He gives me a sidelong look. “You’re damn good, my friend.” I don’t tell him that she made the call she was planning and is still miffed about the whole affair. Her conversation with Karl didn’t go very well. She spoke her mind and they had a fight. Now she’s worried they’ll get married just for spite.
The first thing I picked up when Brian introduced her is that she loves it when he calls her his beautiful wife, even though she doesn’t believe it. She always calls him a liar when he does. She is an easy read. One in ten people are like that for me. They bubble with information; even while they sit cool and calm as though there is nothing on their minds. Aileen Bravelli was an easy read, too. More women than men are, by a wide margin. Mel Gibson made a movie around the time I was being stalked by Smilodon. It was called, “What Women Want.” Mel was able to hear what women think. That’s not exactly the way it is for me, but on the other hand, not that much different. I catch what they’re feeling along with occasional little vignettes of images.
One thing that’s now nagging at me is the look Sharon Shwartzberg gave me just before she strolled away, like she knew something I had yet to find out. I couldn’t get any more of a read, though, her mind too wrapped up on her son’s fourth engagement. I get almost zero read off of Brian. His aura is the same color as Becky’s; the same color as that of his son; the same color as mine. Until Becky told me what the colors meant, I wouldn’t have thought anything of it. Now I understand that we are all adventurers; that we all go for the risk to get the glory; that often we go for the glory because of the risk; that we all want the answers.
We walk out the other side of the barn. The same horse that nuzzled Brian’s hand earlier is here again. Brian ignores him and then he trots ahead of us and stops at the fence barrier that overlooks a huge pasture. Off in the distance there are a dozen horses. He nickers and bobs his head. Brian climbs over to the horse’s side of the fence, talks gently to him and then lifts up and inspects one hoof. “I think you’re healed, old boy.” He opens a gate and the horse takes off at a trot toward his friends.
Just beyond the horses, where the land rises just before the tree line, I see several trucks, and men. “What’s going on out there?”
“This pasture extends a quarter mile into the trees. Sharon is not comfortable with them wandering up in there so we’re fencing them in closer. Jake, our neighbor, lost a horse to a predator, so frankly, I’m a bit nervous, too.”
“I read about it. The horse was dragged a half mile.”
“Actually four tenths. As usual the reporter exaggerated it. I knew immediately what it was but I didn’t say anything.” We watch as the horse merges with the others. “You’re a legend around here, Zach. You rank right up with those who’ve claimed to have tangled with the Lock Ness Monster. Ask anyone who Sabre-toothed Zach is and they’ll tell you that he’s a Texan who claims he battled the sabre-toothed cat in Montana and lost only one eye. Then they’ll stand around and tell tales about sabre-toothed cat sightings, and unexplained animal losses, none of them taking it any more seriously than stories of Paul Bunyan and his Blue Ox.”
“What about you? You saw them.”
“Like I said, I knew what took down Jake’s stallion. But I learned early on to keep my mouth shut. Also, the last thing we need is for a bunch of crazies who do believe it, running around these mountains with guns. All kinds of death could occur and probably none of it the sabre-toothed cat.”
“What about the Deputy that was killed that night? How was that explained?”
“Mountain lion. The FBI managed to keep a tight lid on the products of Sans Sanssabre, despite your books and articles. You were treated as a science fiction writer, something like Steven King and his horror in the New England area.”
“But King writes fiction.”
“True. Walk into a cowboy bar around here where the locals hang out, bring up your name and the sabre-toothed cat and after another three or four rounds there’ll be a fist fight. If you personally show up in that bar, one person will ask for an autograph while another will punch you in the face. It may even be the same person.”
I don’t laugh. Brian has returned to my side of the fence. We start walking back toward the house. “So no one knows about your involvement?” I ask.
“They, meaning the other political party, tried to spread something around during the last election. When reporters hit me with stupid questions or accusations, I told them this. A political rumor is kind of like someone walking into a small, crowded room and hanging a sign on your back that says, ‘I did it’, and then letting loose an ear splitting fart, and sneaking out.
“I lost the bid for sheriff, but I don’t think that it had all that much to do with Smilodon. It had more to do with the fact that I didn’t give a damn anymore; another issue entirely. Being sheriff was becoming too political for me, and in my opinion, the sheriff shouldn’t be political. I think that’s half the problem in this country. Every damn thing seems to hover around some damn political line. I use the word ‘hover’ because if you look it up in the dictionary you’ll find, ‘To remain in an uncertain state.’ Am I right or wrong here, Zach?”
“I’d say you’re probably close to right.” I’m not exactly sure what his point is other than he lost the election because he didn’t like the system.
“A sheriff has to uphold the law and there shouldn’t be any damn politics about it and if you make him an elected official, it automatically becomes political, no matter how good his intentions are.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
He points and turns, indicating the land around him. “This is what I really want to do. I want to support Sharon in building her veterinary practice, which will eventually become Matt’s; and I want to build a top notch breeding stock of Arabians.”
We pass the construction. Four men without shirts move about the shingle-stacked roof, ignoring our presence. Matt comes out of the house and joins us. Earlier he was wearing a plain blue t-shirt with blue jean shorts and sandals. Now he’s in a cowboy hat, hiking boots, full length, well worn blue jeans, and the same t-shirt. He is carrying a long sleeve, blue jean shirt. I figure he’s getting ready to head out and help the fence crew or some such thing.
“Where do you advise that I should begin looking for Becky?”
“Can’t really say,” Brian says. “What are you planning on doing when you find her?”
I start to say that I’d haul her back to Dallas, which is exactly what Tanya will demand. What I’d rather do is a little exploring with my daughter. I look at the mountain peaks poking up to the east, and then at the country all around me. “Haven’t thought that far ahead yet,” I say.
Brian and his son exchange a look and I’m really bothered that I cannot read them. At this time in my life I’m tired of receiving impressions of people’s minds, but right now I wish I could read these two, or at least one of them. Like father, like son.
Like father, like daughter, I remind myself.
“Let’s go for a ride,” Brian says.
“Now?”
“You can leave your rental here.”
Chapter 14
In the stall next to where Sharon pulled out the F-350, sits a metallic blue Silverado 3500. If I hadn’t seen the F-350 first, I’d have thought this was huge. Brian backs it out and I climb in the front seat and buckle up. Matt sits behind his dad, and we head out.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“You’ll see,” Brian says.
“Does it have anything to do with Becky?”
He pauses to pull onto the highway. A truck goes by, blowing his horn. Brian honks back, waves out the window, and turns east. He doesn’t answer my question. I twist to look at Matt. He grins and looks away.
Something is definitely up.
I fail to pay attention, so after two turns, I’m lost. The position of the sun tells me we are heading south, then a sign indicates we are on Highway 206. Suddenly we break hard and take a left off the two la
ne blacktop. It is smooth gravel until it turns to dirt, and then in twenty seconds we are bouncing in and out of ruts. I’d swear that he hasn’t slowed down since he left the pavement. I’m looking for things to hold on to. My phone rings and I wrestle it from my hip while at the same time trying to keep from slamming my face against the windshield.
“Hello!” The truck bounces. If not for the seat restraint I would have hit the overhead.
“Zach!” Tanya’s voice breaks through the static.
“I can barely hear you.”
“What? Can you hear me?”
“I can hear you now.”
“Becky called.”
“Where is she?”
“What? I can’t hear . . . She wouldn’t say where she . . . don’t like . . . I’m . . . way . . .”
We bounce again and I nearly drop the phone. “Did you tell her to call me?” Nothing. “Tanya!” I holster the phone.
“Give it up,” Brian says. “I’m surprised you got anything at all. Turn it off. Put it away. It’ll only get worse from here on.”
“How much farther?” I ask.
“Not very far. We’re just getting into the rough country.” He swerves around a washout and I pray the door doesn’t fly open with my weight against it.
Matt doesn’t say a word the entire time.
Finally we bounce and then slide into the trees and Brian slows down. It’s still much too fast for my comfort, but at least we aren’t bouncing up and down anymore. It’s not very long before we come to a gate much like one you would find entering an estate, or a gated community. In the middle of it in small wrought iron script are the letters, SS. Above that is a standard hardware store purchased sign that says, PRIVATE. Matt gets out and holds it open as we pass through. He gets back in and we’re off again, but a little slower as the road, if one can call it that, winds along rock cliffs. As we clear the cliffs he floors it to the crest of a hill and then, I swear, we fly over the top. All I see for a few seconds is sky and then mountain tops, and I’m sure we’re going off a mountain ledge and straight to our deaths.
“Holy shit!” Additional words come to mind that I imagine only salty sailors use, or a person seeing his life flash before his eyes, but before I can get them vocalized whatever was in my stomach is suddenly in my throat. I remember the last time I thought I was about to die in a vehicle. That was eight years before and Brian—then Sheriff Shwartzberg—was driving then, too.
All of a sudden things settle and we are in a meadow looking down a long hill to a huge log home. A large two-stall garage stands to the far side. We proceed down the hill and park next to five vehicles; two of them are SUVs, the others are trucks; all are late model four-wheel drives.
I slide out of the truck.
“You okay, Zach?” Brian looks at me with a mixture of concern and humor. “You look a tad pale.”
“Other than a few bruises, I’m fine. What’s the charge for the carnival ride?”
He laughs and slaps me on the back and then starts up the stone path. I follow and Matt falls in behind me.
The solid front door is framed by twelve-inch beams. “This would do any Texan proud,” I say. “This must have cost some coin.”
“Sam is well off, independent.”
We enter, turn right and then left and look down an open staircase into a huge room. “Most of my Dallas home could fit in here.” I put my hand on a huge beam, the girth of which I could maybe get my arms around. It is smooth and cool.
“Engleman Spruce,” Brian says. “Winter harvested, old growth trees. Notice how there is virtually no taper.”
I wouldn’t have thought of that. “Old growth trees?”
“You’re not an environmentalist, are you?”
“No, but . . .”
“Good. They’re not entirely welcome in this country. We have a beautiful state, and we keep it that way without them.” He starts down the stairs. Five men and two women stand or sit, most with drinks in their hands. Two are beers. The rest I can’t tell. No one pays much attention to our arrival until Brian says, “Can I have your attention please?”
Gradually everyone turns from their conversations and looks up at us. Brian is three-quarters of the way down the stairs. I’m just above his left shoulder. “Zach,” he says, pointing to a couple. “I’d like you to meet Jake and Susan Morgan.” He starts going around the room from them. “Bret Cullen, Roger Blake, and Crystal Broadbow. Crystal’s other half, Slate Kremer is over there.” Slate raises his drink—the only one so far who has acknowledged me. I nod my head. “Next to Slate,” Brian continues, “is the famous Patrick Swazye.”
“Don’t let him bullshit you,” Bret Cullen says. “I know Patrick Swazye, and he’s no Patrick Swazye.”
Everyone laughs.
“Swisher,” Patrick interrupts. “How they get Swazye—although I’m just as good lookn’—I don’t know. It’s Swisher. Patrick Swisher. Good to meet you, Zach.”
Everyone starts returning to their conversations. “But wait!” Brian sticks his arm out. “It’s with great pleasure that I wish to present to you someone you all know but who you have never met. He is nearly as famous as Swazye himself . . .”
He pauses as their attention returns to him, and then their eyes upon me.
“You might say it is in part because of him that we are all here.”
Now I’m very uncomfortable. I know what’s coming and I don’t particularly like it.
“I’d like you to welcome to our group, Zechariah Price, or better known around here as Sabre-toothed Zach.”
Brian drags me down the remainder of the stairs. Everyone gathers around and I shake hands. I learn from the vignettes that roll off of them that it is solely because of Smilodon and for Smilodon that they all are here. In the past I’ve avoided these groups, yet the thought of being in sabre-tooth country again both scares the hell out of me, and excites me.
However, my first mission is to locate Becky. I had hoped that Brian was taking me somewhere that he thought she might be. I get him aside. “I really need to be looking for my daughter.”
“You said she was here looking for the sabre-toothed cat, and that she made contact with someone. I really thought maybe she’d be here.”
I look around. “I understand, but she’s not. I need to get to where I can call Tanya and find out what she’s heard from Becky’s call. She might already know where she is.”
Brian doesn’t argue at all. “No problem, Zach. We’re expecting Sam, who by the way, happens to be the leader of our little organization, and the owner of this spread. I’ve got a contractor coming at noon so I’ve got to get back before long anyway. Grab yourself a drink and relax for a bit.”
He walks away and leaves me with my mouth hanging open, staring at a ten foot wide, rock fireplace. Actually, it isn’t the fireplace itself that suddenly grabs my riveting attention, but a huge—at least five foot square—oil painting mounted on the stones. In the painting is a woman lying on her back, propped up on her elbows. A young sabre-toothed cat is draped across her lap and both are looking directly at the viewer. Images better left forgotten start billowing up in my memory, images of this same young woman walking with me through the indoor jungles of Sans Sanssabre, images of our arms around each other following our discovery of a Bengal Tiger kill of an employee of the company, images of her sliding under my blankets in the middle of the night, images of her playing with the young Smilodon, and then both of them looking at me as I grab their attention and trigger the shutter of my Nikon. That’s right. The image hanging on the wall in front of me is mine.
When I say mine, I’m referring to the fact that in the legal sense, my copyright should be on it. I composed it and then I triggered the shutter to record it on the film that I personally loaded into my Nikon. The memory of the event is crystal clear, yet I had totally forgotten about it after barely escaping with my life, and Tanya’s life . . . until now. Someone has taken it and turned it into an oil painting.
I turn
away briefly, and then look back at it. How can it be? For some reason I had assumed that the camera had burned up in the fire that destroyed Sans Sanssabre. But here is the evidence that it didn’t, or at least that the film that was in it didn’t. This image in front of me is one of only six photographs I took the entire time I was there, despite the fact that I called myself a photo journalist. Now here it is, enlarged to nearly full life size and turned into oils. But I only shot the picture. I never removed the film from the camera because there was still more than three-quarters of the roll left.
I suddenly become aware that Patrick Swisher is standing next to me. “Unbelievable, isn’t it?” he says.
“Yes.” My reply is automatic, but my mind is still flailing about the events of eight years before. What happened to my camera? After our attempted escape during which time Aileen was killed by the sabre-toothed cats, I never saw my Nikon again. I never thought about it after that, having effectively exchanged it for my life. It was stored away in the closet in the bedroom of my Sans Sanssabre apartment. Of course Vandermill would have taken it. He’d have thought there was evidence on it that could expose him. My Nikon probably left with him before Sans Sanssabre was set afire.
“I imagine it wouldn’t be all that unbelievable to you,” Patrick continues.
But that doesn’t explain how the image that was recorded on the film inside that camera has come to be hanging on this fireplace as a painting.
“You’ve been there.”
I consider the immensity of the mountain home I’m in and come to the sudden, obvious conclusion that Sam, the host who Brian said we’re waiting on, is actually Victor Vandermill. It’s like an ice cube is sliding down my back as I realize that this is where he’s been hiding, that he’ll be walking in here any second.
“You’ve seen them face-to-face, literally I understand.”
“Yes,” I say again, my eyes still not leaving the painting. “This organization, this meeting today . . . what is this?”
Sabre-Toothed Cat Trilogy Page 46