Jeff Rovin - Fatalis

Save for Hannah, the Wall-who was finishing up in the photo lab-and the night editor, Charlie Wong, the newspaper office was empty.

Hannah had written up the Monte Arido attack and collected the information Grand had requested. She called the cell phone. She hoped Grand had some ideas: What she had to tell him did not leave her optimistic.

Grand answered. The connection was weak and Hannah had to cover one ear to hear.

"Hello, Jim?"

"Hannah-I was just about to call. There's been another encounter, up on Coldwater Canyon in the Hollywood Hills."

"What happened?"

"The cats attacked an outdoor party," he said. "I don't know much more than that."

"Coldwater," she said. "That's right on your southeast beeline."

"I know. Have you got anything?"

"At least fourteen possible exits all around the Miracle Mile," she said. She looked at the geological charts. "But the route from Coldwater shouldn't be as difficult to trace. I can't read these things too well-but it looks like five or six trenches and faults lead in that direction."

"I'll look around the site and see what I can find in the way of sinkholes or tunnels," Grand said. "Thanks, Hannah. Would you be able to gather up the maps and meet me at the Page Museum?"

"The one right at the tar pits?"

"Yes."

"I can be there in about ninety minutes," Hannah said.

"Great See you there."

Hannah hung up. She immediately called her Los Angeles stringer to send him up to Coldwater; he said he'd just gotten a call from one of his sources at the fire department and was on his way. Hannah then rushed to the small photo lab where the Wall was surrounded by hi-tech processing gear and computer monitors for the digital work. He was examining his color prints.

"All this bloodshed. These are heartbreaking," he said.

Hannah glanced at them. "Completely."

The Wall looked at her. "Is that the best you can do?"

"What do you mean?"

"'Completely.' This is tragic."

"I know, Wall," she said. "But it's like my dad said about war. Fight now, mourn later. Give the best shots to Charlie and then get your stuff."

"What's happening?"

"We're going to meet Jim at the George Page Museum in Los Angeles," Hannah said.

The photographer shook his head. "Can't you leave me here?"

"Leave you? Hell, no. Wall. You're my photographer, remember?"

"For The Coastal Freeway ," he said, "Covering greater Santa Barbara County."

"Which is where this story started, which makes it ours. Now let's go."

He didn't move.

"Come on Walter. I don't have time for this."

"Time," he said. "You know what happens to reporters who don't take the time to sleep, eat, and reflect on life a little?"

"They get scoops," she replied impatiently.

"No," the Wall said. "They lose perspective. They get desensitized."

"Wall, what the hell are you talking about? What brought this on? The photos?"

"Partly. I've been standing here looking at these photos and thinking that we may be part of the problem. Gearhart wants to save human lives. Grand wants to save prehistoric monsters. Gearhart doesn't want people to know what's going on, you want people to know everything." The photographer shook his head. "We're fighting each other over creatures that are fighting each other. Somewhere, sometime, someone has to say, 'No more fighting.'"

"Wall, we're fighting to keep people informed, to try and improve the quality of human life."

"Not to prove something? Maybe to a father or to ourselves?"

"Hey, I want respect," Hannah said. "But that's not the reason I'm doing this and you know it."

"No, to do good."

"That's right!"

"But you're never the one who gets seriously knocked around," the Wall said. "Remember our last year at Brown when we did the series about mobsters and jocks making book on college sports?"

"Of course I remember. We were nominated for the Anna Prize."

"You were nominated for the prize. When we showed up at one of the bars where they did their betting, I was the one who got hit with a blackjack. A year ago when we did that Lone Rangering about Caltrans and the right-of-way land they bought cheap up here then sold at a big-bucks auction, who got roughed up trying to get into the public meetings? The guy without the lucky dog tags hanging from his neck."

"You survived," she said, "and I was able to be there when upper management voted themselves big pay increases using that money. A week after our article appeared they got voted out. We won."

"That's just my point," the Wall said. "We never really win. We just keep fighting, and they just keep fighting- whoever 'they' are on that particular day-and we all just keep getting more and more worn down." He gestured toward the desktop. "I look at pictures like these and you know what I see? Not death and blood. I see a great page one. We'll sell a lot of copies, outsell the LA Times . Another battle won, until the next day and the next day and the day after that."

"Wall," Hannah said patiently, "you're tired. You're stressed. But I need you to do this for me. When it's over we can talk about life, your future, a new studio, anything you want."

He looked at her. "You always say that. And it's never over."

"Sure it is," she said. "My great-grandmother once said to me, 'Hannah-squeeze every dime out of your life because it's over way too soon.' I don't say you're completely wrong, Wall. Maybe we do need to step back from what we're doing and how we're doing it But Jim needs the information I have and I want to see this one through."

The Wall looked at her. "You like Jim."

"Yeah." She flushed.

"I do too, even though he's a little Twilight Zoney ."

"He's a good man, Wall."

The Wall sighed. "I guess." He turned to the coat rack where his cameras were hanging. "I'll do this one more time, Hannah. Once. And then we have a heart-to-heart."

"You've got a deal," she said.

The Wall removed his cameras, slung them over his shoulder, and followed Hannah through the dark, quiet office into the dark, quiet night.

He savored it while he could.

The Chinook landed at Fire Station 108 on the top of Coldwater Canyon, then immediately took off to help with the search. Meanwhile, Grand and Gearhart were driven by a Los Angeles Police Department patrol car down the road toward Sunset Boulevard and the site of the massacre. The driver maneuvered through a crowd of TV and print reporters who were clustered at the edge of the driveway behind police guards and yellow crime-scene tape. It did not escape Grand, the irony of being taken inside the one time he really wanted to be outside, searching for evidence of where the cats had gone.

Like the Juncal campsite, the hedged-in estate was spotted with large patches of blood-drenched grass. All the spots were marked by stakes with red flags. The bodies had obviously drained of blood where they fell; holes from nine-inch teeth would have caused that to happen very quickly. That was obviously the reason there was never a trail of blood to follow. Though it was a savage panorama, the absence of bodies made it possible to concentrate on the predators and not the prey. Grand wondered if the cats always brought kills back to their caves. He couldn't imagine that they were challenged by other predators. Perhaps they brought the food back to share with older cats or cats that had unsuccessful hunts in the colder times. If so, it suggested a level of socialization far greater than modern cats possessed. He had to study these creatures at greater length.

There were also the remains of roasts in the open fire pits, though the food was untouched. That didn't surprise him. Most animals in the wild did not eat cooked meat.