by Jeff Gulvin
Cry of the Panther
A Novel
Jeff Gulvin
For Margo Armstrong Fairbairn
I’d like to say a special thanks to my agent and friend, Ben Camardi, whose support, consistency, and advice has allowed my career to keep rolling when it looked like the roads were closed.
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
A Biography of Jeff Gulvin
The author would like to thank the Scottish Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals and the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds.
Prologue
Idaho, 1969
EWAN TOLD CONNLA THEY couldn’t take a girl with them.
Imogen had heard him say it last night when the two boys thought she was asleep. She had meant to be up in time to stop them going without her, but she woke to empty sleeping bags. Why didn’t Connla wake her? He always stood up for her against her brother, so why not this time? She crawled out of the tent, the dew on the canvas flap damp against her skin, and stood barefoot in the wet grass. She strained to see if she could spot them, but the trees were dark and the trail empty, so she ducked back inside the tent and lay down again, aware of the silence and upset that they had left her behind.
She sucked at the corner of her blanky: eight years old and still sucking on a blanky. No-one at school knew about it. Even Ewan wouldn’t tell anyone about that, and he told everyone anything that would embarrass his sister. She had given it up for almost a year, but her mom hadn’t thrown it out and she had gone back to it for comfort when they told her they were moving back to Scotland. Today was the last day of the vacation before they went back to Jackson City. When they got there they would start packing. Her brother always bragged that he could remember Scotland, and that it was great and everything, but she thought he was lying. If she had been only a year old when they’d come out here, he must’ve been four, so how could he remember?
She had really wanted to go with them this morning, as it was the last time they would ever be here together. The fishing was all done; they had caught a lot of steelhead and the boys were going after Indian stuff. Ewan said he reckoned there would be arrowheads; he thought that Indians had passed this way on hunting trips. Ewan loved arrowheads; he had a whole bunch of them back in his room, some older than others and some he had made himself. He told Connla there would definitely be arrowheads, but they might have to climb some, and they couldn’t possibly take the Twaggle Tail. She had cringed at the nickname, hoping Connla would argue, but he didn’t. He agreed: no place for the Twaggle Tail, not on a trip like that. So she had gone to sleep, determined to wake before dawn and tag along anyway. But now the sun was up and she had slept in and they were gone already.
The sleeping bag was warm but she could smell the chilled freshness of the morning. The corner of her blanky was soggy and she tossed it to one side and got up again. They had pitched their tents at a campsite deep in the trees. Scots pine; that’s what her father called them. Tall and dark-leafed, with straight trunks that seemed to go up for ever before the branches sprang off them. She liked the trees; she could see movement in them, a quiet sort of unmoving motion, the way they must have moved as they grew. Crinkles of bark and the branches separating out from the trunk. She had looked closely and seen that two branches started as one, then split up and came back over themselves before reaching out in different directions. Movement. She could see it, though no-one else seemed able to.
It was chilly still, but she got her boots and put her coat on over her night-dress. She didn’t know how long they had been gone and she sat down in Connla’s sleeping bag and tried to tell herself it was still quite warm. Once in the night she had woken up and looked at him while he was sleeping. Her brother was on the far side and Connla lay in the middle, on his back with his hands tucked out of sight and the sleeping bag up to his chin. His face as smooth as stone in the moonlight, hair a dark splash on the pillow. Looking at him made her feel sort of warm inside; she didn’t really know why. He was just Connla McAdam, her brother’s friend from across the street.
She buttoned up her coat and shook her hair. After three days at camp there was no way she could get a brush through the tangles. She dreaded going home later: the bathtub with shampoo and the comb. Her mother would spend hours trying to sort out the mess, only for her to sleep on it and have to start all over again in the morning. She laced her boots and looked for her hair band, but couldn’t find it among the sleeping things. She looked at her blanky; thought for a moment, then left it.
A crow flew up from the trees, cawing loudly and startling her. She picked her way past her parents’ tent; the door was zipped up and she could hear her father’s muffled snores from inside. The remains of last night’s dinner still clung to the skillets laid out by the blackened embers of the campfire. She could smell the steak-sauce marinade that Connla’s mother had made. It was too strong for her, as was the elk meat. She didn’t like the taste, or the thought of eating deer. How could anyone eat Bambi?
She made her way to the edge of the forest and stopped. The path, pale against the heavy green foliage, cut like a wide-bellied snake through the trees. They grew close together here, well back from the river and higher. The forest looked pretty dark and she hesitated. She had no way of knowing how long they had been gone or in which direction. Vaguely, in the distance, she could hear the rush and tumble of the Salmon River. Easter was only three weeks back and Connla’s father, who fished for steelhead every year, said it was still pretty high with the snow melt. ‘Gotta be careful on the Salmon,’ he said. ‘People got killed every year on the Salmon.’ Ewan scoffed, rafters and canoeists maybe, not fishermen.
She paused at the tree line, looking into the darkness for a moment, then back at the tents. She heard someone stir, mutter, then snore again and she moved into the forest. The path was dusty, with silver-coloured stones pushing up through the dirt. Tree roots reached so far and no further. Her footsteps made no sound and she went deeper, glancing back every now and then to make sure the tents were still in sight. She would go as far as she could without completely losing sight of them, then, if she didn’t see or hear the boys, she would come back. Trees grew up alongside her, close knit, the spaces dark between them. She paused and looked at the straightness of the trunks, how the wood discoloured here and there, how dark it was in some places and yet much lighter in others. The sun cut the odd shaft of light through the topmost branches to the forest floor, and she could see dust dancing. She couldn’t feel the sun, though. No warmth; not enough space between the treetops for any heat to get through.
Something moved among the ferns to her right and Imogen saw a ground squirrel cracking nuts from pine cones. He watched her out of the corner of his eye, but didn’t seem bothered. Imogen crouched on her haunches, one shoulder leaning against the comforting bark of a tree trunk. The squirrel went on cracking nuts, his little grey head darting up and down, snout twitching, whiskers like strands of a spider’s web. Then something must have scared him, for he dumped the nuts and skittered up a tree with a tiny scraping of claws. Imogen stood up too quickly, and as she did her head swam
, the world went dark and she saw Ewan up to his neck in water.
She stood very still and her head slowly cleared, but the image had been as vivid as if he were right there in front of her. It faded into nothing and she focused again on the trees. Only now it was darker, the sun was gone and she couldn’t see the sky above her head. She looked back at the path, no tents in sight, and for a second she had to figure out which way the campsite was. Then she was walking quickly, back along the dirt trail, her heart rising in her chest. She walked and walked, further than she remembered, and for a moment she felt panic rising. Fear was taking hold when she rounded a bend in the trail and saw the canvas white of the tents.
She was sitting by the car when she heard a crash and clatter in the trees, then Connla’s voice yelling for his father. The grown-ups were dressed now and drinking coffee. Her mother had given her a bowl of cereal, which she’d all but finished. She laid the bowl to one side and watched Connla come running down the trail, bursting from the tree line as if a cougar were after him. His father, seated by the fire he had nursed from last night’s embers, got up, concern in his eyes. Connla ran into the clearing and dropped, breathless, into a heap.
His father crouched beside him. ‘What is it, son? What’s wrong?’
Connla was breathing hard, green eyes wide, chest rising and falling. He couldn’t get any words out.
‘Connla, what’s wrong?’ His father laid a large hand on his shoulder. Connla looked up now, the muscles of his face whitened against the tan of his skin.
‘Ewan took off.’
Imogen sat where she was and watched. Her mother was beside them now. ‘What d’you mean, took off?’
Connla dropped his shoulders. ‘Just that, Mrs Munro. Took off and left me.’
‘Back there?’ His father jabbed a thumb towards the trail.
Connla nodded, not looking. His head came up, shaggy auburn hair across his face; he looked over the fire at Imogen. Their eyes met and locked, then he looked away. Her father was looking at the tree line, the wind was up and the points of the topmost branches drifted towards the south. Imogen looked at the pale blue of the sky, no sun now and broken up with cloud.
‘You went off somewhere?’ Her father was talking to Connla. ‘You and Ewan, this morning?’
Connla looked at his father. ‘Only as far as that clearing.’
‘They went without me.’ Imogen walked over, blanky in hand, trailing in the wet grass. ‘I heard them talking last night.’ She looked at Connla. ‘You all figured I was sleeping, but I wasn’t. I was right there listening.’
They all looked at her, then her father turned to Connla again. ‘Where did you go exactly?’
‘That way.’ Connla pointed back down the trail.
‘Where?’
‘Just down the trail?’
‘Towards the river?’
Connla, hesitating for a fraction, shook his head. ‘Just that clearing, the one with all the rocks in it.’
‘Arrowheads. They was looking for arrowheads.’ Imogen sniffed the edge of her blanket. ‘That’s what Ewan said, anyways.’
‘It’s no big deal, Tom.’ Connla’s father was on his feet now. ‘Ewan’s just probably playing some kinda joke.’
Imogen’s father nodded. ‘Hey, Ewan.’ He called into the trees. ‘Come on out if you’re in there. You succeeded in scaring your buddy.’
They all looked at the silent height of the trees. ‘Ewan!’ Imogen’s mother this time. ‘Come on out, Ewan.’
Nothing. Imogen looked at Connla. He stood with his head down, gazing at the red coals in the fire. She walked over to him and he glanced up, then he looked away, crouched down and hugged his arms round his knees.
‘He’s just kidding you around, Connla,’ her father said.
‘No, he ain’t.’ Connla’s voice was no more than a whisper. ‘I told you, he took off on me.’
Imogen’s mother took her husband’s arm. ‘Tom, there’s cougar in there, and black bear. Go and look for him, will you?’
He nodded and glanced at Connla’s father, who reached for his coat. ‘You wanna show us where he took off, Connla?’
Connla waved an arm. ‘Just head down the trail. You’ll come to the clearing where the big boulders broke off the mountain. That’s the place.’
‘You don’t wanna come, huh?’ His father cocked an eyebrow at him.
Connla shook his head. His mother splashed coffee into a cup and passed it to him.
‘Come on, I’ll get you some breakfast.’
Imogen sat in the entrance to their tent, watching him as he fiddled disinterestedly with his food. The two women sat on camp chairs, ate cinnamon rolls and drank coffee, talking in low voices. The forest was still, as though the birds had stopped singing, the animals stopped rustling in the undergrowth, even the snakes had stopped crawling.
The two men must have been gone an hour or so, and then she heard them, or at least one of them, coming back up the trail. It was Connla’s father. His face was stiff and red at the cheekbones, and in his hand he carried Ewan’s baseball jacket. Imogen’s mother got up slowly out of her chair. ‘Tom’s still looking,’ Connla’s father said. ‘We found this on the trail.’ He handed the jacket to Imogen’s mother, then looked at his son.
‘Connla, did he have his coat on when he took off?’
‘Yessir.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yessir.’
‘Look at me, boy.’
Connla met his eyes. ‘Yessir, he did.’
His father pushed out his lips. ‘I’m gonna take a drive up the highway, see if I can get a hold of the sheriff.’
The sheriff drove a white Chevrolet truck, with Custer County Sheriff written on the side. He leaned against the fender with his thumbs hooked in his belt. ‘Where was he last seen?’
‘A clearing, not far into the forest there.’ Imogen’s father had come back without any sign of Ewan. Her mother was pale, eyes ringed now, and she clasped a cup of coffee which she had long since finished drinking. They told the sheriff what Connla had told them. Imogen stared at him, his thick red-knuckled fingers with black hairs sprouting from the creases, nails chewed into ragged edges. Her mother had always told her never to bite her nails; bitten-down nails looked ugly. The sheriff was looking sideways at Connla, who squatted on a log by the fire. Imogen watched the sheriff, one boot resting on the fender, the other jammed in the mud by its slanted heel. She looked at the black gun that hung, weighted, on his right hip. His belly bulged at his shirt buttons and the skin of his neck was red above the collar.
She lost interest and walked over to Connla. He sat, knees drawn up, chin between them, scraping rough patterns in the dust with a stick. A turkey vulture squawked at the tree line, but he didn’t lift his head. She looked at him intently, intently enough for him to look up, but he didn’t. He just stared between his knees at the patterns he was making. His check shirt had a hole torn in the sleeve and Imogen could see a scuffed and bloodied scab on his elbow.
‘Where’s he at?’
He looked up sharply then. ‘I don’t know where he’s at. If I knew where he was at I wouldn’t be set here now, would I?’
She squatted on the log next to him. ‘I guess not.’
The sheriff had the door of his truck open now. Imogen watched him lean his heavy frame against the jamb and unhook the radio transmitter. She could hear the crackle of static. ‘This is Sheriff Truman. I’m down at the Grover campsite on the East Fork Road. We got an eleven-year-old boy possibly lost on the edge of the Sawtooth. I’m gonna need search and rescue.’ He broke off, glanced to where Imogen and Connla were sitting, then spoke into the radio again. ‘Can you notify the state police for me? See if they can send me a coupla troopers.’
Imogen looked sideways at Connla, who still hung his head between his knees, his shoulders shaking ever so slightly. ‘You crying?’
He looked angrily at her again. ‘No, I ain’t crying. Quit talking to me.’
She got u
p and looked at him a moment longer.
‘Quit bugging me, girl.’
Imogen shrugged, picked up the tail end of her blanky and walked over to her mother. She was sitting in the camp chair with the empty coffee cup still between her fingers. Imogen laid a small hand on her knee. She remembered what she had seen in the forest, the image of her brother up to his neck in water, and she must’ve blinked sharply because her mother squinted at her.
‘What is it?’
Imogen shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Imogen?’
‘Nothing.’ Imogen looked back at Connla. He was up off the log, arms tight across his chest, staring into the tree line. ‘You think Ewan’s all right, Momma?’ Imogen chewed at her lip and looked, bug-eyed, at her mother. She could see the unease etched in her mother’s features, the dark circles seeming to claw at her eyes. Her mother looked beyond her to the trees, where her husband and Connla’s father had resumed their search a few minutes earlier.
‘’Course he’s all right, honey.’ She still had one hand on the empty cup; the other knotted into a small fist that rested between her thighs. Her legs were drawn up so she was balanced on the tips of her toes, as if she didn’t want her weight on the ground. Imogen thought she looked fragile.
The team from Challis arrived in two red and white Search and Rescue trucks, six big men with short-cut hair and two women with them. They all wore baseball hats, thick jackets and heavily treaded boots. Their faces were serious, and when they spoke to the sheriff it was in low, all-but-inaudible voices. Connla was walking back and forward on the log now, arms out wide, balancing on the ball of one foot, then the other, like a tightrope walker. The sheriff had a large-scale map spread out on the hood of his truck; his hat was tipped back and beads of perspiration lifted on his forehead.
‘He’s in here someplace.’ He tapped the map with a thick forefinger. ‘Connla!’ he called over his shoulder then. ‘Come over here a minute, will you, son?’