J. Black - The Survivors Club

“So that’s it.”

He folded his arms and rocked on his heels. “Yup.”

“No mountain lion sightings?”

“No legitimate ones. People around here just say stuff. Anything brown they might call a mountain lion. But no confirmed sighting in this part of the mountains.”

“But they’re shy. You wouldn’t see them.”

“No, you wouldn’t. A mountain lion’s range is about a hundred miles. So there would probably only be one.”

Tess had read the report. She also had read up on mountain lions. They did not stalk people, unless that person was a threat to whatever cache of food they had, or if the victim came too close and threatened a female’s cubs. “And no cat tracks.”

“Yeah, but you have to remember—”

“That there was a rainstorm between the time he went missing and was found. That was over the three-day weekend?”

“Can’t remember which day. The vehicle wasn’t ticketed until Tuesday at the earliest, and towed later.”

“So no one was looking for him. They assumed he was out there somewhere camping?”

“Yeah.” He scratched his neck. “But bottom line, he was mauled by a mountain lion. The claw marks, the teeth marks, the measurement of the jaw. That’s all in the report. It bit into his neck and face, and ate a little of his heart. A chunk was taken out of his lung. Then it buried him under all this stuff for later.”

On the way back, a dirty Dodge Ram parked outside General Mullet’s place.

A man came out onto the front porch and stared at them.

“Here goes nothing,” Zudowsky said, turning in.

They got out.

“Hey, you here about the trespassers?” the man yelled.

On the way in, Tess had noticed the property was plastered with NO TRESPASSING signs.

Barry Zudowsky yelled. “We wanted to ask you about the guy who died up by the waterfall.”

“That’s old news.” Dave Mullet remained on the porch. He had a massive white handlebar mustache like a Civil War general, if a Civil War general wore dungarees and a biker T-shirt. He obviously used the weight bench and barbells on the porch, because his arms looked like balloon animals.

Even from where Tess stood, she could smell his cologne. It wasn’t the good stuff.

“What I want to know is why you keep opening that gate! This is private property.”

Zudowsky kept his hands on his belt, close to his weapon, but looked casual enough. “Now, Dave, you know that’s not true. This is Forest land.”

“You tell people to stay off my land. I have grandkids here. People are racing up and down that road at night. Maybe that’s what happened to that bike guy.”

“We lock the gate at night farther up.”

“Yeah, but what about down here?”

They stayed where they were, in the threadbare yard, and he stayed on the porch.

“This is Detective Tess McCrae from Arizona Sheriff’s,” Zudowsky said. “She’d like to ask you a couple of questions about what you remember.”

“Go ahead, don’t mean I’ll answer, though.”

Lots of yelling. No one moving.

So Tess yelled too. She asked him if he knew of any mountain lion around here, or had heard of one.

“No mountain lions around here. That’s bullshit. I’d bet my bottom dollar on it.”

Then he paused. “Except for the one that’s up at the animal sanctuary.”

“Animal sanctuary?” Tess said, as they drove out of the yard. Dave Mullet had yelled, but he’d turned out to be helpful, and they had returned to the car with all body parts intact. “He gave directions, but do you know exactly where?”

“Near Black Star Canyon. On one of those back roads. I don’t know that area.”

“I’ll find it,” Tess said.

It was going on noon when she drove into the old mining town of Sylvan. She stopped at the first coffee shop she came to. As she waited for her lunch, she called the expert on mountain lions, June Hackler.

Hackler was in and happy to talk to her. Tess sketched out the story she had so far.

“There could be a mountain lion in Asteroid Canyon,” Hackler said. “As part of its range, it has running water, woody areas, and plenty of game. But it’s highly unlikely it would attack an adult human being. The only reason would be to protect its food source.”

She explained that after eating, a mountain lion buried the rest of its prey and would come back to it later.

“So you think it’s unlikely.”

“Very unlikely.”

“Peter Farley was partially eaten—most of his heart, some of his lung, and bone marrow. And it was a mountain lion.”

There was a pause. Hackler said at last, “That is unusual. The animal would have to be starving, and there’s plenty of prey in that canyon.”

Tess paid her check and walked out into the sunshine. A beautiful Southern California day. She drove up canyon looking for the motel.

A low hum seemed to start up in her stomach when she saw the sign up ahead on the curve, tucked into the hillside.

The low hum spread up through her chest and into her ears.

The Starbrite Motel. She’d chosen it specifically, after googling motels in Sylvan. It had its own website, had been described as a “hideaway off the beaten path.”

The Starbrite Motel had been built in the early sixties. The rooms levered out into the wedge-shaped parking lot like a fan. Glass and frame and old wood.

Tess loved old movies. Especially the old noir movies, like The Postman Always Rings Twice and Double Indemnity . She had them on DVD.

There was something sexy about them. Not just sexy, but forbidden. The people in those stories set one foot on the road, the wrong road, and things went to hell from there.

Tess went back and forth about what she was doing.

She knew she was skating at the edge. She knew she was flouting an unwritten rule.

The motel was anchored by a coffee shop. The coffee shop wall was faced with rocks, a mosaic of colored rocks taken from the mines.

Narrow cursive spelled out STARBRITE COFFEE SHOP in turquoise.

Tess parked and got out.

The shade was cool but the sun was warm, and the enormous cottonwood tree split the difference. The sky was an aching blue. It ached and she ached. She could feel it building.

One foot on the road .

Tess had always prided herself on being a straight shooter. In Albuquerque, her nickname was “By the Book McCrae.”

A breeze funneled through. The bright green cottonwood leaves shifted, catching the sun and shining silver.

She felt like one of those women in the old movies. Where were the scarf and the dark glasses? For a moment she felt playful, thought about signing in under a fake name.

But this was the age of credit cards, and she had no cash on her.

The man who accepted her credit card didn’t look at her. Didn’t smile. Hardly said a word.

Her room was cool despite the floor-to-ceiling expanse of window.

She set her suitcase on the floor. Felt exhilaration but also guilt, mixed equally.

She’d paid for the room herself.

Bonny had given her a voucher. What would she do now? Give it back to him? Already she was screwing up.

She was no femme fatale. If she’d had a scarf and dark glasses, she would have had to turn them in on the spot.

Tess didn’t think Bonny suspected. He was a straightforward man and he expected his people to be straightforward.

But Tess knew what she was doing was unprofessional. It might even get her in hot water, if it was found out. Ethically: Did she really need to stay here overnight? Could she have concluded her business in one day? If she’d put her case first?