P Deutermann - The Cat Dancers

“Thank you,” she said automatically. “Anyway, I’d forgotten all about the mountain lion business until you asked today. I’d never heard that term- cat dancers -however.”

“Know a guide named White Eye Mitchell?”

“Only by reputation. Supposedly, he found a missing hiker five years ago, after everyone else had given up.”

“‘Supposedly’?”

“Well, we think he’d guided the man in. Rumor was that they’d argued, and Mitchell left him out there to calibrate his thinking. There was no proof of that, of course, and the rescuee wasn’t talking, for some reason.”

Cam nodded. “Could I ask you to pulse your sources up here, see if you can find out anything more?”

She looked at him. “You’re leaving some things out. Am I right?”

“Yes,” he said. “But I can assure you that my case is as serious as a heart attack.”

“Does our local sheriff know you’re here?”

“Yes, he does. I checked in with him first thing. But he doesn’t have the whole picture, either, and I was able to convince him that that was a good place to be right now.”

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll ask around. How long will you be up here?”

“Don’t know,” Cam said. “Until I find something.”

“Or something finds you,” she said softly.

It was his turn to stare at her. “What’s that mean, exactly?” he asked.

“I’m not entirely sure,” she said. “But the truly wild parts of this country seem to attract all kinds of edgy critters these days.” She shook her head, as if trying to dislodge a bad thought. “Don’t mind me,” she said with a smile. “Too much time alone, I think.”

“I can actually relate to that,” he began, but then two men came into the dining room from the bar and called hello to Mary Ellen. She excused herself and went to join them. Cam paid his bill and went outside. It was cold but clear, and he felt like taking a walk. The night sky was so filled with blazing stars that he actually stopped in the parking lot to look up at them.

When he got back to his truck, he found a small note stuck into the driver’s side window.

“I get off duty at 2300,” it said. “We need to talk.” This was followed by a cell phone number, and the signature was “M.E.G.”

When he got back to the cabins, he noticed there’d been a dusting of snow in the area-nothing serious, but enough for the headlights to show that a vehicle had driven down the line of cabins sometime after the snow and then back out. Before he turned into the parking space by his cabin, he got out of his truck to see if the vehicle had stopped, but it didn’t look like it. Straight tracks; big tires, like his own. He squatted down and fingered the edges of the tracks, which, had this been the movies, should have told him how old they were. Instead, the bits of snow and mud melted in his hand and told him absolutely nothing. Indian scout you are not, he decided.

The snow leading up to his cabin, on the front steps, and frosting the edges of the porch was undisturbed. He let the dogs out and watched them to see if they focused on anything near the cabin, but Frick just ran around, nose down, tail up, while Frack made the trees afraid. He checked the little back deck, where a rusty barbecue on wheels lived, but there were no signs that anyone had been back there, either-unless, of course, they had come before the snow. Enough of this paranoia, he said to himself, and went inside to see if he could raise Bobby Lee Baggett. As he expected, he got voice mail. He left his name and cell number and then went to retrieve the dogs.

As he started a fire in the woodstove, he remembered that he’d left the gun in the glove compartment. He went back out to the truck to retrieve it and took another look around. His was still the only cabin that appeared to be occupied. The only other light on was up at the office at the top of the lane. The sky was partially overcast now and the air smelled as if there was some more snow on the way. There was no wind to speak of, and the only sounds were coming from the truck’s engine as it cooled down in the frosty air. He tried to imagine a mountain lion padding silently around the cabins, green eyes glowing in the darkness. He heard a clump of snow fall out of a pine tree behind him and caught a glimpse of a big gray night bird, bent on murder, gliding soundlessly down into the ravine behind the line of cabins. The surrounding foothills were indistinct dark shapes. The cabin park was too low for him to be able to see the Smokies, which began their humped stretch west to Tennessee only about five miles away. He shivered in the night air, called in the dogs, and went back into the cabin, where the woodstove was already producing an agreeable heat. He broke out his Shelby Foote and settled in to read about Grant’s expedition against Fort Donaldson on the Tennessee River.

The sheriff called him back at 10:00 P.M. Cam gave him an abbreviated summary of what he had been doing, and told him he’d found out what the term cat dancers meant.

“Hopefully it’s not too fanciful.”

“Actually,” Cam said, and the sheriff groaned. He groaned some more once he heard the story.

“Mountain lions? Guys chasing mountain lions for-what, the thrill of it all?”

“For a picture, actually,” Cam said. “That, of course, explains everything. I guess it’s extreme wildlife photography. Stand by for the documentary.”

“Judas Priest!” the sheriff said. “And the rangers told you that mountain lions are extinct up there?”

“Unfortunately, yes. The occasional sighting is excitedly reported-always with absolutely zero evidence.”

“And how exactly does this lunacy connect to our problems here in Manceford County?”

Cam began to make Indian chanting noises, indicating that he had no idea, and the sheriff swore. “Look,” he said. “Spend another day or so up there, report back in, and we’ll see where to go from there.”

Cam said, “Yes, sir,” and hung up. He went to the front door and looked out. It was snowing again, and this looked like more than a passing squall. He wondered if he ought to go out and put the snow straps on his tires, but he decided against it. The radio forecast had been for snow squalls only.

Half an hour later, he made the call. To his surprise, a man answered.

“I got a note to call this number,” Cam said. “Who am I talking to?”

“You want to know about the cat dancers?”

“That’s right,” Cam replied.

“Where you staying?”

Cam told him.

“Which cabin?”

“The only occupied one,” Cam said. “You’ll see my truck. You a park ranger?”

“Half an hour,” the man said, and hung up. Cam found his notebook and wrote down the phone number, along with a note to get Jay-Kay to ID the number for him. He checked on the snow again, and it was still coming down.

He considered his situation. He’d just told a stranger where he was, and that he was alone in an empty cabin park. There was only one road in and out of the cabin area. If another wrecking crew showed up, it would be a really bad idea to be trapped in the cabin. His problem was that he hadn’t brought extreme-weather clothing with him, he had only one nontactical weapon, and he had no backup. He’d just assumed that the phone number belonged to Mary Ellen Goode, the smiling ranger.

He figured he could try calling the local law. And tell them what? he wondered. Frick got up and came over to see what was bothering him. Well, I do have some backup, he thought as he rubbed her ears. Frack came over to get in line for ear rubbing. The shepherds could read his mood like a book.

He put on a second pair of socks, long johns, and a sweater over his flannel shirt. He got his coat and gloves, and happily found a knit watch cap in his bag. He opened the front door and looked out. The truck’s hood was already showing an inch or so of snow. The sky was completely overcast, and the whirling snowfall obiterated things far off. The vehicle tracks in the road were just faint indentations now.