gear. If he wants to back out, I can probably do this on my own.”

  She smiled. “He doesn’t want to back out. He just wants to know how much danger you’re going to be putting him in.”

  “If he stays at the camp, his biggest problem will be boredom. And the second question?”

  “I want to come along.”

  He looked at her, then understood. “And you want to see if there really is a wild one out there, right?”

  “Right.”

  “If there is, will you testify for me when it comes to it?”

  “I will.”

  “Fine,” he said. “One last thing: When it comes to my bringing Sergeant Cox in, I need to do that by myself.”

  “No problem,” she said brightly. “I’m not NAFOD, either.”

  51

  THEY LANDED AT NOON the next day in a clatter of rotor blades, which produced a miniblizzard of blowing snow. The helicopter was a modified army Blackhawk bearing the markings of the state Department of Natural Resources. The crewman got out first, still connected to his intercom umbilical. He stomped around on the thin snowpack for a moment and then gestured for them to come out. Marshall passed the gear bags to the crewman and then jumped out, followed by Cam, Mary Ellen, and the two German shepherds. Cam signaled the dogs to come with him, and then they all backed away from the helo. The crewman climbed back into the side hatch, checked the wheels out of habit for chocks, and then the bird rattled off in a big circle to the east as it climbed, leaving behind a profound silence.

  They had landed in a clearing on the top of a pine-covered hill, where the snow was only about six inches deep and solidly crusted. The broad hill sloped down to the west across an open meadow leading to a narrow but vigorous river, beyond which there was a massive ridgeline of snow-covered granite rising almost two thousand feet into the sky. The main ridge ran northeast-southwest for several miles in both directions, but right in front of them was the Chop, a wedge-shaped canyon that looked like God had indeed taken an ax to the ridge. The cut was about two hundred yards wide at the base, widening to almost a half mile at the top of the mountain. The river came rushing out of the cut and then made a ninety-degree left turn to the north and disappeared into a pine forest. The sky above the ridge was a deep blue, and instead of a wind, there was a gentle wave of frigid air rolling down their side of the ridge, smelling of pine and ice.

  They set up camp down in a hollow just above the river, three one-man tents for sleeping and a fourth one, which was larger, for the mess tent. Knowing they wouldn’t be packing the gear any distance, Marshall had opted for maximum comfort, even though it would be for only forty-eight hours. They hung the food bags in a nearby tree and then Marshall took them down to the river to show them the way across. The entrance to the Chop was in shadow as the afternoon sun began to settle behind the enormous ridge. The river came out of the canyon with a black vengeance. It slowed as it hit the turn and the deep bare-walled channel it had worn in the rock, then broke into a wide, shallow shoal.

  “You can get across right here, which will put you on the north side of the river inside the canyon. The river hugs the south wall
at the entrance.”

  “How far back does that canyon go?” Cam asked. The shepherds were down at the riverbank, nosing around the rocks.

  “About eight miles to the base of that ridge. It widens as it goes back. In the middle, it’s almost half a mile wide and forms a V shape. It narrows again on the Tennessee side, and then widens out again about a thousand feet up. You’ll be climbing the whole time you’re in there, and it’s in relative shadow except at midday.”

  Cam studied the rushing waters. “And how exactly do we cross here?”

  “Rock to rock,” Marshall said with a grin. Cam had been afraid of that. He knew he could do it, but he didn’t think the dogs could. Marshall sensed the problem.

  “You cross, trailing one end of a rope over on this side. We’ll walk our end upstream, just below the bend, tie a dog into a bowline, and then you call him. Once he goes into the water, you pull, and the current will bring him down to you.”

  Cam nodded. That ought to work, he thought, although Frack wasn’t really fond of water. Frick, on the other hand, would do anything once. An eagle called to its mate a thousand feet up the rock face of the ridge, and they all took a moment to watch it soar.

  “This look like mountain lion country to you?” Cam asked Mary Ellen.

  She nodded. “Mountain lion country is synonymous with deer country, and there’ll be deer in that canyon. It’s got water, cover, and browse.”

  They stood there looking for a few minutes, taking in the shining granite walls of the ridge, the deepening shadows that were swallowing up the big pines in the canyon, and the muscular roar of the river. Cam wondered if he ought to get going. Again, Marshall seemed to sense his thoughts.

  “Let’s go get set up in camp and study some topo maps,” he said. “If your man’s in that canyon, I can show you where he’s likely to make a camp.”

  Cam shivered, both from the cold and from the anticipation of going up into that canyon looking for Kenny. He wondered if Kenny was really in there, or maybe up at that other mountain, which was twelve miles north. This could be a total wild-goose chase, and he said as much to Marshall.