Kent’s face now had a blue tinge she’d seen in her nightmares, but as the rescue workers knelt down beside him he opened his eyes. Sam took comfort in knowing that Kent was a fighter.
Thompson stood by Sam’s side, shifting anxiously from foot to foot. He mopped his forehead with a handkerchief, staring doubtfully at the wounded cougar. “We should probably just shoot him.” He glanced toward Perez, who already had a hand on his pistol.
“No way,” Sam warned.
Thompson’s head swiveled back, his expression showing surprise at her tone.
“Kent has darts. I’m a wildlife biologist, too, remember? I know how to use them.” Sam unzipped the lower compartment on Kent’s pack, found the tranquilizer pistol, darts, and a vial of clear liquid.
“I’m estimating the cat at about a hundred and thirty pounds,” Sam said, praying she remembered the right proportions for the tranquilizer.
“Looks about right,” Thompson agreed.
After measuring the dose and loading the dart syringe into the pistol, she walked to within twenty feet of the cougar. The cat sat up, its whole body shaking now. It growled. She raised the pistol. The cougar spat, its muscles rippling with tension. Its ears were folded back against its sleek head, its amber eyes on fire. How could anyone aim a bullet at such an incredible creature for sport? Not for self-defense, not to save livestock, but just to put out the light in those eyes.
She aimed at the cougar’s hindquarters where the needle could lodge in thick muscle, and squeezed the trigger. The gun fired with a loud pop. The cat lunged to its feet with an outraged snarl.
Startled, she tripped over her own feet, came down hard on her backside and had to scramble backward like a crab. The cat’s teeth snapped together a few inches shy of her calf. “Shit!”
Five pairs of male eyes were watching her. She pushed herself to her feet, thankful that she hadn’t wet her pants. “Well,” she said, “I guess it’s a good sign that he can stand up.”
“You didn’t get him.” Thompson pointed to the ground behind the cat.
He was right. The dart was embedded in the base of the tree. Even worse, she’d dropped the gun when she fell. The pistol now lay three feet from the cougar’s new position.
“We’re ready,” the fire department medic shouted. “We’ve got to get going—this guy’s lost a lot of blood.”
“We’re out of time,” Thompson growled. “Agent Perez, can I borrow your pistol?”
“I’ll do it.” Perez reached for his gun.
The fire department team picked up the stretcher. “Put me down,” Kent wheezed angrily. “I’m not going without the cat!”
Sam studied the cougar. The animal tried to touch his injured leg to the ground, wobbled for a moment, then sat down. His tongue slid in and out of his mouth as he panted. The effort of lunging at her had cost him severely.
“He’s coming, Kent.” She lowered herself to her hands and knees and crawled toward the pistol.
“Don’t—” Thompson hissed.
She sprawled full length on the rocks, stretched her hand out as far as she could toward the pistol. The cougar snarled and raised a paw. The cat reached out at the same time she did but missed her arm by inches. Her fingers curled around the handle. She rolled back over the rocks, the pistol clutched in her fist.
Her hands were shaking so hard that she had difficulty loading the second dart. Thompson shook his head and reached for the gun.
Sam grabbed the tranquilizer pistol away. “No, I’m going to do it right this time.” She clutched the weapon in both hands and strode toward the cat.
“She’s a little hardheaded,” Perez grumbled.
The superintendent nodded. “I know that.”
The cougar stood, wobbling on its feet. Sam stopped her advance ten feet away and braced herself, her legs spread, clutching the pistol with both hands. One more chance. She aimed at the middle of its right rear haunch and fired. The cat snarled and lunged, stretching out a muscular paw with razor-sharp claws extended. She jumped back.
Perez ran to steady her as she staggered backward. “Did he get you?”
She pulled aside the ripped flap of her canvas trousers. Three red stripes gleamed against the skin, beads of blood beginning to ooze out. “Barely. Just a scratch.”
The cougar stumbled, fell back onto his haunches, then collapsed on its side. The dart extended from its flank, the cylinder moving in rhythm with the cat’s harsh breathing.
“We’re loaded,” the pilot shouted from above.
“Wait!” she screamed. “We’re coming.”
She gingerly prodded the cougar with her foot. “Is anybody going to help me carry this mountain lion or do I have to drag him up by his tail?”
Her belt and Thompson’s were used to secure the big cat’s feet. It took Sam, Perez, and Thompson to carry the animal up the slope, slipping and sliding with the limp burden in the loose gravel.
They slid the cat onto the helicopter floor beside the stretcher. It was painful to see both Kent and the cougar reduced to such dependent states, broken bodies to be carted around like so much baggage.
“Call Dr. Stephanie Black in St. George about this cougar.” In the past, the vet had donated her services to help injured wildlife: she’d been instrumental in healing Leto and her cubs.
The medic anxiously regarded the lolling head beside his foot. Saliva drooled out between the cat’s jaws. The animal’s eyes were open but glazed and unfocused.
She tugged on the medic’s sleeve. “Dr. Black. Can you remember that?”
The man nodded, his eyes still fixed on the tranquilized cougar. “Black,” he repeated. His eyes widened as a patch of skin on the cat’s back shuddered as if a fly had landed there. “Are you sure he’s completely out?”
“He’s paralyzed but not unconscious. He’ll start coming out of it in about forty minutes.”
The medic shot a glance toward the pilot. “Dave, let’s go.”
The pilot started the engine. Thompson clambered into the passenger seat, puffing.
“Damn!” Perez interjected. “Wait!” He trotted down the hill toward the canyon, yelling, “FBI business!” back over his shoulder.
The pilot’s hands clenched on the controls. “No more than two minutes,” he warned.
The medic inserted an IV into Kent’s arm. He coughed wetly, but his eyes were open. He clenched his free hand into a fist with his thumb-pointed upward. “I’m okay,” he rasped.
“No talking,” ordered the medic. “And no more moving.”
Sam returned the thumbs-up sign. “Hang in there, Kent.”
Perez galloped up, jerked open the passenger door, and thrust the USGS map and a page of notes into Thompson’s lap. “Get this to Agent Boudreaux ASAP and tell her to get a Crime Scene team to this location on the double.”
“Crime scene team?” Confusion warred with annoyance in the superintendent’s expression.
A flicker of anger crossed Perez’s face. “Just get the message to Boudreaux. And see what you can dig up on Coyote Charlie.”
“Coyote Charlie? That nut? What for?”
The pilot interrupted. “We’ve got to go. Now!”
Sam tapped Perez on the shoulder, gestured toward the open door. “Room for one more. You need to handle this yourself.”
“You get in first,” he told her.
“Not with the cat,” the pilot shouted over the whir of the prop. “Only one. If either of you is coming, get in! This bird is leaving now.”
Perez looked at her. “I don’t want to leave you up here alone,” he said loudly.
She studied his face. “Why not?”
They stared at each other for a second. Then she pulled on Perez’s sleeve and when he leaned close, she said into his ear, “I’m headed for the ruins.”
Perez nodded, then swung through the open door and slid into the jump seat by the medic’s side, his boots straddling the inert mountain lion on the floor.
“Catch the hunters th
at shot Kent,” she yelled. The medic leaned forward and slid the door closed.
Just before it latched, Perez shouted, “Don’t go near that skeleton. And I damn well better not see anything about it on the Internet!”
The helicopter rose from the ground. She ducked her head to protect her eyes. Swirling sand bit into her bare neck and arms.
16
AT four o’clock, Thompson dropped Perez at the Las Rojas Police Station. Nicole met him at the door.
She eyed his bloodstained shirt and dirt-streaked khaki trousers. “You’re in violation of dress code.”
“So report me.”
Nicole’s turquoise silk blouse and cream-colored slacks were, as usual, immaculate. Her chestnut hair was clipped at the back of her neck with a tortoiseshell barrette. She folded her arms. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
He gestured at the rust-colored streaks on his ruined shirt and pants. “None of the red stuff belongs to me.”
“I brought you some clean clothes. They’re inside.”
“You broke into my hotel room?”
She smiled. “The maid was happy to open the door. By the way, you’re an incredible slob, Perez. Do you always leave your underwear on the closet floor?”
“Only when I know you’ll be visiting,” he said. “I suppose you hang yours up.”
“How’s the ranger?”
“Don’t know yet. They took him to surgery right after I talked to you.”
“The cougar?”
Perez snorted. “Oh, he was pretty feisty even before we landed. I sat on him the last ten minutes of the flight.”
Her face lit up. “That must have been interesting.”
“Fascinating. I kept envisioning those two-inch fangs sinking into my gluteus maximus. Fortunately, the vet was there when we touched down.”
“What’s with Crime Scene?” she asked.
“On their way from Salt Lake, according to Martino. He was really pissed that they’d just come back from here.”
She nodded, familiar with the normal grumpy attitude of the Crime Scene team leader. “They finished doing the kids’ truck yesterday around two. Flew back last night.”
Perez glanced at his watch. “A park ranger is standing by to escort them as soon as they arrive. If there are no hitches, they should be in position by four. That’ll give them almost three hours of daylight—it should be enough to do at least a preliminary check of the immediate dump site.” He turned toward her. “So it’s obvious that I’ve been doing my part. How’s the cushy end of the investigation going down here?”
Nicole stared him in the eye. “Don’t give me that crap. I can tell you’ve enjoyed your little escapade in the wilderness. And don’t think that I didn’t notice the blond reporter pixie you were chasing. I don’t think she’s your type.” She walked toward the station entrance.
He followed. “I have a type?”
The Las Rojas Police Station was quiet, devoid of the hectic bustle and coded conversations that he associated with big-city police stations. Nicole’s heels echoed on the scuffed tiles as they crossed the lobby to the tiny interview room. “I’m surprised the press isn’t here,” she said.
“Give ’em time. When we left the hospital, they were doing live reports in front of the helicopter. They kept asking Thompson if the cougar was the one that killed Zack.”
“You didn’t tell them about the skeleton?” Reaching into her leather briefcase, she pulled out a stack of clothing.
“It’ll get around soon enough.” He thumbed through the folded articles. “Even boxers—I’m impressed, partner.”
“I couldn’t stand the thought of you wearing none.” She faked a shudder.
He fingered the tie on the top of the stack. “I usually wear this tie with my blue shirt.”
“It goes better with the gray.”
“No shoes? Hoover would be shocked at an agent wearing hiking boots during an interview.”
Nicole placed a hand on the interview table and leaned close, her face inches away from Perez’s. “They wouldn’t fit in my briefcase,” she said in a low voice. “Hoover’s dead. Go get changed before I shoot you.”
He drew back. “You haven’t had a smoke today, have you, Boudreaux?”
She gazed at him coolly. “I’m quitting.”
“Again?”
She pointed to the door. “Go.”
Perez decided that if Nicole were an animal, she’d be a Siamese cat. Sleek, sophisticated, smart, but more than willing to use her claws when necessary. He tried two doors before he found the changing room used by the local officers. He rolled up his stained clothing and stuffed it into a trash can. It looked like evidence from a homicide.
He checked himself in the mirror. Nicole was right: the tie did look better with the gray shirt. Wetting a paper towel, he scrubbed a smear of dried blood from his cheek, ran his fingers through his hair. He badly needed a shave, but that would have to wait.
He found Nicole pacing the hallway outside of the interview room. “The sheriff’s still out on lunch break. He should be back any time now, and we can interview the boys then. They haven’t deviated an inch from the story they were telling night before last.”
“Did we really arrest them the night before last?” It seemed like he’d been galloping around up on the plateau for at least a week.
Nicole gave him a curious look. “They’re still claiming a shaggy-haired stranger hired them to pick up the money.”
The heavy glass door at the front of the station opened and a party of three walked in. The two women argued loudly while the girl with them sobbed into her hands. One woman wore curlers; a canvas handbag dangled from one hand. The deputy at the desk straightened when he saw the shotgun clutched in her other hand.
“I love small towns,” Nicole said, her tone implying exactly the opposite.
The unarmed woman’s green blouse was blotched with damp red streaks. She stomped across the lobby to the desk and threw down a leather dog collar in front of the deputy. “That woman,” she intoned, transforming the word into an epithet, “shot my dog.”
The curlered matron waved the shotgun in the air. “I thought a mountain lion was hiding in the bushes, sneaking up on my little girl.” She gestured at the crying girl. “See how upset she is?”
“She’s freaked out because her mother shot an innocent Labrador retriever right in front of her eyes!”
The girl turned her face into her mother’s ample bosom and sobbed more loudly.
Two news vans screeched to a stop outside the station door. A pair of female reporters dressed in white blouses and dark blazers raced for the door handle. The deputy looked hopefully down the hallway at the two FBI agents.
Nicole closed the door to the lobby, abandoning the deputy to his fate. Perez helped himself to a drink from the fountain. The chilled liquid tasted deliciously fresh in comparison to the tepid water he’d consumed from plastic bottles for the last twenty-four hours. His knees were going to ache for days—not to mention his back. How did Summer Westin pack her heavy equipment around up there day in and day out?
She blended so naturally into the surroundings of rock and cactus and pines, clearly at home with the cougars and deer and eagles. Her petite size and silver-blond hair made her appear delicate, but that woman was made of cast iron. A few cougar scratches probably wouldn’t even slow her down.
Five hours ago he’d been hunched in a cave, staring at a skull; two and a half hours ago he’d been trying to staunch the flow of blood from Ranger Bergstrom’s gunshot wound. He’d galloped for miles over rocks and down sheer cliffs, carried an unbelievably heavy tranquilized cougar not once but twice, and zipped from desert backcountry to air-conditioned town in a fire department helicopter. A strange day. And it wasn’t even five o’clock.
He wiped a drip from his lower lip. “Anything from the APBs or news coverage?”
She shrugged. “Hundreds of little blond boys being abducted all over the place; the cops’ll never forgi
ve us for this one. They’ll be checking reports for weeks.”
“Oh crap.” It gave him a headache just to think about the logistics. He hoped the locals weren’t complaining to the Special Agent in Charge of their FBI office. “Can we get some support from Salt Lake?”
“You know the SAC. Without some real proof to the contrary, he’s assuming that the kid just wandered off or was eaten by a cougar. It’s better for the budget. But your skeleton will shake a few dollars loose. Serial murderers always get their attention.”
“How about this Wildlife Services business? It doesn’t make a lot of sense to proceed with a cougar hunt right now.” Summer would be so happy if he could pull off canceling the hunt.
“When did politics ever make sense?” Nicole said. “Now the secretaries of agriculture and interior have gotten involved. They’re vowing to make our national parks safe again.” She rolled her eyes. “The SAC’s not going to touch it unless we have proof that Zack Fischer’s still alive. It doesn’t matter how many old skeletons we find.”
A heavy sigh escaped his lips. “Anything more on those three felons you called me about this morning?”
“Yeah.” She let go of the earring she’d been fiddling with. “Come on.” She pushed open the door to the interview room. He followed her inside.
From her briefcase, she pulled a plastic bag containing a tiny red sneaker, swung it back and forth in the air. “Forensics couldn’t get a decent print. But I told you that, didn’t I?” She tossed it back into her case and extracted a notepad, then plopped down in one of the wooden chairs that ringed the table. “So far there’s nothing of interest on the boys’ lowrider, either, nothing that could have come from Zack or from his parents.”
Perez pulled out the chair across from her. He leaned it back on two legs. He folded his hands across his chest and inspected the yellowed acoustic tiles on the ceiling. The room smelled of stale cigarette smoke.
Nicole read from her notes. “The murderer’s back home in Las Vegas, according to Vegas PD. Nothing suspicious when they cruised his house today. His wife accused them of harassment, so they backed off. But they’ll follow up if we want.”
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