Cat's Claw

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “After that,” he went on, “it’s up to the father and his lawyer. These international cases are always difficult. They take longer than you’d think.” He glanced up at the clock. “Hell’s bells. Look at the time! I’m outta here, China. I’ll call you before we go across.”

  He kissed me good-bye swiftly and was gone. I went to the window and watched him as he went out to the car, overnight bag on his shoulder, mug in one hand, burrito in the other. He was already absent from me, already focused on what he had to do over the next couple of days. As I turned away from the window, I was swept by a keen apprehension, sharper than any I had felt before when I had seen him off on an investigation. I was grateful for Brian’s clunky footfalls on the stairs, his almost-man’s voice: “Hey, Mom, do I have any clean gym shorts?” and Caitie’s higher-pitched, “Mom, I need some lunch money—and I can’t find my red shoe!” Their urgent needs (gym shorts, lunch money, two red shoes, burritos, orange juice, and milk) pulled me back into an ordinary morning, in our ordinary family.

  The bus arrives at seven twenty, give or take five minutes, and when the weather’s clear, the kids walk out to the bus stop on Limekiln Road. When the weather is rainy or very cold, I take them to the stop in the car. This morning, the clouds were beginning to thin, the sun was peeking through, and the day promised to warm up nicely. But since all three of us were ready to go and it was just damp and chilly enough outdoors to be uncomfortable, I gave Brian and Caitie a lift.

  We waited in the car until the bus came, listening to the local country and western station and joining Gary P. Nunn in a rowdy chorus of “London Homesick Blues.” When I said good-bye to the kids and watched them climb on the bus, I thought that if there was a better way to start the day, I didn’t know what it was. A kiss from my husband, hugs from two of the greatest kids in the world, and toe-tapping Texas music on the radio.

  On a normal day, I would have driven on to the shop, arrived a little early, and used the time to catch up on chores I hadn’t finished the day before. But this morning, after the kids climbed aboard the bus, I hesitated for a moment, thinking of what McQuaid had said the night before about Timms’ property. Instead of going straight into town, maybe I should make a quick run out to Timms’ place. I flipped open my phone with the idea of calling Sheila to let her know what I was going to do, but decided against it and closed the phone again. She’d either tell me not to go or want to send one of her officers with me. But I was close, just fifteen minutes away, and besides, I didn’t think it was dangerous—or maybe I just didn’t think.

  I put the Toyota in gear, turned left, and drove in the other direction, west, heading away from town on Limekiln Road, across Big Hackberry Creek. This part of the Hill Country is in the Guadalupe watershed. The landscape is cut by streams flowing south and east, carving out deep, wooded canyons. The Guadalupe River rises near Hunt, in the highlands west of Kerrville, and flows all the way to the town of Victoria and then into the Gulf of Mexico. To my mind, mile for mile, it’s the prettiest river in Texas. But dangerous. If a storm dumps a lot of water upstream, downstream people can be in danger and not even know it. People are more savvy about flash floods these days, but every year, at least one Pecan Springs driver ignores the Turn Around, Don’t Drown signs, and… well, drowns.

  A couple of miles farther west, on the other side of the bridge over a creek, I spotted the faded sign for Paint Horse Road, a narrow black-top that took off to the right. It slanted diagonally up a steep, wooded rise, then leveled off across the shoulder of a narrow ridge, giving me a beautiful view of folded green hills, limestone bluffs, and steep-banked canyons cut into the limestone of the Edwards Plateau by eons of rushing creeks and rivers. The sky to the west and north—a bright, sharp blue—had already cleared. The low pressure area that had brought last night’s rain was giving way to a high pressure system pushing down from the north that would keep us sunny and dry for the next couple of days, until a new storm system was forecast to come in from the north.

  This area was far enough away from the road so that there wasn’t a house in sight, not even a utility pole or a cell phone tower. When the road slanted down again, I saw a small flock of Angora goats behind a rusty barbed-wire fence that zigzagged up the hill. Angoras produce mohair, a valuable luxury fiber with the sheen of silk and more durable and lightweight than wool. They are more valuable than your everyday, garden-variety goats, which are usually left to fend for themselves while Angoras are sent out to graze with a guard animal. This flock was under the protection of an attentive burro, who was keeping a close eye on his charges. Burros are fast on their feet and can kick like the devil, and they’re aggressively territorial when it comes to protecting their flocks. They might not be much good against a mountain lion, like the one I had seen the night before. But they’re diligent about keeping coyotes and marauding dogs at bay, and predators have learned to respect them.

  That mountain lion. I thought of her—silvery in the rain, in the glint of my headlights—and shivered. She had been so beautiful, so mysterious, so seductively, dangerously powerful. For a fleeting moment, I wished that I could see her again, witness her litheness, her gracefulness, her strength. But only for a moment. I had other things to do. And one glimpse of that kind of danger can go a very long way.

  Another hundred yards on the left, I saw the pair of mailboxes that McQuaid had mentioned. But something caught my attention that he (not being a plant person) probably hadn’t noticed. The boxes were half-smothered under a luxuriant blanket of vine. I wasn’t in a hurry, so I stopped the car and got out to have a closer look. I knew immediately what it was: cat’s claw vine, a long-lived, aggressive plant—a valuable medicinal in its tropical homeland—that can smother trees, structures, and native plants. The vine produces small three-pronged hooks that can cling to almost anything, and showy yellow, trumpet-shaped blossoms in late spring and summer. In fact, you may see the plant sold in nurseries as the yellow trumpet vine and advertised as useful for masking unattractive structures. But in southern states, the cat’s claw vine is considered a dangerous nuisance.

  I got back in the car and turned onto the narrow caliche-topped road, following it through an open landscape of rangeland and bony mesquite trees, leafless now in the November morning. But there hadn’t been a hard freeze yet. The grass was still green, the live oaks still bore their shiny green leaves, and the morning sun was splendid. I saw a Cooper’s hawk, a flirtatious mockingbird, a pair of kestrels, and several jaunty red cardinals, as bright as flame.

  And then I saw the sign I was looking for, weathered but just legible: paint horse ranch. The road, rutted now, dipped steeply downhill, and I guessed that I was headed toward Paint Horse Creek and George Timms’ cabin—his bachelor pad, as McQuaid had called it, where he could party as much as he wanted without disturbing the neighbors.

  Why was I doing this? Curiosity, was it? Wanting to see what kind of party place a guy like George Timms had built? Or maybe a suspicion that Timms might be using the cabin to escape from the nastiness of his surrender and arrest. Charlie said that he had repeatedly called Timms’ cell phone, but Paint Horse Ranch was out in the boonies. It was entirely possible that there wasn’t a signal here, so Timms hadn’t gotten the calls. It was also possible that Timms wasn’t actually hiding—that he had fully intended to come back to town to keep his date with the police but had run into some kind of trouble. That he was sick or maybe injured, with no way to call for help. The closer I got, the more possibilities I could conjure up. Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to come out here by myself, without letting anyone know where I was. If anything happened—

  My cell phone was on the seat beside me. I picked it up and flipped it open. The signal wasn’t strong, only two bars, which faded to one as I held it in my hand. Then, as the road flattened out ahead, I glimpsed a log house with a green metal roof, ahead through the trees. I slowed for a curve. A good thing, too, because I nearly ran into the rear end of a low, sleek silver Corv
ette. It bore the vanity plate GTIMMS 1.

  It looked like George Timms was in residence—at least, his Corvette was.

  My mouth was suddenly dry, and I was wishing I hadn’t done this. But I had, and anyway, I knew George Timms. I conjured up a mental picture of him: blond and boyish, crooked grin, white teeth in a bronzed face. A handsome face. Owner of the local Chevy dealership, golfing friend of the mayor, former business associate of Ben Graves. Not somebody I’d normally be afraid of. I wasn’t going to start being afraid now.

  I pulled around the Corvette and parked beside it in a largish graveled parking area, in sight of the front of the cabin. Then I turned off the ignition and sat still for a moment, studying the place. I wouldn’t call it a “cabin.” It was built of logs, yes, and it had a pleasing rustic appearance, with a wooden rocking chair on the front porch and an impressive rack of antlers over the glass-paned front door. But it looked more like an upscale fishing-and-hunting lodge to me, something you’d see in a travel brochure that advertised getaway vacations for world-weary city folk. Off to one side, I could see three cute little octagonal log buildings—guesthouses, no doubt. It was quite a party place.

  I hit the horn three times, fast and light—the Texas equivalent of “Howdy—anybody home? You’ve got company.” I kept my eye on the front door. If Timms was awake, he’d come out to see who had just arrived to disturb his peace.

  He didn’t. Well, okay. I had talked myself out of being afraid. On the other hand, there was an APB out for this man, and it was entirely likely that nobody at PSPD knew about this “secret getaway” place, as McQuaid had called it. I had a responsibility for reporting his whereabouts. I reached for my phone. I’d call 9-1-1 and report that I had found the automobile. The dispatcher would contact the county sheriff and a deputy would come out, take Timms into custody, and notify Sheila. I flipped open my phone.

  Uh-oh, no bars. I tried anyway, but all I got was that frustrating message, No network coverage. Which left me with a choice. I could drive back up the road to a place where I could make the call—the top of the hill, near the mailboxes and that cat’s claw vine, probably. Or I could get out and have a look around, then drive back up the road until I got a signal. I was considering the options when it occurred to me that Timms might be in some kind of trouble here, and that I might need to ask for medical assistance. I opted to have a look first.

  A moment later, I was at the front door, ringing the doorbell, which gave a stirring peal of “The Eyes of Texas Are Upon You.” I could hear a voice—radio or television, I thought—from somewhere inside. But there was no answer to the doorbell, and after punching the button and calling Timms’ name a couple of times, I stepped off the front porch and walked around the side of the house.

  It was truly an attractive place, one level in front, two in the back, with a roofed, wooden deck built against the sloping hill and another open deck a little farther down, with the guesthouses off to the left, behind a screen of landscaping shrubs. I stepped up onto the upper-level deck, which was furnished with lacquered bamboo furniture with bright-colored cushions. Two large stereo speakers hung against the walls. On a glass-topped table beside a lounge chair was a half-empty mug of stale-looking beer and a plate holding a partly eaten sandwich and a handful of wilted potato chips. A single-serving cup of yogurt still wore its foil lid, a spoon beside it. I felt the yogurt cup. It had been out of the fridge for a while. A thick white terry towel was draped over the back of the lounge and an open book, its pages damp, lay on the seat, beside a pair of binoculars. In an ashtray, a half-smoked cigarette had burned itself out. It was damp, too. I frowned. Beer, the sandwich and chips, yogurt, a cigarette, a book—they all looked like they had been left out in the overnight drizzle. Yesterday’s supper? Yesterday’s lunch?

  I turned and looked toward the house. A pair of sliding glass doors opened onto the living-dining area. I went closer and called again, louder. No answer, so I stepped inside, noting that the voice I had heard was coming from a radio on the kitchen counter, tuned to KUT in Austin and broadcasting the usual NPR “Morning Edition.” I turned it off, called again, and listened. Not a word, not a sound. Where was Timms?

  I went quickly through the kitchen, which was equipped with the latest in stainless steel appliances; the vaulted living-dining area with a massive stone fireplace, carpeted in pale beige; a bedroom with a huge unmade bed, the walls hung with framed erotic photographs; a darkroom off the bedroom; a bathroom with shaving equipment laid out on the marble-topped counter. Upstairs, there was another bathroom and two loft bedrooms—both empty—with windows overlooking the tops of the trees in the canyon below. The entire place was beautifully and expensively furnished and completely deserted. But I spotted a telephone on the table beside the unmade bed in the master bedroom and another, with an answering machine, in the kitchen, the message light blinking. I picked up the receiver and was relieved to hear a dial tone. I could call out from here, rather than drive all the way back up the road to a point where my cell could pick up a signal. But first—

  But first, I needed to find Timms. I went back outside, shouting his name, listening for an answer and hearing none, more and more convinced that the man had met with—what? An accident? Or something else?

  I went down to the lower deck, where I saw a flagstone path slanting diagonally down and across the steep hill toward a silvery thread of creek forty feet below. I took the path, noticing that the hillside had been completely cleared of the usual underbrush, then terraced with native limestone rock and landscaped with yaupon hollies, madrones, Mexican buckeyes, cat’s claw acacia, and clumps of Lindheimer’s muhly. Agarita, lantana, salvias, and other native plants were growing in sculpted pockets of lush plantings along the path. Off to one side, what looked like a miniature concrete-bottomed stream was under construction, and an unobtrusive network of soaker hoses snaked through the shredded cedar mulch, ensuring that the plants would get a drink whenever they were thirsty. A drapery of tiny fairy lights festooned the trees, and I could picture the hillside illuminated at night. It would be quite beautiful. Timms had invested a great deal of effort—and spent some serious money—in destroying the real wilderness and creating a “wilderness look” in its place.

  The well-groomed imitation wilderness ended abruptly at the foot of the hill, where the authentic Hill Country wilderness began, with a thicket of snarled redbud saplings, elbow bush, and catbrier, under a canopy of live oaks and cedar elms so thick they almost shut out the early-morning light. A narrow trail continued on in the direction of the creek, hacked through the dense underbrush. The sloping ground, covered with loose leaf litter, was soft and moist, and if Timms had come this far, I should be able to see his footprints. I looked down at the path ahead and spotted the track of a running shoe, the sole deeply ridged. Then another and another, long strides, running strides, a man in a hurry. Chasing something?

  And then, ten paces farther on, I saw a red Texas Rangers baseball cap beside the trail. It looked as if it had been stepped on and pushed into the soil. It marked a spot where a heavy scuffle of shoeprints roughed up the path’s surface. I knelt for a closer look. I was seeing not one shoeprint, but two, very close together and deep, as if the man with the long strides had suddenly stumbled and was trying to regain his balance. Then another short, heavy step, almost a stagger, and the deep, unmistakable print of a hand, palm flat, fingers spread. Just off the trail, a cedar elm sapling was snapped off a foot above the ground, broken branches scattered as if there had been a struggle. On the other side of the trail, I saw a jagged, bloody rock with a scrap of silvery fur on it, and a dark stain, the size of a dinner plate. I bent over to smell it and knew immediately that the ground was soaked with blood. A lot of blood.

  My arms broke out in goose bumps, my breath was coming short and sharp, and I had to fight the urge to turn tail and run back up the hill. But I told myself that whatever had happened here had happened some time before—hours, perhaps. The danger was gone and my
need to know was urgent. I swallowed my fear and straightened, looking around.

  Another ten feet off the trail, in the direction of the creek, I spotted scuff marks in the soil, more broken branches, and patches of disturbed and scattered leaf litter. Something glittered in the leaves and I picked it up: a man’s Rolex, solid and heavy, its face studded with small diamonds. There was a smear of blood across the crystal and the gold accordion watchband was twisted and broken. I sucked in my breath. What had happened here? What had happened?

  And then I looked ahead. Beyond the point where I picked up the watch, I could see the unmistakable furrow created by something heavy—a body—dragged through a thick green patch of river ferns. I followed the trail of torn leaves and broken stems. Twenty yards on, a Nike running shoe, the lace still tied. It was soaked with blood. It had been shredded.

  Another twenty yards on, I found the man. He was buried under a pile of twigs and leaves and forest litter meticulously scraped over him, covering all of him but his feet. One foot wore a running shoe, the mate to the Nike I had found. The other foot… wasn’t there, just a gnawed, bloody stump.

  I fought with myself, my heart thumping, my mind racing, my hands sweaty. I didn’t want to look but I couldn’t leave this place without being sure. On my knees, I frantically scraped the leaves away from the dead man’s face—and then fought against the panic that rose inside me like a terrified creature, fighting to get out. I rocked back on my heels and heard my scream echoing through the trees.

  His face was gone, too.

  Chapter Twelve

  Sheila hadn’t slept well. She wasn’t sure whether it was the investigation into Kirk’s death or the almost-quarrel with Blackie, or the absence of his large, warm body in their bed. She missed him. It wasn’t the first time they’d been apart since they married, but it was the first time she had felt apart from him, as if they were separated by more than just distance. Separated by what they had said to each other. Even worse, what they had not said. Or what she had not said: that their marriage had been a mistake. There had been other times in her life when love (or lust or whatever it was) hadn’t been enough to bridge the gap between what she wanted and what she needed, not just in her heart but in her head and in her work life. Would it be enough now, not just for her but for Blackie, too?