“Woof!”
He barked louder and pointed his nose forward, indicating that I should look ahead again.
And when I did, I saw what he’d perceived as amiss, although, as far as I knew, he’d never been to Big Cats of the World.
I hit the brakes, and my bald tires skidded on the icy, narrow road.
And when I got the VW under control, my heart still racing, I turned to Socrates, whose eyes were asking the same question that I vocalized, my voice low with growing unease.
“Why is a gate meant to keep unwanted visitors out—and big cats in—swinging wide open?”
Then I looked to the alarmed call box with the keypad that Gabriel had used to contact Victor, so the zookeeper could buzz us into the compound, and a cold trickle of sweat ran down my spine.
“And why the heck is the call box just a tangle of wires?”
Chapter 55
For a split second, I wasn’t sure what to do, aside from panic to think that tigers might be roaming loose in the Pocono Mountains. An electric fence ran around the property and kept the tigers off the road, but looking at the open gate and broken call box, I had a terrible feeling that the whole security system had been compromised.
“I suppose Victor could be having the intercom system repaired,” I ventured, keeping a wary eye on the gate, in case something big came wandering out. “Maybe he—or the technician—didn’t realize that the gate would hang open if the call box was removed . . . ?”
I thought that was possible, but Socrates was skeptical. He furrowed his already wrinkled brow, expressing doubt.
Not wanting to overreact, I first dug into my back pocket to retrieve my cell phone.
“Darn it,” I grumbled, tapping the screen three times, like that would change the “out of service range” message I was receiving.
Still watching the gate, I slipped my phone back into my pocket, while Socrates made a low, soft, sound deep in his throat. When I looked over at him, he nudged his nose forward.
I understood exactly what he was trying to say.
“We have to go in there, don’t we?” I asked, not sure how I’d become the reluctant one.
But I knew that Socrates was right.
We had no choice but to drive onto Victor’s property, close the gate behind us, and find either Victor or the nearest working phone. I couldn’t risk the safer option of shutting the gate from the outside and taking the time to drive back to town. Not if there was even a tiny chance that a single tiger was roaming free in woods used by hikers. I shuddered to think of the possible consequences.
Glancing again at the broken call box, I swallowed thickly.
And, on the off chance that something had happened to Victor, time might really be of the essence....
Taking a deep breath, I exhaled and put the van in gear, telling Socrates, “As Confucius said, ‘Faced with what is right, to leave it undone shows a lack of courage.’”
Socrates nodded in agreement and faced forward, too, as we rolled through the open gate into a forest that seemed even deeper, darker, and more eerily quiet than before.
That might’ve just been my imagination, but I couldn’t help suffering a terrible sense of foreboding—then outright fear—as I put the van in neutral, hopped out, and scrambled like crazy to shut the gate behind us. Fortunately, there was a low-tech latch, presumably to be used if the power went out, and I set the metal bar in place with trembling fingers, unable to shake the feeling that keen and hungry eyes were watching me from the trees.
I sat for all sorts of animals, including a few dogs who were less than friendly, but I couldn’t imagine coming face-to-face with one of the tigers I’d seen stalking through the forest on my last visit.
“Please, don’t eat me,” I whispered, running the few feet to the VW, hopping inside, and closing the door behind myself.
Socrates was remaining calm, but I thought I heard him exhale softly with relief once the bus was in motion again.
Then we both grew silent and watchful as we made our way through the preserve. The only sound was the slow rumble of tires on gravel. I knew that nothing in the woods could get to us, as long as we stayed in the van. And I could see the thin wires of the electric fence. But I was still on edge, and I started at every shadow and jumped each time a branch creaked in the breeze.
I was also increasingly concerned that my unreliable vehicle would choose to conk out halfway to Victor’s headquarters.
Then what?
Would we have to spend the night in the forest, if Victor didn’t find us?
Or would we be stuck even longer?
I started scanning the trees, when I should’ve been paying attention to the narrow road.
And should I be worried that I wasn’t seeing any tigers, this time . . . ?
“Woof!”
Socrates’s third bark of the day jolted me and I faced forward, only to see that we’d reached yet another gate. The one that separated the free-range tiger preserve from the parking lot, the gift shop, and the smaller pens.
That gate was swinging open, too.
I had been holding out hope that nothing was really amiss, but as my van rolled into an eerily empty parking lot, I suddenly got a metallic taste in my mouth. The taste of real fear, even more intense than what I’d suffered when I’d closed the main gate.
“Something’s wrong,” I whispered to Socrates. I wasn’t sure why I felt the need to be quiet. “Really, really wrong.” I parked the van as close to the building as I could, right next to Victor’s tiger-striped golf cart. I looked at the elaborately decorated vehicle for a second, thinking something seemed amiss with that, too. Which was probably just my imagination starting to run wild. Then I turned to Socrates, who had a steely look in his eyes. “You stay here, okay? I’m going to run into the gift shop and try to find Victor.”
“WOOF!”
Socrates’s deep bark was thunderous, and he pawed the seat, his broad chest straining against his harness.
“There’s really no need for both of us to go,” I assured him, trying to act unconcerned. “I’m just going to be gone for a minute. . . .”
“WOOF!”
His second protest was even louder, but I still hesitated.
I didn’t want to put him in any danger.
Then I studied Socrates’s wise, loyal eyes and realized that he would never forgive me, or himself, if I didn’t let him come with me. It would shatter his dignity, to be restrained when he wanted to help. And I was pretty sure that, for an existential, stoic dog like Socrates, that would be a fate worse than death. Not that we really faced that.
“Fine,” I agreed, unhooking him. “But come out my side. It’s closer to the door. And run for once, okay?”
Part of me thought I was overreacting, my worries heightened by the gloomy day and the curious circumstances. For all I knew, Victor had penned the tigers while doing some repairs to the gate and call box. But part of me was pretty sure that some of the world’s most cunning predators were on the loose, either inside or outside of Big Cats of the World. Maybe both.
It was that gut instinct that sent me tearing toward the falsely rustic, wooden door to the gift shop, with Socrates hot on my heels. Daring to look down to make sure that he was safe, I actually saw him leap over something in his haste to follow me. A bottle, discarded in the parking lot. It wasn’t very big, but it was like a hurdle for his short legs.
“Come on,” I urged, hauling open the door, which was thankfully unlocked. I waved my hand as Socrates passed by me, his big paws thudding with each step he took. “Get inside!”
And when we were safely inside the building, I slammed the door and quickly found a deadbolt, which I slid into place.
“Okay . . . Okay,” I gasped, resting my back against the door. I tried to catch my breath, not sure how Socrates was already breathing steadily, given that he seldom exercised anything but his intellect. “I think we’re safe.”
Socrates seemed to agree. He began to tentative
ly sniff around the building, heading toward the area that housed the gift shop, where schoolkids and other visitors would normally stop to buy postcards featuring Khan, or tiger key chains, or bumper stickers that boasted, “I Survived Big Cats of the World!”
I seriously hoped Socrates and I would qualify for one of those stickers by the end of our visit.
Then I turned toward the other part of the structure, which held the snack bar. The room was dark, and I felt along the wall until I found a light switch. Flipping that on, I immediately felt safer as several wall sconces, designed to look like torches, flickered to life.
“Victor?” I called softly, reluctantly moving farther into the room. I no longer believed that I was about to be consumed by a tiger, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that the place was too quiet. The boards creaked under my feet as I searched for a telephone. I couldn’t recall seeing one on my previous visit, but I was almost certain there would be a landline somewhere. “Victor?” I called again uncertainly. “Are you here?”
He didn’t answer. But he’d clearly been in the room recently.
One of the tables, set in a dark corner, was strewn with papers.
I moved in that direction, only to discover that the documents included a magazine. A glossy periodical that was open to the same article I’d seen at Lauren Savidge’s apartment. Only this story was intact, so I could read the entire headline, by the faux flame of the sputtering sconces.
ZOOKEEPER SENTENCED FOR ASSAULT OF POACHER.
I took a second to check the subtitle.
INCENDIARY ACTIVIST RETURNS TO PRISON, VOWS TO CONTINUE FIGHT FOR BIG CATS.
“Wow,” I muttered, under my breath. “He’s done jail time, in service of animals.”
I didn’t approve of violence, but I couldn’t help admiring Victor Breard’s commitment to saving endangered species.
Setting down the magazine, I saw other documents that Victor must’ve intended to show me, to tell his story. Citations—the bad kind, from law enforcement agencies—for disturbing the peace and unlawful protest. And more citations—the good kind, from animal welfare groups—for his work on behalf of threatened species.
“I bet he’s like Arlo,” I guessed, fanning out the documents. “I bet he came here to continue his work, but to escape parts of his past, too. That’s what he wants to tell me. . . .”
All at once, I heard Socrates’s tags jingle and his toenails click as he joined me in the snack area, and I realized I’d lingered too long at the table.
“I’m going to find a phone,” I assured him. “I’ll be right back. . . .”
But something in Socrates’s expression stopped me. A look in his eyes that I’d never seen before.
Then he turned and began to walk with purpose back toward the gift shop.
Something told me that, much as I needed to place a call, I should follow him. A sick, yet almost resigned feeling in the pit of my stomach.
And that sensation grew more profound when he padded up onto a platform that I’d forgotten about. A small viewing area with a big window that allowed visitors a bird’s-eye view—into Khan’s pen.
I knew what I was about to see, based upon the things that were wrong at the compound, and Victor’s curious absence at our appointed meeting time, not to mention a heavy, oppressive feeling that I’d been trying to shake off, but which had already warned me that death had recently visited Big Cats of the World.
Yet I still reeled backward, just a step, when I joined Socrates at the glass and looked down.
Chapter 56
I didn’t want to watch as Coroner Vonda Shakes, Detective Doebler, and a bunch of uniformed officers and EMS workers paced around Genghis Khan’s pen, examining Victor Breard’s body, which lay curled up and stiff in the center of the enclosure.
Yet I couldn’t pull myself away from the observation deck—or stop reliving the memory of first seeing the lion batting Victor around, like the corpse was a new toy.
Socrates was also staring out the window, probably pondering the inevitability of death, or the folly of believing that one could be best friends with a lion. I doubted that he was very shaken—he didn’t rattle easily—but he must’ve realized that I was unnerved, because he rested lightly against my leg, just letting me know that he was there. I appreciated the rare public show of affection, but I didn’t even acknowledge it. I knew he wouldn’t want me to make a big deal out of his gesture.
My sister was also concerned about me.
“Are you okay, Daphne?” Piper asked, resting one hand on my shoulder. She’d been called to the scene to tranquilize Khan, who had then been hauled into one of several trailers Victor kept on-site to transport animals. I always knew that Piper was capable and could wield everything from a scalpel to a hammer, but it had still been odd to watch her put one of Victor’s arsenal of tranquilizer guns to her shoulder, coolly take aim, and pull the trigger. She gave me a squeeze, then removed her hand. Like Socrates, she wasn’t one for big shows of affection. “Maybe you should stop watching . . .”
“Probably,” I agreed, without taking my eyes off the scene unfolding below. Vonda Shakes was conferring with Detective Doebler, standing in front of Victor and blocking my view of the body. Which was okay. I’d seen enough of poor Victor’s cadaver, which looked relatively peaceful, given the terrible circumstances. I would’ve expected to see blood, or bite marks, but Khan seemed mainly to have played with the corpse. I turned to Piper, concerned, suddenly, for the lion. “What do you think will happen to Khan?”
“I’m not sure,” my sister admitted. “There are, unfortunately, too many cases like this. Sometimes the animals are euthanized, but more often than not, they’re allowed to live.”
That answer surprised me. “Really?”
Piper nodded. “The deaths are usually attributed to human error. It’s irrational to kill a wild animal that we brought into captivity, just because it acts upon its true nature.”
“People aren’t always rational,” I noted, earning a snort of agreement from Socrates, who’d also peeled himself away from me, now that I was settling down. “But I hope whoever decides Khan’s fate takes into account that Victor probably wouldn’t want him to be put down.”
“You’re overlooking something, too, Daphne,” Piper said, nodding toward the enclosure, so I looked outside again. Detective Doebler and Vonda Shakes had moved aside so the EMTs could place Victor’s body on a gurney. “There’s a detective here,” my sister pointed out. “And the gates were left wide open, the electric fence shut off, and the intercom system tampered with. Not to mention the fact that Victor doesn’t look like he suffered trauma from a lion attack.”
“Oh, my gosh,” I muttered, finally able to think clearly. “You’re saying that he might’ve been murdered by a human and dumped into the enclosure. Which is probably correct.” I wrapped my arms around myself, no less horrified by Piper’s theory. In fact, the possibility that Victor had been killed by someone with the ability to reason and make moral choices only heightened the tragedy, in my opinion. “How did I overlook all of those things you just pointed out?”
“You saw a dead man in a lion’s pen,” Piper reminded me. “I would’ve assumed the same thing. Especially since you saw Khan stalking around behind Victor the other day.”
I resumed watching the EMTs, who had loaded a gurney carrying Victor into the ambulance and were shutting the rear doors. “Still, that was pretty stupid of me.”
Piper didn’t disagree. In fact, she didn’t say anything. We both just watched in silence as the ambulance drove slowly down paths designed for golf carts.
Victor’s golf cart . . .
I was picturing that flashy little vehicle, trying to recall what had struck me as odd about it when I’d parked next to it, when Piper finally asked a question that was probably long overdue.
“What, exactly, brought you here today, Daphne?”
I opened my mouth to explain that I’d been invited by Victor Breard, presumably so he coul
d tell me about his past, then request that I stop digging into his personal history. Just like he’d probably asked Lauren to stop nosing around, too. But before I could say anything, the door to the gift shop swung open and in walked a person who’d been conspicuously absent from the scene.
Jonathan Black, who carried not a detective’s notebook, but a high-powered rifle.
Scarier than the gun, though, was the look on his face.
Chapter 57
“Daphne,” Jonathan grumbled ominously. He paced around the snack bar, while I sat at a table, a few feet away from the materials that Victor Breard would never get to explain. Then he stopped abruptly and faced me. “Where do I even begin?”
“You could start by putting down the gun,” I suggested, eyeing the weapon nervously. “Why do you even have that?”
“I was doing a head count of loose tigers in a heavily forested compound,” he informed me, nevertheless setting the gun down on the sales counter, next to a festive red-and-white popcorn machine. The rifle actually seemed more in keeping with the safari theme than the cheerful popcorn maker. “Although I’d been assured that the animals are used to humans and largely docile, I—like the other volunteers—wanted to make sure I came out alive.”
I drew back. “You were counting tigers . . . ?”
“Yes,” he confirmed, finally sitting down across from me. He seemed slightly less upset now that we’d started talking. Of course, taking the rifle out of the conversation helped to make him less threatening, too. “We requested volunteers among the local hunters, but not too many people stepped forward to help, once we explained that the prey might be hunting them back.”
“I guess I can understand the low turnout,” I agreed. “I was pretty scared, the few moments I thought I was vulnerable.”
Jonathan rested back in his seat. “Fortunately, the fence is electrified again and all four of the tigers are accounted for—with no additional loss of human or animal life.”
Pawprints & Predicaments Page 21