The Cat Dancers

by P. T. Deutermann

  “Better late than never,” Mary Ellen gasped.

  “County cops. What can I say?” Cam replied, putting his hand on her forehead.

  “Sorry about the cats,” he said. “Sorry about this whole damned mess.”

  Feeling a familiar roar in his ears, he clamped his good hand over the wound on his arm. “You better get them down here,” he whispered.

  She sat up, saw the arm.

  Then things got a little fuzzy.

  69

  A MONTH LATER, CAM sat out on the deck behind his house with a Scotch in one hand and Frick’s fuzzy head in the other. Frack lay on the deck, watching as usual. Bobby Lee Baggett sat across from him, also enjoying a sunset libation.

  “So I’m still fired,” Cam said.

  “Well, actually, you’ve been early-retired. Sounds like fired, but different.”

  Cam thought the Sheriff was still a little gray around the gills and that he’d lost pounds he couldn’t afford to lose. From time to time Bobby Lee would unconsciously put his left hand on his chest over the wound site. Cam knew the feeling.

  “Don’t remember signing the papers,” Cam said, massaging his own bandaged arm.

  “Memory is the second thing to go, especially when you get retired.”

  “What’s the first?”

  “I forget,” Bobby Lee said. It was such a lame old joke they both chuckled.

  “What are the feds up to these days?” Cam asked.

  “They have identified some ‘persons of interest,’” Bobby Lee said.

  “That mean what it usually does?”

  “Yep. They know who the bad guys are, but can’t prove shit. Yet. There’s an interesting wrinkle, though, if you can believe it.”

  “Try me.”

  “They want to offer that Indian computer wizard immunity if she’ll help them tag the federal members of that cat dancer thing.”

  “She had to have been the one who set that bomb at Annie Bellamy’s house,” Cam pointed out. “Immunity from a murder charge?”

  “I think they’re going to pretend they don’t know that,” Bobby Lee said. “Offer her immunity for being a part of the death squad. Get what they can, then open the murder charge.”

  “Get her in custody and give me five minutes with her,” Cam said.

  “Now, now, those aren’t the words of a retiree.”

  “Have they found her?”

  “That’s the problem. They seem to think you might be able to help them out with that.”

  “Me?”

  “She was the one who sent you the GPS points, right?”

  “That was an entirely one-way channel, boss,” Cam said. “My chances of finding her on the Internet are precisely two.”

  “One of their computer wienies is going to be in touch. You can at least make helpful noises.”

  Cam reflected on that and sipped some scotch. His doctors had told him not to drink while on the final course of antibiotics. He had invoked his constitutional rights against cruel and unusual punishment, although he kept it well within bounds. Pretty much.

  “I’m going to the County Sheriffs’ annual convention in Raleigh next week,” the sheriff said. “Gonna have me some ‘offline conversations on matters of mutual collective interest.’”

  “Share some technical parameters?” Cam asked.

  “Those too. What do you hear from your ranger friend?”

  Cam tried to flex his left arm. It didn’t flex worth a damn. There was too much meat gone from vital places. Mostly he walked around like Napoleon, with his left hand shoved inside his shirt. “Unfortunately, not much,” he said.

  “Why—’cause you shot those cats?”

  “No, because I dragged her into something that turned nasty and dangerous. She was just supposed to testify, and instead … well, you know. And then when I declined to testify, I think she began to wonder about me and all my works.”

  The sheriff nodded.

  Cam looked over at him. “I have to hold to that,” he said. “Until you and the feds can tell me they have them all in custody, Mary Ellen won’t be safe.”

  “Did you ever explain that to her?”

  Cam shook his head. “I wanted to go up there again,” he said. “Have a talk. But every cop and park ranger in Carrigan County told me never to come back up there. They think pretty highly of that lady, and I was the guy damn near got her killed.”

  “Mmm-mm.”

  Cam looked over at him. “What’s that mean?”

  “It means that it was those cat dancers, whoever the hell they are, they damn near got her killed.” He paused for a moment. “Now that you’re retired, you’re just going to sit back and forget this whole mess, right?”

  Cam had to think about how to answer that. “I think I really would like that five minutes alone with Jay-Kay Bawa,” he said.

  “Feds would hate that.”

  “I have money now, Sheriff,” Cam said. “And more coming. Lots more, apparently. I think that can buy me a certain degree of insurance, of the political variety. Besides, what better thing to do with all that money than to nail the bitch who killed Annie?”

  “And what exactly would you do if you found her?”

  “That is the question, isn’t it,” Cam said, thoughtfully. “Maybe knock together another electric chair?” Frick got up and moved away. Frack moseyed over for some head rubbing.

  “Sounds good to me,” the sheriff said, “as long as we both understand you’re just running your mouth.” He stretched his legs and rubbed his chest one more time before he got up. “Oh, by the way, there was a letter for you, came in care of the office. I called the sender, told her you had left the force. She asked why, and I … well, I kind of filled her in on some things. She asked me to return the letter.” He unfolded an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Cam. “Here’s the one she sent in its place. I’ll leave you to it. Remember who your friends are, and what’s important in life.”

  Cam took the letter but didn’t look at it. “You’re not disappointed in me, then?”

  “Absolutely not,” the sheriff said emphatically. “But you need to move on. We’ll get ’em. Ain’t like we don’t know a thing or two.”

  “Mess with the best’?”

  The sheriff grinned, his teeth white in the night, not unlike a big cat’s. “That’s it,” he said.

  Cam took the letter into the kitchen once the sheriff had gone. He sat down at the kitchen table, massaged his arm, and read what Mary Ellen had written. Then he smiled. Jay-Kay and the cat dancers might have to wait awhile after all.

  But not forever.

  ST. MARTIN’S PAPERBACKS TITLES BY P. T. DEUTERMANN

  The Firefly

  Darkside

  Hunting Season

  Train Man

  Zero Option

  Sweepers

  Official Privilege

  The Edge of Honor

  Scorpion in the Sea

  PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF P. T. DEUTERMANN

  THE FIREFLY

  “Complex …fascinating.”

  —The Washington Post

  “A first-class page-turner.”

  —Atlanta Journal-Constitution

  “A deft thriller …impeccably authentic!”

  —Library Journal

  “A top-notch thriller from a top-notch writer. The Firefly may be Deutermann’s best novel to date—reminiscent of The Day of the Jackal.”

  —Nelson DeMille

  “Addictively enthralling …wait till you get to the jaw-dropping ending!”

  —Entertainment Weekly

  HUNTING SEASON

  “Explosive tour de force….The author exceeds his near-perfect Train Man with this ripped-from-the-headlines plot pitting a middle-aged Rambo with a small but deadly arsenal of spy gadgets against spine-chilling villains, corrupt agency brass and powerful political forces. Deutermann never sounds a wrong note in this nonstop page-turner.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

&nb
sp; “You think you have read this before. Trust me. You haven’t. And you should…a great read.”

  —Tribune (Greensburg, PA)

  “One of the lasting conventions in thriller-writing involves putting the hero in a situation where the reader is forced to ask, ‘How can he possibly get out of that?’ …Deutermann… exploits that convention to the hilt in Hunting Season.”

  —Houston Chronicle

  “Enough techno and black ops to satisfy Clancy fans, enough double-dealing, back-pedaling internecine treachery to keep Carré fans reading and enough plot turns and suspense to keep Crichton and Higgins Clark devotees guessing.”

  —The Florida Times-Union

  “Deutermann’s previous novel, Train Man, was a marvelous, bang-up action novel…in Hunting Season he equals the thrills…Deutermann writes with authority and inventiveness. Add in top-secret gizmos, heroes meaner than villains…and you’ve got one of the best by one of the best at what he does.”

  —Telegraph [Macon, GA]

  “The tale is loaded with political and bureaucratic skullduggery, and there are plenty of well-banked curves and clever twists. A solid read from an author whose own tradecraft is every bit as good as that of his characters.”

  —Booklist

  “Deutermann has sold three novels to Hollywood already. They’re blind if they pass on this one.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  DARKSIDE

  “Gripping …thoroughly absorbing.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Deutermann …writes page-turners. And this one has a surprise ending—one that comes as a bombshell.”

  —Houston Chronicle

  “A dead-on sense of place and appealing characters in tight corners … satisfying.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Deutermann has now published seven pounding-pulsers. For this book, he was back at Dahlgren and Mahan, updating his reef points.”

  —Baltimore Sun

  TRAIN MAN

  “Deutermann delivers his most accomplished thriller yet. Intelligent, expertly detailed and highly suspenseful.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “Another solid performance from Deutermann, this time about a train-hating, vengeance-hungry madman and the FBI agents seeking to derail him. Quality entertainment: the details convince, the people are real, the plot twists legitimate.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  ZERO OPTION

  “Zero Option delivers …[Deutermann] keeps his story moving briskly.”

  —Proceedings

  “Exciting, moving …a top-notch topical thriller.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “[Deutermann] returns in top form with this gripping tale …intensely plausible entertainment.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  SWEEPERS

  “An explosive drama…Deutermann fans like myself will be thrilled to see that he keeps getting better.”

  —Nelson DeMille

  “Deutermann’s inside knowledge of the Navy and Pentagon politics, coupled with his likeable protagonists, make this a gripping new addition to his line of naval mysteries.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A fine page-turner.”

  —Library Journal

  OFFICIAL PRIVILEGE

  “A tight story line…An attractive combination of murder mystery and naval politics.”

  —The New York Times Book Review

  “P. T. Deutermann has become one of our best thriller writers…. A keenly entertaining, fascinating mystery.”

  —Observer (Florida)

  “Superb plotting and characterization are here, as is suspense and a clear awareness of the dangers and dalliances that can thrive in official Washington …Official Privilege is more than just a whodunit and a Navy story; it is a suspenseful indictment of power politics.”

  —Florida Times-Union

  THE EDGE OF HONOR

  “One heck of an exciting voyage…P. T. Deutermann ships a reader onto the bridge in that special place—where men go down to the sea in ships. He adds a first-rate suspense novel as a bargain.”

  —Tampa Tribune and Times

  “The Edge of Honor is the rare book that addresses the complexities of war at the front and also at home. The author captures the Vietnam period and its confusion perfectly. Particularly interesting—and horrifying—is the culture depicted on the Hood, a real-life ship around which the novel is set.”

  —The Baltimore Sun

  “The Edge of Honor…is headed up the bestseller list.”

  —The Atlanta Journal-Constitution

  “A powerful human wartime thriller with a steady flow of action, both military and human. One of the best plots to come our way in years.”

  —Neshoba Democrat

  “Utterly convincing…Unlike many techno-thriller writers, he has as good a grasp of what makes people tick as of what makes a modern warship function. Deutermann’s clear mission is to picture Navy life in a depth we have not seen before, and he succeeds brilliantly. His craftsmanship is amazing.”

  —The San Diego Union-Tribune

  SCORPION IN THE SEA

  “Realistic with fast-paced action that carries the story to a crashing, pounding climax.”

  —Florida Times-Union

  “Fast-paced …A page-turner …Exciting.”

  —Rear Admiral M.A. McDevitt, Proceedings, a U.S. Navy Publication

  “High-octane compound of techno-thriller and military procedural that satisfies on several levels.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I WANT TO THANK the Sheriff of Guilford County, North Carolina, for his insights on the inner workings of a modern and highly successful urban Sheriff’s Office. That said, I’ve taken extensive liberties in conjuring up characters, methods, and even localities for this story. I also want to thank the United States Park Service for their technical help on the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, although there, too, I’ve made up a lot of the material on locations within the park and, most important, the existence of feral mountain lions. There is simply no concrete evidence of big cats roaming the Smokies. If on the other hand, you are a proponent of the rule that says the absence of evidence isn’t the same as evidence of absence, then you might want to watch where, and when, you walk in the backcountry. Almost needless to say, no one would be foolhardy enough to try cat dancing with a mountain lion, not even the real (and very brave) Kenny Cox, who so graciously allowed the use of his name in this book in connection with an American (Carriage) Driving Society fund-raiser. This is a work of fiction, and any resemblance in this book to actual persons, places, or events is absolutely coincidental.

  READ ON FOR AN EXCERPT FROM

  P. T. DEUTERMANN’S NEXT BOOK

  SPIDER MOUNTAIN

  COMING SOON IN HARDCOVER

  FROM ST. MARTIN’S PRESS

  THE ROCK RIGHT BEHIND my head exploded into a spray of razor-sharp granite shards, followed by the echo of a booming rifle up on the high ridge. The back of my neck felt like it was on fire as I rolled to one side and deeper into the rock pile. The shepherds came running, but I yelled them down as another round slashed down the hill, spanging off a rock and out into the hollow below. I made like a snake, wriggling between the bigger rocks, conscious of wetness on the back of my shirt. Another round came into the rockpile. This one ricocheted off about five rocks before passing over my head like a supersonic hornet. The shooter knew I was in there and was hoping for a lucky hit. I was looking for that fabled direct route to China through the center of the earth.

  Finally it stopped. My neck still hurt like hell, but it was now dark enough on the hillside that the guy probably couldn’t see us anymore. The distant boom of the rifle was still echoing in my ears, and I remained down on the ground for another thirty minutes until it was almost fully dark. Then I crept towards the edge of the rockpile nearest Laurie May’s place. The dogs were whining above me, but I told them to stay down
until I got clear of the rockpile. Five minutes later, I was able to get into some trees and call them down. Crouching low, I trotted down the hill towards my not-so-secret-anymore cabin.