He could hear the cats moving away, still fighting as they tore through the underbrush into the surrounding trees. Just as he got to the clearing, a howl of pain echoed through the morning air, followed instantly by a roar of triumph.
He dashed to the porch and into the cabin, his gun still held tightly in one hand while he called Wynn’s name. Silence met him. The cabin was empty.
“Where the hell are you?” he growled, returning to the porch. He scanned the clearing. Blood spattered the roiled up snow at one side, evidence, as if he needed it, that the fight between the two cats had been vicious. There was no sign of Wynn. Glancing down, Mick saw a cracked cup on the edge of one of the steps, the coffee it had contained darkening the snow.
“Shit,” he muttered when he saw the footprints of a large cat at the foot of the steps. “Wynn!” he shouted. “Answer me. Are you hurt, hiding? Answer me!”
There was only silence. Even the birds were quiet.
Mick searched the snow-covered ground for Wynn’s footprints. Nothing. Damn it! You have to be out there somewhere. The only prints were those of the cat. Carefully, cautiously, he began to follow their trail, still holding his gun at the ready, knowing an injured cat could be extremely dangerous.
The signs of the battle moved into the trees, as he knew they would. The trail of blood and paw prints continued for several hundred yards. Then, just ahead, he saw a dark form. He prayed it wasn’t Wynn as he inched forward toward it.
He almost sighed in relief when he saw it was a cat—a black jaguar he thought from the size and build. Its head was thrown back, its throat torn out, its fur slashed by long, sharp claws. As he knelt beside it, he saw shreds of bloodied white fur caught on its fangs and his first thought—the snow cat.
Standing again, he tried to discover where the snow cat had gone. There were no paw prints in the snow beyond where the black jaguar had died. Mick looked up at the tree branches and nodded. One branch was clear of snow, and then a second on a tree a few feet away. Drops of blood dotted the snow beneath them.
For a brief second he was tempted to follow, to see where the cat ended up. Then he recalled why he was here. “Wynn,” he shouted again, as he turned back toward the cabin.
There was no answer.
He entered the cabin again. It was obvious Wynn had spent the night. The bed had been slept in, there was a damp washrag hanging over a handle in the shower. An empty can of ravioli was in the trash and a pan of water, still slightly warm, sat on the stove. The most telling evidence though, to Mick’s way of thinking, was the sketchpad sitting on the table. The drawing was a winter scene, abstract but unmistakable. In the center were two distorted forms, half human, half animal. Very mythical, Mick thought, wondering if all Wynn’s art was like that.
Where have you gotten to? How did you disappear without leaving any trail behind you? Those thoughts ran over and over in Mick’s mind as he again searched around the exterior of the cabin. The only answer he could come up with was the Wynn might have left the way they’d come to the cabin and in his hurry to get back here, Mick must have destroyed what footprints Wynn had left behind.
“But why leave?” he said aloud. “Did Lionel find you? Did you think he had? The camera!”
Mick practically tore the cabin apart looking for it but it was nowhere to be found.
Finally, feeling at a loss as to what to do next, he scribbled a hasty note for Wynn, telling him to get in contact if he returned. He put it in the center of the table beside Wynn’s drawing then left.
* * * *
High on a mountain ledge above the cabin, the white cat licked blood off his fur as he watched the man down below. The cat had been victorious; his enemy was dead. The wounds he’d received in the battle were slowly healing. Soon he would move on.
His pale blue eyes followed the man’s movements, tracking him when he finally left until he disappeared from view down the trail that led back to civilization.
Only then did the cat move. Carefully, mindful of his wounds, he leapt from the ledge to a lower one, and another and another until he was on the ground. He paced slowly to the cabin, circling it, looking for a way inside, but the man had closed and padlocked the door. Finally ceding defeat, the cat moved on.
* * * *
Mick returned to the cabin twice in the following week. The first time he was hoping against hope Wynn had returned. He knew it was wishful thinking but still he went. The note was where he’d left it; nothing had been disturbed—nothing, anyway, except the snow around the cabin. Large paw prints gave evidence that the cat—he was certain it was the snow cat—had been there.
The second time he went back, it was to retrieve Wynn’s belongings. As he packed them up, he wondered if he’d ever see the man again. Was he still on the run from Lionel? Had Lionel somehow found him and was he dead now?
That last thought hurt bone deep. Mick had felt, that last evening, they had made a connection that was more than just friendship. It was tenuous, he knew, but it was there. “If wishes were horses,” he whispered, staring down at Wynn’s drawing. Impulsively he tore it out of the sketchpad, rolling it carefully then putting a rubber band he found in Wynn’s bag around it.
Picking up the two bags, he took a last look around then walked out of the cabin. He glanced around one last time before he locked the door. It was a nice dream, a brief one, and that’s all it was.
Chapter 9
Mick’s life returned to normal after that—as normal as any man’s life can be when he’s a small town sheriff.
Two weeks or so after last seeing Wynn, Mick happened across a small article in one of the Denver papers he sometimes picked up from the grocery store. It was about the disappearance of a wealthy, reclusive businessman. According to the reporter, the man told his secretary he was going out of town to look at some properties. That was the last she or anyone had heard from him. The police were investigating, but so far had come up with no clues as to his whereabouts.
Mick smiled to himself, looking up at Wynn’s drawing, which he had hung over his desk at home. So maybe you did find him after all, or he found you and you dealt with him. It was a nice thought, but one he was certain he’d never know the answer to.
Every once in a while after that, he would go online, checking out art galleries, hoping maybe he’d find some of Wynn’s paintings showing at one. He did, once, and his pulse quickened until he discovered the article was cached and from two years earlier.
Then, early one Tuesday morning in mid-July, Ed Peters walked into Mick’s office. “I hate to bother you,” he said, “but we found something at the cabin. Margo thinks it might have belonged to the man she let use it last winter.” He handed Mick a camera, explaining, “I was trying to fix a leaky pipe under the kitchen sink. I discovered a loose board on the back wall and this was behind it, well-wrapped in a plastic bag.”
“Thank you!” Mick said as he took it. “When he had to leave suddenly on another job—” the story Mick had given out to explain Wynn’s vanishing, “—I thought he’d taken it with him. This is…was…evidence in a case he was working on. I’ll send it to him.”
“Have you heard from him since then? Margo was quite taken with him. She thought—” Ed smiled a bit, “—maybe you and he were, well…” He shrugged.
“No. I was just helping him out on that case is all.” Mick chuckled. “Margo is a born romantic, I think.”
“Definitely,” Ed agreed. “Well, I better leave you to it. I have more errands to run. If you ever do hear from him, tell him Margo sends her regards.”
“I will. I promise.”
As soon as Ed left, Mick tried to turn the camera on. He wanted to see the two pictures that had caused all the problems. It took him a moment to realize the battery was dead.
He didn’t get a chance to buy a new battery until he was on his way home. It seemed as if everybody and their brother had problems only the sheriff’s department could solve, from a runaway cat to a three-car accident just outside
of town involving a local and two sets of tourists who didn’t understand there was a reason for the speed limit on the winding mountain road.
So when his day ended, an hour later than normal, he pocketed the camera and headed out. After arriving home, he set the camera on his desk, went to change into well-worn jeans and a T-shirt, then fixed supper. He was anxious to see the photos but figured since he’d waited this long, another hour wouldn’t matter and he’d have filled the empty hole in his stomach, which made him feel more human.
Finally he sat down at his desk, put the new battery in, and turned on the camera. Pressing the ‘review’ button, he brought up the last picture Wynn had taken.
“What the fucking hell!” He looked at the picture in disbelief then at the drawing over his desk and back at the picture. “No way, no how is that possible.”
The picture was of a man, but not fully a man. The face was the one Wynn had shown him, the man he said was Lionel Knight. He was half bent over, above the body of a woman that had been torn to shreds. That was bad enough. What was unbelievable was the fact Lionel was more cat than man. His lower body was fully animal, thick powerful legs covered in black fur ending in powerful looking paws. It had a tail which was, Mick thought, shorter than say a tiger’s or a leopard’s in comparison to his body length.
From the waist up, he was still partially human, black fur melding into black chest hair. His hands were half morphed into cat’s paws, long, sharp nails extended. The look of pure hatred as the creature stared out of the picture sent shivers down Mick’s spine.
Hesitantly he looked at the second picture. Here the creature was fully cat, a jaguar, Mick thought. The nails of one front paw were imbedded in the woman’s chest; the cat’s powerful jaws gripped her arm and Mick knew seconds later they would pulverize it.
For a moment he thought maybe the two pictures were part of some fantasy shoot, one of the jaguar, the second of a morphing figure—maybe something Wynn had set up as inspiration for one of his paintings. Then he realized that was impossible when he looked at the time notations in the bottom corners of both pictures and studied the half jaguar, half man in the first one, comparing it to the second of the jaguar. The hind quarters were identical in both.
What the hell did I get involved in? Something out of science fiction, fantasy, the occult? Is this…thing the same jaguar I found dead, its throat torn out, the day Wynn went missing? Is it…was it…really Lionel Knight?
Those and more questions spun through his mind as he turned on his computer.
Then he popped out the camera’s memory card and plugged it into the USB slot before opening his photo program. After transferring the two pictures, he studied them side by side. He hadn’t been wrong, it was the same jaguar, or…or whatever it is.
If Lionel Knight was this creature, and everything he was seeing pointed to it, no wonder he wanted to find Wynn. He’d obviously seen him when he took the shots, if the look of hate on his face was any indication. Why was Wynn there too? Had he known what Lionel was and followed him?
Mick remembered Wynn’s saying something about having to get the pictures to ‘the right people’ or words to that effect. Who were these people? Why was Wynn involved?
“Too damned many questions about something that’s impossible,” Mick growled as he closed down the program and went online. He knew there were books and movies about things like these—usually werewolves. He’s heard enough jokes about some movies that were popular at the moment. But those were just that—movies, fairytales. This…this was real if what he’d just seen could be believed. And in some deep recess of his brain, he did.
He spent the next hour searching for anything about werecats, shifters, anything that purported to be real-life accounts about them. He found there were religions that believed it was possible, and people who claimed they could shift, but there was nothing the logical part of his mind would accept. Still…he did believe.
And that made him wonder about the snow cat. Was it one as well? Had the battle outside the cabin been between two creatures who could shift from human to jaguar and back again. If so, who was the snow cat?
“Not possible,” he exclaimed when his thoughts made the obvious next jump. “Fucking impossible.”
Chapter 10
Wynn gazed at the painting with a critical eye. It wasn’t doing what he wanted it to.
“I’ve lost it,” he growled, slapping the paintbrush he was holding down on the pallet.
“You’ll ruin the brush doing that.”
Wynn whirled around defensively, even though he recognized the voice. Then he smiled. “Right now, I’m not sure it matters, Maribel. I’m not doing anything creative with it.”
She came over, putting her arm around his waist as she studied the painting. “It’s not your best work by far, I’ll give you that. Maybe it’s time to figure out why? You keep saying you’re just in a slump but this has been going on for six months.”
“I know, damn it. I can’t break out of it.”
She took his hand, tugging, urging him toward the bench at one side of his studio. He followed a bit ungraciously, plopping down on it, leaning back against the wall with his hands behind his head as he stared at her standing in front of him.
“When you first got back, I thought it might have to do with the visit you paid your father. You usually are in a pretty foul mood when that happens. But you get over it fairly quickly. So there has to be more to it. Maybe if you tell me, we can figure out what to do.”
He shook his head, looking off into space to avoid meeting her gaze.
“Wynn, you know you can trust me. I know more about you than probably anyone else except your family.” She smiled wryly. “Hell, I know more than even they do. I know Wynn McGuire is really a very talented artist who lives and paints under the name Walt Murphy. I might be the only one who does.”
“My father does,” he muttered, then paused.
Whatever she saw in his face caused her to say, “He and I aren’t the only ones now, are we? There’s someone else and I’d bet my last dollar they’re the reason for what’s going on with you. Right?”
“Not the way you mean it, Maribel.”
Sitting down beside him now, she rested her hand on his leg. “Want to talk?”
He nodded slowly as he ran his fingers through his long, white hair, grumbling when he managed to pull most of it out of the clasp that restrained it. “Remember Lionel Knight?”
“How could I forget the bastard!” she spat out. “He destroyed my gallery. What about him?”
“About seven months ago there was a rash of killings up north. The cops and even the wildlife officers put them down to a pack of feral dogs.”
“But it was Lionel?” Wynn nodded. “Now why doesn’t that really surprise me?” she said with a disgusted snort. “How did you find out?”
“You know jaguars are by nature solitary animals, but sometimes we work together for the good of all of us. My father knows his father, who knew Lionel was to blame.”
“How?”
“He’s a police technician. Sort of like on ‘CSI’ but the real thing. Animal hairs were found at the killing sites. Most did belong to dogs, but he discovered some that belonged to one lone feline, a jaguar, a black jaguar.”
“Is a black jaguar rare?”
“Not as rare as my coloring, but far from common. He was able to determine the hairs belonged to Lionel—which was all well and good as far as it went, but saying anything would reveal there are shifters in the world. Obviously not something he and my father were willing to do.”
“How do you fit into the picture?”
“Because Lionel was well known as an art collector and I’m an artist. When father agreed to help Lionel’s father, he came to me. He figured I could worm my way into Lionel’s good graces and somehow keep track of him.”
“Good God. And he was serious?”
“Serious as death. I probably would have shut him down if I hadn’t already met Lione
l. As it was, I agreed to try to help. I knew one of the places he lived and, to use the vernacular, I staked it out. It was in the same area where the killings were happening so I figured I might get lucky.” Wynn smiled morosely. “I did. I got two pictures of him with one of his victims. Unfortunately, he saw me and the chase was on since, quite obviously, he didn’t want me turning them over to anyone, human or shifter.”
“That explains your prolonged absence.” She swatted his shoulder. “It makes a lot more sense than ‘I went on an extended cruise to find myself’.”
Wynn smiled apologetically. “It was the best I could think of on the spur of the moment with you ragging on me about ‘vanishing into the sunset’ or some such.”
“Okay, I’ll give you that. But I was worried.”
“I know, and I’m sorry.”
“Apology accepted. Okay, so you’re on the run, trying to get those pictures to your father. Then what?”
“Then I had a car accident.”
He went on to explain what happened after that, up until the moment Lionel finally appeared, they fought, and he killed him. “I was wounded too,” he said in conclusion. “And Mick had just arrived. I couldn’t shift; he’d wonder how I got so torn up when there was nothing around but Lionel’s dead carcass. He’d never believe I killed him when I didn’t have any weapons. So…I left.”
“Leaving behind someone you’d begun to care for.”
“Yes,” he whispered. “Someone I’ll never see again.”
“Why not? What’s stopping you from going back there again? I’m sure we can come up with something you can tell him to explain why you walked away.”
“Like what? Sorry Mick but I figured the plan wasn’t going to work and I decided to take off before Lionel showed? That would go over well. Not.”
“Did he see Lionel’s carcass?”
“Yeah. He followed the trail we left when we were fighting. I was well away by then, up on a ledge, watching. I…I watched until he left. As soon as I was healed enough, I shifted and returned home to tell my father Lionel was dead.”
Snow Cat Page 5