Jeff Rovin - Fatalis

"A traffic copter friend of mine said he thought he spotted it somewhere up near the intersection of Ballinger Canyon and Route 33."

"Thanks," Grand said.

"Whoa, wait! When are you going?"

"Now," he said.

"Can you swing by?"

Grand didn't want to expose her to further danger. But the idea of doing this without her seemed strange. "Sure," he said.

Hannah and the Wall both joined Grand in his SUV. They kept the windows down and the air conditioning off so they could hear the comings and goings of trucks, choppers, or other vehicles, possibly get a read on the direction they were headed. They heard nothing until they were about two miles up Route 33 when rifle fire began echoing through the mountains. Though sportsmen often took target practice in the open fields this was different: It wasn't sporadic but a continuous roar, like a fireworks finale.

Grand stopped the SUV suddenly, got out, and listened. A moment later he jumped back in the SUV.

"Could you tell where it was coming from?" Hannah asked.

"The northwest," Grand said.

"But I thought-"

"I know," he said, "that they were headed to the southeast. But Jameson Lake is to the west-it's possible they went that way for some reason."

Grand turned west on Barbara Canyon Road, followed the Cuyama River for several miles, then swung north. He stayed off the main and secondary roads, pushing the SUV through the rocky terrain of the Santa Ynez foothills. Grand and his passengers were silent the entire time. The scientist did not want to believe that the sheriff had found the cats already. Perhaps his officers found them in a cave and had been firing to pin them there-

When he heard the sound of a chopper, Grand followed it until the vehicle could go no farther. He stopped between two and three thousand feet up Monte Arido.

"Come on," he said, getting out of the car.

"Where to?" Hannah said.

Grand pointed up the mountain. "A chopper is hovering somewhere up there. They may have spotted the cats and are staying with them."

"Waiting for the cavalry to arrive," Hannah said.

"Maybe," Grand said.

Grand looked for the most accessible slope, the one with the easiest incline, and started up. He half walked, half ran so he could reach a point that was clear of the lower peaks and ridges so he could see the top of the mountain. The section they were climbing would give them both a view and access to the top.

Grand climbed for nearly forty-five minutes before reaching the top of the slope. The first hint of twilight was touching the sky. Perspiring and breathless, he had a clear view of the rest of the mountain. He looked ahead. What he saw was not promising.

A long-bodied helicopter was hovering approximately one hundred feet above a wide, level ridge. What looked like a large canvas sling had been lowered from the side of the chopper, just behind the cockpit Grand could only see the ends of the sling; the rest of it was lying flat on the ground. There were at least a dozen people moving around the ridge.

Hannah and the Wall had fallen behind but Grand didn't wait for them. He scurried up, frantically clawing over rocks and grass toward the top. After climbing another thirty or forty feet he stopped again and looked up.

The sling had begun to rise. Now he could see what was in it It was one of the cats, its golden hide blossomed with red.

Grand fell to his knees. And for the first time since Rebecca died, he reached into his soul for a scream and tears.

By the time Hannah and the Wall reached Grand, the scientist was just getting back onto his feet Hannah didn't have to ask what had caused him to cry out. She saw for herself. The sight was vulgar and revolting. In addition to the one bloody cat in the sung, she saw others lying around the ridge. It was disturbing enough to be around death but it was more disturbing to be present for an extinction. Hannah wasn't a religious woman but the air felt chill and its whistle seemed mournful. She could swear she felt God frowning. Or Nature.

Something.

The Wall snapped several pictures. The small, quick click of the shutter made the deaths seem more real, more tragic. It made Hannah think of the Chumash artists who had put so much effort into rendering animal likenesses on the cave walls. They made the paints, maybe spent hours getting in touch with the animal spirits, then sketched what they felt. They put living images on the cold stone. The Wall's images were of death.

They climbed the mountain, though their movements were now a blur. The smell of sinkholes being paved on nearby Route 166 wafted over. All Hannah could think about was the loss of these last surviving members of a magnificent race. She could only begin to imagine what was going through Grand's heart and mind.

When the trio finally reached the site it was worse than Hannah had imagined. Army National guardsmen were milling about different sections of the ridge. There were four dead cats still on the ridge and four red-flag markers near them. That meant human bodies had been removed from those spots. She wondered, coldly, whether those deaths had been what drew Gearhart to the ridge or whether they were a result of the sheriff having attacked the cats.

Grand reached the ridge first and ran toward the nearest of the cats. One of the National guardsmen moved to intercept him; Grand knocked him aside. Two other soldiers rushed forward to grab him. Grand reached the nearest of the cats before the men got to him. The soldiers tried to pick him up by his arms but Grand shook them off and stood.

"Leave him!" Gearhart shouted.

The soldiers stepped back as the sheriff approached. Grand crouched beside the cat. Hannah and the Wall arrived as Gearhart did. The photographer immediately started snapping pictures in case they were chased away. But Gearhart didn't seem to mind. To the contrary. He was obviously pleased with himself and seemed almost to be inviting coverage of his grotesque triumph.

Gearhart stood on the other side of the dead cat. He spoke loudly to be heard over the chopper.

"This is a restricted area," the sheriff yelled, then looked at Hannah. "But I'll tell you what. If you want some good shots, some really choice pictures that are sure to sell papers, go to the base camp where we've evac'ed the bodies of the guardsmen and my deputy. You'll spot them easy enough. They're the ones that look like sharkfood."

Hannah watched as Grand touched the cat-its ear, then its muzzle, then its bloody shoulder. She'd once seen her father's groom touch a sick horse the same way, with tenderness and great sadness. Hannah wished there were something she could do for Grand.

"You didn't have to do this," Grand said.

"No?"

"You see what these animals are now-"

"Yeah. Killers."

"And what are you?" Hannah asked. "Why don't you ask the people in town?" Gearhart said. "Ask the families of Roche and Greene, if they'll talk to you. Ask the Rangers who work in the mountains. See if they agree with you."

Grand's hand moved along the lithe, muscular body. "It still didn't have to end this way. It wasn't necessary to kill them or lose any men."

Gearhart squatted and looked into Grand's eyes. "Is that your professional police opinion?"

Grand looked at the blood on his hand. "It's a fact."

"Is it? Sorry, but you were only batting.333 in your own field. There were more than two cats, you got that right. But you had the direction they were moving wrong and they came out in daylight." Gearhart reached across his body and slipped the hunting knife from his belt. "Deputy Bright was part of the unit up here. He had a wife and a young son who adored him." Gearhart wrapped his fingers around the cat's foot-long tail. Then he slid the knife underneath it and sawed across the base of the tail.