P Deutermann - The Cat Dancers

“Inquiring minds want to know WTF,” Cam said. “And I’m getting some cold shoulders. As in ‘You were there at the end. Where’s our guy?’”

The sheriff got up and went to the single window in his office. The lights out in the parking lot were on, and yet there were still many personal vehicles parked there.

“I can tell you that you did the right thing,” he said. “But that’ll be small comfort the next time you go into Frank’s Place. Kenny Cox drew some serious water around here. Despite what he’d been doing.”

“Maybe because of what he was doing,” Cam said. “I really may not be able to stay on after this.”

Bobby Lee gave him a strange look. “You may be right about that, Lieutenant. You came back. Kenny Cox didn’t. People’re gonna remember that.”

They were interrupted by a call. The sheriff picked up the phone and identified himself. He listened for a long minute, wrote something down, said, “Okay,” and then hung up.

“That was the ops center,” he announced. “Apparently nine-one-one got a call advising me to check my E-mail. Said if we liked the fry-baby videos, we’d love this one.”

Cam felt a chill as the sheriff went over to his computer, opened his E-mail, looked at it for a moment, and then initiated a download. Cam came around behind him to watch. It was a video, and the sequence was the same as before: a black screen, followed by the chair materializing out of the darkness.

“Oh shit,” Cam said softly.

The figure in the chair wore a hood, as before. The humming sound came rumbling over the computer’s speakers, making one of them buzz. Then came the electronically distorted voice.

“All rise,” it began, repeating the mocking introduction to a court session. The humming got louder, then diminished slightly. “Tell the lieutenant he has something of ours, and we want it back.”

“What the hell?” Bobby Lee said. “Is he talking about you?”

Sure sounded like it, Cam thought. And the voice was saying “We” now, instead of “I,” he noticed.

“The lieutenant has a face that belongs to us. He didn’t earn it. We want it back. We’ll trade. This face for our face.”

With that, a robed and gloved hand descended over the back of the chair and lifted the hood from the face of a clearly terrified Mary Ellen Goode.

Cam felt his gut tighten. This was definitely not supposed to have happened. “This face for our face. And Richter’s the designated mule. We’ll tell him where and when. Play ball, or she fries and dies.”

The screen faded out to black and both of them stood there in shock.

Cam somberly explained to Bobby Lee what the term face meant to the cat dancers. And then he remembered something: He had brought back Kenny’s camera. He had no idea if the film was still good after repeated dunkings, but the camera was physically intact and it was upstairs in his office. He told Bobby Lee.

The sheriff stared at him. He cleared his throat carefully, as if trying to get his voice back, and sent Cam to retrieve the camera so their forensics people could try to salvage any pictures. Cam did that, gave the camera to a tech, and went back to the sheriff’s office.

Bobby Lee called McLain’s office. He put it on the speakerphone. Special Agent McLain was not available.

“Make him goddamn available,” Bobby Lee demanded, to Cam’s surprise. “That’s not a request. And now would be really nice.”

They went on hold for five minutes, during which time Cam called Jay-Kay. No answer. Then McLain finally came on the line. Bobby Lee told him what had happened. McLain swore and said he’d dispatch some people to Jay-Kay’s building.

“You know what this is really about, don’t you?” the sheriff asked.

“They want Lieutenant Richter, not the pictures,” McLain said.

“Got that shit right. And we’re not going to play that game.”

Cam, thinking of Mary Ellen’s white face, started to say something, but Bobby Lee waved him off.

“I think I need to bring a team to Triboro,” McLain said.

“We don’t deal with hostage takers here in Manceford County, Special Agent,” Bobby Lee said. “We talk to them-once-let them know how things stand, and if they don’t play ball, we kill them. All of them.”

“We need to come up there, Sheriff,” McLain said again.

“I think you need to find your consultant. These bastards have the ranger, but where’s your wizard?”

“On it,” McLain said. “But I still think we need to come up there.”

“Come quick, then,” Bobby Lee said. Then he hung up and called the operations people back and told them to round up a SWAT team. Cam decided this would be a good time to go out into the parking lot and get some fresh air. As he was standing out there, the lab tech came across the parking lot from the Walker Forensics Building with an envelope. He saw Cam and veered over to give the envelope to him.

“The pictures survived,” he said. “Those disposables are water-resistant, to start with. That thing was shrink-wrapped, and the film cartridge was sealed against light.” He looked around hesitantly. “Had to be a brave scooter taking those pix,” he added.

“You have no idea,” Cam told him.

“Is this what happened to Sergeant Cox?”

“No comment,” Cam replied, although he was nodding.

“Damn,” the tech said with a shudder.

Cam thanked him and opened the envelope. He was surprised that there were about two dozen eight-by-ten pictures in the stack.

Some of them were panoramic scenes in the Smokies, then some close-ups of paw prints in sand and river mud, more shots looking up into rocky ravines, and several of the rock face in the Chop, showing the cave entrance. Then the dramatic ones: the cat coming out onto the ledge, bathed in the flash, already gathering itself as Kenny swung in; a coveted face shot, which had to have been taken when Kenny was no more than eight feet away; a second shot, this one very blurred, as Kenny swung back out; and then one where the cat filled the entire frame as it made the leap out toward Kenny. After those came the ones showing Cam’s efforts to blind the cat, which were mostly out of focus, except for one beauty where the furious animal was in perfect focus. He could just see part of a shepherd in the background. There were some badly overexposed panels, and then a final picture of a campfire scene.

Cam studied this one carefully. The light wasn’t very good, and the people around the campfire were all wearing balaclavas over their faces, except for one individual: White Eye Mitchell.

The cat dancers?

He looked hard at the eyes, trying to recognize any identifiable features. He thought one might be Kenny, but then he remembered that Kenny had probably taken the picture. Still, those eyes were familiar. They were all dressed in coldweather field gear, so he couldn’t tell much about sizes and shapes. He studied the bulky coats and hats, looking for anything familiar, such as standard-issue police gear or an insignia. In addition to White Eye, there were four people around the fire. The picture taker would make five, so two had been missing from the party. He couldn’t tell when the pictures had been taken.

He hurried back inside the building, where he showed the pictures to the sheriff.

“The Bureau will be desperate to contain this,” the sheriff said. “At least until they catch their bastards. Which probably explains why McLain wants us to do nothing until they get up here.”

“I need to go check my messages,” Cam said, “see if they’ve started the game.”

“You do understand what I was saying earlier, don’t you?” the sheriff asked. “They don’t want the pictures. They want you. They take you out, there’s no one else who can attest to the fact that either cell ever existed. And if they succeed in doing that, your ranger friend becomes entirely expendable.”