P Deutermann - The Cat Dancers

Then he heard the Bronco’s engine rev up in the distance and the sounds of the vehicle turning around. Based on the sound, which was difficult to locate through all the greenery, the Bronco was indeed going back to the entrance to the meadow, although it seemed to be taking an awfully long time. He fished the. 45 out of his pocket and fed the three bullets into it, checking the action to make sure everything was working. The metal was cold, and the cylinder turned sluggishly, but it did turn, and that was all that counted. He put it back into the pocket with a button flap on it and secured it. He listened for the Bronco, thought he could still hear it. It seemed a long way off.

Has that crazy old bastard left me out here? he wondered. He looked up at the sky for any signs of snow, but it was clear as a bell and filled with a million enormous stars. He pushed up the front of the watch cap and listened hard. He thought he could still hear the Bronco, but it could also have been his imagination. But clearly, White Eye had gone beyond the edge of the meadow. He left his ears uncovered, the better to hear the man coming back. And he would hear him, because the air was so still he could hear the fabric of his coat rising and falling with his own breathing. His right hand unconsciously patted the lump in his coat pocket.

Maybe I should move out of the clearing, get myself into the dense pines, instead of sitting out here in the middle, waiting to be tagged, he thought. But then he realized there was no way to do that without leaving a trail of footprints, which would point right at him. Well then, maybe-He stopped thinking and listened. He’d heard something out there.

He cupped his hands behind his ears and slowly turned his head like a radar antenna, trying to focus on that sound. Not footsteps, not the Bronco, something else. Then he heard it again. A low cough, overlaid with something else, something deeper. Coming from-where? There was absolutely no way to tell. And it was a sound he’d heard before. But where? Recently, he knew. And then he knew what it was.

Night-Night.

He’d forgotten all about White Eye’s panther, who had spent the last few hours trotting along behind Mitchell’s vehicle. Working up an appetite? Son of a bitch!

He heard another sound but couldn’t make it out. Whatever it was, it sounded closer. He decided not to hang around in the clearing anymore, not if that damned cat was coming. He thought frantically about which way to go. He and White Eye had come in from the meadow, and their tracks would still be visible. In the other direction, up the slope, were trees-real trees, with big strong branches. He stood no chance against the cat if it could catch him in this tangle of pines. But up a tree, with a. 45? Much better odds.

If he could get there.

He put his back to their original tracks and plunged into the dense pines, pushing his way through them for about fifty feet and then stopping. He turned around to see if he’d been going in a straight line, but the pines immediately blocked his view. He was pretty sure he was going straight, but it was very difficult to tell in the woods. He listened for sounds of the cat but heard nothing but his own labored breathing.

Go, he thought. Now.

He turned again in what he thought was the direction of the big trees and started pushing again, ignoring the sharp stings of needles on his face. He knew he was making some noise, but he no longer cared. He had to get out of this maze of green branches. It felt like the damned trees were closing in on him, resisting his efforts to escape, even as his brain told him to stop that shit.

After three minutes of effort, he stopped to listen again, this time for more than just a few seconds. He tried to slow his breathing. He wondered what the altitude was up here, then remembered his ears popping more than once on the way up. He should have come out of the grove by now.

Another cough.

That way. Closer.

Cam looked down at his feet to establish his direction, and he felt his face redden when he saw the two sets of tracks. He was standing in two sets of tracks. He’d gone in a goddamned circle. He felt sweat on his forehead, despite the freezing air. Now what?

Climb a tree. Climb up and see which way was out. But that wouldn’t work. The pines would simply bend over the moment he got halfway up.

The stars. Use the stars. Pick a star and keep it in front of you. But which goddamned way?

Any damned way. Any straight line, but he had to get out of this jungle. Even if it brought him out in the meadow, he could see again. But so could the cat.

The fucking cat doesn’t have to see, he realized. It knows where you are.

Then he realized his left foot was higher than his right foot. He was standing on a slope.

Uphill. The oak trees were above the pine grove. Go uphill.

Trying desperately not to panic, he turned in the direction he thought was uphill and began to push through in earnest now, not even trying to be quiet anymore. Just when he was about to give up and try navigating by the stars, he broke out of the pine grove, right in front of the blessed oak trees.

He stopped and looked carefully up and down the line of greenery marking the top edge of the grove. It was a good hundred yards of open snowpack to the nearest tree.

He tried a step. Deep open snow.

He listened, but there were no more sounds coming from within the pine grove. Where was that damned thing? Just inside the tree line, waiting for him to move out into the open? His mind formed an image of the great tawny beast loping across the snowpack behind the Bronco with perfect ease, doing it for miles and miles.

He scanned the trees ahead and extracted the. 45. Had he put the rounds in the right chambers? If he cocked the hammer, would he get a bullet cycling under it, or an empty chamber?

Gotta move sometime, he thought. He stared at the distant trees, trying to pick one out with branches low enough to get into. He spotted a likely candidate, then turned around so he could walk backward up the hill, keeping the entire pine grove in his sight. He held the. 45 close to his belly to keep it warm as he trudged backward up the hill, trying hard not to look over his shoulder to see what might be behind him. It was tough going as the hill steepened, and the snow felt like it was three feet deep, even though he knew it wasn’t.

He stopped, breathing hard as he thought he saw something move out on the far right corner of the grove. He stared hard, his eyes watering with the effort, but there was nothing there. He scanned the whole grove again, watching for any signs of movement. Nothing. He looked over his shoulder. His target tree was twenty feet away. It was bigger than he’d thought, with a huge gnarly trunk some seven or eight feet in diameter.

Behind which was-what?

Look at the snow, his brain told him. He did. No tracks near the tree.

He scanned the pine grove again, his eyes moving from left to right, even as he started moving backward again, his mind chanting a simple mantra: There’s nothing behind you except that tree. No tracks, no cat. Damned thing can’t fly.

He kept watching the pine trees, staring hard into those deep shadows at their bases. Wrong, he told himself; watch the tops. If something’s coming through those trees, the tops will stir.

And, oh shit, they were-right in the middle of the grove, right where he’d come out. Tiny little movements in the moonlight, but the tops were definitely moving. Something coming through there. And there were his own tracks, pointing right at him.

Night-Night? Or White Eye? Both?

Then something slammed into his back and he let out a little yelp before he realized he’d backed into his tree. He took one last look around, jammed the gun back into his pocket, and started trying to climb it. The limbs, which had appeared to be close to the ground before, were not so close now that he was right here. He circled the tree, searching for a handhold, looking frantically at the next tree, and then one on the other side, then back at the pine grove.