The Ridge

by Michael Koryta

  There were no problems. In fact, no sooner did they have the transport cage placed in front of the enclosure gate and opened than Ira unfolded to his full length and stalked over to it, eyes on Wes and not the cage. It was as if he knew exactly what was desired and saw no reason to fight it.

  The drive, too, was problem-free, Wes going slow and sticking to the back roads. They’d just gotten onto the rutted gravel of Blade Ridge Road when they saw an unfamiliar truck parked ahead. A moment later, as they continued to approach, the door opened and a police officer stepped out.

  “It’s him,” Audrey said. “The guy from the accident.”

  Wes slowed at the gates, and Audrey put down her window. The deputy regarded them with a nod and a slight smile.

  “Hi there.”

  “Hi,” Audrey said. “How are you?”

  “Just fine. Shouldn’t be, by the look of my wheels, but I’m fine.”

  “You’re one lucky SOB, I’ll promise you that,” Wes said.

  The deputy nodded, giving a cursory glance toward the dark lighthouse above, and then said, “Well, thanks for your help yesterday. And I’m glad I went into those trees and not into the fences. Could have let some tigers out.”

  Audrey had never considered the possibility. If he’d exited the road left instead of right… She shook her head against the thought.

  “All that matters is that you’re okay,” she said. “What brings you out?”

  “Wanted to look around. Trying to get a handle on just how it happened. You’re certain that nobody from your staff was in the road?”

  “Not a soul,” she said. “Dustin heard the sound of the wreck and came out. You were alone.”

  “Is he here? I’d like to ask him about it.”

  “He’s done for the day.”

  The deputy nodded, but he seemed distressed. “All right.” He waved a hand at the preserve. “Those cats are pretty amazing. I’ve been watching them. Never seen anything like it, so many together.”

  “You want a look around?”

  “I’d love it.”

  She got out of the truck and told Wes they would meet him at Ira’s new enclosure. Then, on foot, she began to lead the deputy around the preserve.

  “You aren’t scared around them?” he said.

  “Not a bit. Now, there are some who I wouldn’t want to be alone with in a cage, but that doesn’t mean they’re marauding threats. It just means they haven’t been socialized with humans as well as the others. They still can be sweet cats, and they still need a home, but you have to be a little more careful. Most of them, though? Sweet.”

  She went over to the leopard cage and made a chirping noise with her tongue. Jafar, a huge spotted leopard, one of the most beautiful cats in the preserve, was in his cat house. Audrey had made the mistake of referring to it as a doghouse once—it seemed the universal name for such a structure—and David corrected her indignantly.

  They’re cat houses, he’d said, and she’d remarked that it sounded like a whorehouse, and he’d laughed. There’d been a lot of laughs in those early days, as they acquired cats and built enclosures and dreams.

  Jafar’s house was a long and low L-shaped structure, open at both ends, built out of plywood and filled with straw. He was one of the cats who could be distrustful of visitors, or annoyed by their presence, and so he spent a lot of time in the house, where he could retreat into the shadows and study the situation with golden eyes.

  Now, when Audrey dropped to one knee and made the chirping sound, the leopard promptly left the house, trotted up to the fence, and leaned his big head against the chain link, pressing his fur against her face, cheek to cheek. She reached through and scratched his ears.

  “This guy is my baby,” she said. Jafar was one of the few cats with whom she felt the same level of confidence that Wes demonstrated. “He was bought illegally by some guy in Ohio who kept him caged up in the back of a tattoo parlor. Then that guy was arrested for dealing meth—you would be amazed how many of our cats come from narcotics busts—and Jafar came here. He’s a little devious, likes to play tricks, but he’s a sweetheart.”

  She stood and continued to walk, and Jafar gave an angry growl. The deputy, Shipley, turned uneasily to look back at him.

  “He’s just upset because we’re moving on from him,” she said. “All he wants is attention.”

  They made their way back toward Wes and the truck, stopping occasionally so Audrey could point out specific cats. She told him that the tigers tended to be far more playful than the lions, particularly in cold weather, and particularly in the snow. Nothing—nothing—pleased the tigers more than a snowstorm. During a good snowfall even the most lethargic of the tigers would turn playful, chasing the others and sliding through the snow. Kino would flip his water basin upside down, then climb on top and ride it like a sled, which made for the best video Audrey had ever captured at the preserve. She’d grown to pay religious attention to the snow forecasts in hopes of seeing the cats celebrate.

  “Watch this,” she said, stopping by another cage. “Gabby! Hey, Gabrielle. Wake up.”

  A tawny lioness rolled over, faced Audrey and the stranger, and yawned. Audrey whistled, said, “Gabby!” once more, and then clapped her hands three times.

  Gabby rolled onto her back and clapped her own paws together, bringing a laugh from the deputy and coos of gratitude and adoration from Audrey.

  “See? They’re peaceful,” she said.

  “They weren’t last night,” Wes muttered, coming up to join them. Audrey frowned, wishing he wouldn’t say anything critical. “Last night they were anything but peaceful.”

  At that point a tiger approached the cage, then swung his hindquarters around. Audrey grabbed the deputy’s arm and pulled him aside with her just as a stream of urine shot through the fence.

  “Did he actually just try to piss on us?” the deputy said in amazement, checking his jacket.

  “The bigger surprise is that he didn’t succeed,” Audrey said. “That’s Kino. He likes to mark me every time I pass by. He is, for some reason—or perhaps for that very reason—Wes’s favorite cat.”

  Wes smiled and shrugged. Behind the fence, Kino had dropped onto his haunches and regarded them with a baleful stare, clearly disappointed with his marksmanship.

  “Okay,” Audrey said, “let’s get Ira out of that truck. The man of mystery can check out his new digs.” She was feeling good, feeling energized despite the long days. They were almost done. Soon all of the cats would be here, and she could claim a long-fought victory.

  They were now at the southwestern corner of the preserve. Through the trees, bare of leaves, the Marshall River showed, gray and swollen.

  “You’re going to have a river view, Ira,” Audrey called to the cougar, standing beside the deputy at the gate to the enclosure as Wes backed up the truck.

  “Hell of a place,” the deputy said to her as Wes stepped out and walked around to the rear of the truck. “Never seen anything like it.”

  “There aren’t many things like it,” she said.

  “Now this is the black cat?”

  “Yes. The one Wes trapped. It was in the paper.”

  He nodded. “I’ve heard about it. My grandmother used to tell stories about seeing a cat just like—”

  He didn’t get to finish, because Wes lifted the transport cage’s gate and Ira came out in a blur of fury.

  He streaked into the enclosure low to the ground and snarling, then spun back to face them, flattened his ears, and curled his lips back to show his teeth.

  The deputy said, “Holy shit,” and took a step back.

  “Ira,” Wes said. “Easy, buddy. Easy.”

  He stepped toward the cougar, and Ira leaped. When he banged into the fencing, Audrey and the deputy shouted in unison. Audrey couldn’t help it; she’d watched cats twice this size show aggression before, but there was something different here, something frightening.

  Even Wes seemed uncertain. He repeated his request for
the cat to relax, and Ira responded by slinking toward the center of the cage and hissing. He locked his bright green eyes on the deputy and spread his jaws wide, showing every tooth in full glory, his front paws flexing.

  “I know he’s behind a fence,” Shipley said, “but I’m still scared of that boy.”

  “He’s the wild one,” Wes said softly. “Hasn’t been moved before. He’ll settle down.”

  When Ira sprang onto the wooden platform, the deputy dropped his hand to his gun and Audrey joined him in taking yet another step back. Wes stayed where he was, and Ira ignored them completely, turned away to stare out west, toward the river. He gazed into the gray sky for a moment, then raised his head and screamed. There was no other word for it—cougars flat-out screamed, and Audrey had heard them before.

  But she’d never heard anything like this.

  “He’ll settle down,” Wes repeated.

  “Sure,” Audrey said, her arms prickling, going to gooseflesh.

  Behind them, the other cats had begun to stir.

  Ira swung his head around, ears pinned back, and studied them. Then he jumped back down, and they all shifted when he landed, nobody—not even Wes—able to stay completely calm after that scream. The cat stalked toward them, sleek belly barely above the grass, tail swishing, each muscle loaded with coiled energy.

  “Wes,” Audrey said, “maybe you should get the tranquilizer rifle.”

  “He’ll be fine.”

  “Wes, please.”

  Wes looked from her to the cougar and then moved around the side of the truck. He opened the door and came back with the rifle, which fired sedation darts. Wes hated to use them, but right now Audrey thought they should have the option. She’d never seen any of the cats look this aggressive.

  “I think we should just give him some space,” Wes said as he stepped back toward them. “Just give him—”

  The cougar saw the rifle in his hand then, let out another chilling scream, and spun away from the fence. He darted to his left, then cut right, dodging between the platforms they’d built for him, almost as if he was seeking a screen against any attempt to shoot, and then, at the far end of the enclosure, he crouched and sprang.

  And cleared the fence.

  Shipley said, “Holy fuck,” and drew his gun. Wes pushed on his arm, preventing him from raising it and taking a shot, and Audrey just stared in astonishment as the cat vanished into the woods, running low and fast, a deadly shadow slipping back into the mountains from which it had come.

  “It just jumped that fence,” Shipley said. His voice was trembling. “How tall is that fucking fence?”

  “Fourteen feet,” Wes said. His voice was lower, but not all that steady either. “Fourteen feet, with a recurve at the top. It’s impossible for a cat to clear that thing. I built all of these enclosures myself. They can’t get out.”

  He’d just watched it happen, but still he was insisting.

  “What do we do?” Audrey said. She found it hard to speak. Her eyes were still on the place where the black cat had disappeared. Around them, the other cats were crowding to the edges of their enclosures, well aware that something was amiss. “How do we get him back?”

  “I’ve got to call this in,” Shipley said in a stunned voice. “I’ve got to report this. That thing’s a mountain lion. We can’t just let it run around.”

  “It was running around before,” Wes said, and he stepped away from them, went up to the fence, and ran one palm along the chain link, staring at it, this device that had betrayed him. He turned back to look at them, and his eyes were wide with wonder.

  “I always told you he decided to join us,” he told Audrey. “I wasn’t wrong. He could have left whenever he wanted to, and he knew it.”

  “Well, why did he pick today?” Audrey said, and as Shipley pulled out his radio and began to report the fact that they’d just lost a two-hundred-pound predator in the woods, Wes looked at her grimly.

  “It’s this spot,” he said. “He didn’t like this spot. And you know what else? None of them do. Come sundown, you’ll see just what I mean.”

  14

  KIMBLE HAD ALREADY BEEN at Blade Ridge for two hours when he heard about the cat escape.

  He’d gone there in search of the security cameras Wyatt had paired with infrared illuminators, only to confirm what he’d initially thought: there were no cameras.

  Kimble scoured the grounds, the top of the lighthouse, the base. He checked the wiring leaving the circuit breaker, he tapped on the walls in search of hollow spots, he turned the desk inside out again.

  There were no cameras.

  Maybe they’d been part of the long-range plan; Wyatt had invested in the illuminators first, and never got around to the cameras.

  But the longer Kimble searched, the more convinced he became that the infrared beams weren’t about capturing an image at all. They were simply about light.

  They pointed in every direction, offering unseen illumination to the road and the woods, and Kimble remembered the initial fights about the light, the complaints that it was too bright, that it presented a danger. Wyatt had toned down the bulb, and apparently added invisible lighting. His idea of a compromise.

  And the point?

  Well, that was anyone’s guess. Kimble sure as shit didn’t have one.

  The only find he made wasn’t a camera but another light. When he pulled Wyatt’s cot out from the wall, he found that the man had built a shelf beneath the bed, near where his hands would have rested while he slept. The contents: an empty holster that would have once held the Taurus .45 he’d used to kill himself, a hunting knife, a leather strop for sharpening it, and a spotlight.

  The spotlight had a pistol grip and a trigger, and the lens was outfitted with a cherry-red filter. Two million candlepower rechargeable, a label on the handle boasted.

  One hell of a bright light, Kimble thought, and then he squeezed the trigger and got nothing. He frowned, looked directly at the lens, and squeezed the trigger again. There was the faintest of crimson glows, as if the flashlight were draining away the dregs of its battery. When he touched the lens, though, he found it very hot. In fact, he could move his palm back from the light a good distance and still feel its warmth.

  “An infrared flashlight,” he said aloud, turning the odd device over in his hands. Of course. If the power went out, you needed a flashlight handy. Particularly an invisible one.

  He set the light back down, then inspected the knife and strop. It was a serious cutting instrument—six-inch stainless steel blade going down to a military-grip Teflon handle, and it was seriously sharp. The leather strop was worn from countless repetitions. Wyatt had spent a lot of time sharpening his knife. And, Kimble remembered from handling the suicide piece, oiling his gun. He’d wanted to be prepared, and was determined that the equipment would not let him down when the time came. This would be why a man slept each night with a gun, a knife, and a flashlight with a two-million-candlepower invisible beam within immediate reach. He wanted to be ready. The only question was, for what?

  Kimble had promised him that he pursued the truth always, but maybe there was no truth to be found here, just madness. Maybe that was the truth when it came to Wyatt French.

  He hit the spotlight trigger again, felt the warmth of the lens, and recalled Nathan Shipley’s statement about his wreck. He’d talked about seeing some strange light. Kimble looked down at the two-million-candlepower light in his hand and wondered about it. Was the thing truly invisible to the naked eye? What if it hit you just right, found just the proper angle? Those ridiculous laser pointers could do some damage to the eye, couldn’t they? Well, what about a two-million-candlepower infrared spotlight? It seemed plausible that if it were beamed just right, a flash of momentary blindness could ensue.

  So what are you thinking, Kimble? That Wyatt was perched on a dead-end road, hoping for some poor lost soul to wander by so he could blind him with a flashlight? Come on.

  He shoved the cot back into place,
then sat on the dead man’s bed and wondered what Wyatt had known about Jacqueline that Kimble didn’t. Or what he’d known that Kimble did.

  Had he known about the Bakehouse, for example?

  Nobody should have. Nobody except Kimble and Jacqueline. And even between them, the coffee shop had never been remarked upon. Probably never would be.

  He could remember her so well, the way she looked when she would step through the door with golden light behind her, putting a raven’s shine on her dark hair. Friday mornings. She never missed one. Once Kimble found out, neither did he.

  Those encounters began after their first meeting, when Kimble was dispatched to the house after a neighbor called in a domestic dispute between Jacqueline and her husband. When Kimble got there, Brian Mathis came out to meet him, told him everything was fine. Kimble said he’d like to talk to the man’s wife. Mathis argued. Kimble was readying to explain that it was an argument he could make to a judge if he preferred when Jacqueline stepped out of the house. Kimble sent Brian Mathis back inside so he could talk to her alone, and he’d seen the dark look the man gave his wife as he passed. Kimble stood with her in the fading sun of a cold evening and watched the way she moved, so gingerly, one arm close to her ribs, and listened as she told him the neighbors must have been confused, there was no problem.

  It wasn’t the first interview of that sort he’d conducted.

  When he’d asked her if she was hurt, if her husband had struck her, she gave him a wan smile and said simply that there was no problem that required his assistance, though she appreciated the offer. He was explaining that she needed to be honest with him if there’d been any violence when she interrupted to tell him that she wasn’t the sort of woman he was expecting her to be, cowed and frightened and unwilling to report a husband who’d just post bond and come back home to finish the job.

  “I appreciate what you’re telling me,” she said. “But I’m fully capable of handling this situation.”

  The look in her eyes then, so firm, so strong, was different indeed from what he was used to in these situations. And it had worried him.