Cry of the Panther

by Jeff Gulvin

  ‘Och, don’t.’ Jean tried to laugh. ‘Who would I have to talk to? You’re bound to think like that right now, but you’ll get over it.’

  Imogen debated whether to tell Jean that she’d known Connla as a child in America. Not now, not on the phone. Another time, perhaps, she might tell her the whole story. She said, ‘The police found his car by Loch Loyne.’

  ‘Is that where the two of you went?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Jean paused. ‘Did you … you know?’

  ‘Yes, Jean. We did.’

  ‘Och, Imogen. I really am sorry. Look d’you want me to come round?’

  Imogen shook her head at the phone. ‘No, not now. I’m going to drink a bottle of wine and smoke a packet of cigarettes and then I’m going to my bed.’

  Connla was cold, darkness in his eyes. He wasn’t sure if he was dead. If he was, then this darkness wasn’t good. People saw light, didn’t they; light and tunnels. And they felt as if they didn’t want to go back to wherever it was they’d come from. This wasn’t light and it wasn’t warm or comforting, and he wasn’t at all sure he liked it. Then all at once he felt pain, a searing, blinding pain in his legs, and he wondered for a millisecond if he was in hell. Then he felt the chill night air and his vision cleared a little and he could see the brightness of the moon above him. Not dead; he was outside somewhere, which was why he was so cold. Then he remembered the fall. He was lying on a hill in Scotland and it was night. He was freezing and he couldn’t move his legs. Panic—a knot of it in his throat. He hissed breath through his teeth to quieten himself. Crevices and ravines. Devil’s Rigg. Lots of crevices and ravines. He slipped in and out of consciousness—strange dreams, images, voices from the past. He saw Ewan Munro’s smug face after completing yet another home run in Little League. He saw his own jealousy at the attention Ewan got from the coach, the other players, everyone.

  He must have woken up again, for the images cleared, and from somewhere far off he heard the shriek of an eagle. The light grew and the clouds that had gathered cleared, and the moon was pale now as a new morning threatened. For the first time he was conscious enough to take in his surroundings. He was lying in the ravine. He remembered slipping on the rock—a stupid mistake to make, not concentrating properly. Too eager to get up and get on and get something other than the lies he had created from this trip. He half lifted his head, painful but possible. Sharp pains shot through his chest and shoulders, but at least he could move his arms. He looked down at himself, his trunk, his legs. His trousers were torn and his legs bloodied; the left one was twisted out of shape and the right one wasn’t much better. Then he realized he was lying on a grass-topped bluff, no more than ten feet square, with a sheer drop all round him. It was like a stalk of rock lifting from the earth below.

  So what could he do? Lie there and hope? Wait for someone to come looking for him? Imogen. Imogen would come. She had been expecting him last night. She would have been worried when he didn’t show up. He could see her in his mind’s eye as clear as if she were looking down on him now. He closed his eyes and drew her in, holding her there in his mind, almost lifting his hands to her face which wasn’t there. He dreamed, and she was a little girl and he was sitting with the Custer county sheriff and she was watching him out of onyx eyes as big and oval as saucers. She could see into his heart, and somehow she knew, or thought she knew, just as she had with Ewan.

  He woke again to a new sound, grunting and heavy breath, and he closed his eyes and smiled. Mellencamp’s elegant features, ears pointed, muzzle soft yet strong, yellow eyes darting. ‘Hey, girl,’ he whispered, ‘you cubbed yet? You’re late, honey. Summer’s nearly over.’

  He opened his eyes and stared up at the black face of a panther looking down from the hillside above. For a second he started and thought he was dreaming, then he felt the freshness of the wind on his skin and the chilled rock under his back. She was real and she was no more than thirty feet above him. He could pick out her whiskers, the rosettes beneath the darkness of her fur. Even then he could tell she was female by the size and shape of her head. She yawned and he could almost catch her breath; large canine teeth and a long pink tongue. She rose to a sitting position, licked her lips hungrily, then looked for a way to get down.

  ‘You gonna eat me?’ Connla struggled, shoving one elbow into the rock under his back and forcing himself up; his head swam and the pain in his legs reached a blood-boiling throb. The panther stood up, looked at him again and hissed; her ears were right back now, her muzzle wrinkled above her teeth. Connla felt at his neck for his camera and his hand came up with one loose and empty strap. ‘Goddammit,’ he muttered. He lay back, breathing harshly, exhausted and cold again from the effort. He closed his eyes, fought for breath and looked up once more. The panther was no longer there.

  Twenty-Four

  IMOGEN MOOCHED ABOUT THE house, unable to shift the feelings of betrayal and humiliation and the horrible sudden emptiness this new loss had brought with it. Her entire life had been turned upside down and now there was nothing but confusion in her head. It was the betrayal she couldn’t come to terms with; the lies and deceit. Why do what he did? Why go to all that trouble unless he deliberately wanted to hurt her. None of it made any sense.

  She heard a vehicle hissing gravel in the driveway and she dashed to the window, hoping. No, it was only a blue Peugeot. Her heart sank and she watched as a man climbed out, glanced at the house, briefly at the loch, then distastefully at the chickens that clucked around his feet. He wore a dark suit and his tie was undone at the neck. He looked hot and slightly flustered and he picked his way a little gingerly to the kitchen door. She waited while he knocked. A detective this time, no doubt, come to tell her they had found Connla McAdam and were detaining him on a firearms charge. Smoothing back her hair, she opened the door.

  ‘Miss Munro?’

  ‘Yes.’ She almost invited him in, but something about the expression on his face dissuaded her.

  ‘My name’s Graham. I’m with the Scottish Daily Post.’

  She folded her arms across her chest. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I wanted to talk to you about this American the police are looking for. Connla McAdam. I understand you had a relationship with him.’

  ‘Go away.’ She went to close the door, but he grabbed the edge and held it.

  ‘I just want to ask you a few questions. Did you know he had an illegal pistol?’

  ‘Move your hand or I’ll close the door on it.’ It was then she saw the second man; he had been hidden from view by the sun reflecting off the car’s windscreen. Now he was out and the flash of a camera blinded her. She slammed the door and leaned on it.

  Graham knocked again. ‘Possession of a firearm is a serious offence, Miss Munro. Have you got any comment to make about it?’

  ‘Go away. Go away now or I’ll call the police.’

  ‘Why not give us your side of the story? The last thing you want is speculation. We’ll pay. All I have to do is pick up the phone to my editor.’

  ‘Why don’t you go and drown yourself in the loch.’ She yelled it at him through the closed door, then stumbled into the lounge. She slumped on the settee and burst into tears.

  She sat and cried for a long time. She couldn’t say exactly how long; she just let the tears fall and the sobs go, hoping the pain would recede with their passing. But it did not. It remained where it was, only worse in some ways. The betrayal was all at once matched with the loss of what she thought might have been. She got up, walked through to the studio, picked up her paints and stared blankly at the canvas. Minutes later she laid the brushes down again and took her coat from the back of the door.

  She started the Land-Rover and drove across the bridge. The two reporters were waiting in one of the passing places and photographed her as she went by. Damn Connla McAdam and his lies. They followed her as far as Lochalsh, and then she stopped and told them to leave her alone or she would call the police. They photographed her again, but pull
ed into the hotel car park as she headed up the hill to her horse. Thankfully, nobody bothered her there and she set about clearing the stable. She shovelled the muck into piles, then forked it into the barrow and wheeled it angrily, bumping down the track to the manure heap by the gate. Then she set about lifting all the straw and sawdust, while Keira watched from her favourite spot high up on the hill.

  Imogen wheeled the last load of bedding to the manure heap and then paused for breath. The fresh bedding was stored in half-hundred-weight heat-sealed plastic bags in the horsebox. She manhandled the first one out, balancing it on the barrow, and then wiped her eyes with the back of her leather glove. Then she saw Connla in her mind’s eye, pressed against a cliff, looking down. The image passed and she stared out towards Skye. She was cold; the kind of coldness she hadn’t felt in almost thirty years.

  She drove home, disturbed. There was no longer just the emptiness in her breast, but a finger of fear, chilled and damp and immovable. She closed the doors and switched on the television for the lunchtime news. She waded through the international bulletin, thinking she would have to wait for the local programme, and was shocked to find that Connla’s disappearance was national news. She watched, hunched on the edge of her seat, her hands clasped in front of her. The bulletin was dominated by the fact that the police wanted to speak to him urgently. They showed shots of the rented Land-Rover, which had been towed in, and then aerial pictures of the area where they had lain together under the sky, bringing back the tenderness of the moment to her again. The mountain rescue teams had been out and searched the area thoroughly, backed up by the RAF helicopter from Oban. But they had found nothing; no sign of him. The speculation was that he had somehow learned of the police’s desire to speak with him and had disappeared. Imogen sat and shook her head. No, he hasn’t, she thought. He hasn’t done that at all. But what could she do. They were still searching; they would find him. He had probably taken a fall. They would find him, then he could answer all their questions and go home to his precious mountain lions.

  But she had questions of her own: why had he lied to her like that? Why not just tell her who he was? Unless, of course, he thought he had something to hide. Did he? For thirty long years she had wondered.

  She felt used, abused by him. Her childhood had been betrayed, all that she had been. Everything that had been buried had been exhumed, dragged rudely into the present to be picked over and devoured. Her life was all over the newspapers. She imagined the gossip in McLaran’s bar and the hotel. She imagined the parents of the children she taught—the subject matter for discussion after the children went to bed. How would they explain to their offspring why their teacher was in the newspapers? She thought of the first day of term and shuddered. McKewan would be having a field day, Patterson would be thinking how he could use all this to his advantage, and MacGregor; MacGregor would just be disappointed.

  Connla heard the helicopter pass overhead; there was no change in its engine note. He knew it hadn’t seen him, and for the first time he wondered if he might die up there. His body would never be recovered. Eventually, it would roll off its perch to be chewed at by foxes and whatever else was passing, consumed in time by the worms. He tried to laugh it off, going over his own epitaph: ‘Here lies Connla McAdam, slightly famous photographer found in a Scottish ravine, his bones gnawed by the panther he was chasing.’ But still there was Imogen, precious, precious Imogen. She had known roughly where he was going. Why didn’t she come?

  The second night was bitterly cold and he could feel himself slipping into a fever. Infection in his leg, perhaps. Best-case scenario: get found but lose the leg. Oh, God. His throat was dry, nothing to drink. How long could a man last without water? He was a zoologist; he ought to know stuff like that. But right then he didn’t. Right then, he didn’t know anything except that he couldn’t move and his bones felt as though they had been fused to the rock. Sometime in the night he thought he heard the panther again, but it might have been Mellencamp in a dream.

  Tendrils of grey hinted at dawn, or was that just more blurred sight, more hallucinations, if that was what he was experiencing. He wondered how many people had died on Devil’s Rigg. Perhaps they had called it that because so many people got killed. Ravines and crevices; crevices and ravines. He tried to remember why he was up there in the first place, but couldn’t. Then it came to him: eagles. He remembered what an Indian from Pine Ridge had once told him: Where eagles fly only prayer can follow. He should have thought of that before he started climbing.

  It was fully light now and raining; he could feel it spattering the cotton of his field jacket. It wasn’t waterproof, or at least he didn’t think so. Lying flat out like this he would find out soon enough. He tried to decide if he was still cold, or whether the coldness had just numbed to nothing as he became part of the rock. How long had he been here? Why didn’t the helicopter come back? Why didn’t somebody come? And then he realized that he was wearing clothing suitable for wildlife photography, grey and green and nondescript. He even had muck on his face and the backs of his hands.

  Nobody would ever see him. Survival bag. Where was his orange survival bag? In his pack. Where was his pack? He strained himself up again, almost to a sitting position this time. Incredibly, the pain in his chest seemed to have eased; either that or he had just got used to it. He couldn’t see his pack. He felt for it. By rights he ought to be lying on it, but he wasn’t. The straps must’ve broken. It wasn’t on the slab of rock with him and he couldn’t bring himself to look over the edge. The effort wearied him and he lay back again, closed his eyes and felt rain on the broken skin of his face. For a moment he thought this might be a good time to die.

  Imogen phoned Jean. ‘Hello, it’s me,’ she said. ‘Do you know if the police have called off their search?’

  ‘I think so, yes. They think your man got wise to them and ran off.’

  ‘They’re wrong. Why would he leave his Land-Rover? So it had a flat tyre, so what? He could have changed the wheel. I think he’s still out there, Jean.’

  ‘The police didn’t find him. They’ve had helicopters up and everything. Surely if he was they would’ve found him by now. Anyway, you shouldn’t worry. Have you seen the newspapers this morning?’

  Imogen shuddered. ‘No. And I don’t want to. Don’t even tell me about it.’

  ‘OK.’ Jean hesitated. ‘Look, I’ve got to go. I’ve got all the menfolk wanting their breakfast. I’ll try to come over later.’

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘If I can, yes. I know you’re going to worry, but try not to. He’ll be fine; not that he deserves to be. Just lie low till all this blows over.’

  ‘D’you think it will?’

  ‘Of course. Everything blows over given enough time.’

  Imogen put down the phone. Jean’s inference was that it wasn’t her problem, but it was. Whether she liked it or not this was her problem and she had to do something about it. She thought again of what she had seen or felt up at the horse’s field. It had been thirty years but the sensation was only too familiar. The last time she had felt it she’d found her brother dead. Again she was on that path in the Sawtooth with the darkness of the trees pressing in on her. Again she was on that cliff, crawling on her belly, with her eyes shut fast till she felt the chilled river air on her face.

  Andy McKewan was at the bar when she went into McLaran’s that evening. His crew were with him, and some of the other fishermen from Kyle, and they all stopped talking as she entered. Ironic this, she thought. McKewan was the one who had given her name and address to the police, perhaps to the newspapers, and it was McKewan she needed now. She was glad to see him look suddenly sheepish. He had said things he knew he shouldn’t have and his neck flushed red, as if they’d now come back to haunt him.

  ‘Andy.’ He had turned his back to her and she saw his massive shoulders stiffen. He set down his pint, sighed and looked round. ‘Hello, Imogen.’

  ‘They’ve officially called off the search. I
heard it on the news just now.’ It was dark outside; if Connla was lost this was his third night of exposure.

  ‘So?’ McKewan jutted his chin at her.

  ‘So I think he’s still out there.’

  He squinted at her, lip twisted slightly. ‘So what? What d’you care after the way he treated you?’

  ‘That’s just it, Andy. I do care.’

  ‘Then you’re a fool, lassie. Nothing but a fool. There’s good men right here in this village.’

  ‘It’s not like that.’ She looked beyond him, lifting her palms and dropping them again. ‘It’s more complicated than that. Much more.’ How could she begin to tell him, tell any of them; they were already so prejudiced. ‘The police think he’s taken off, but I know he hasn’t.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I don’t know how. I just know. I’m going to look in the morning, Andy. And I want the local rescue team to come with me.’

  McKewan gawped at her for a moment and then his face drew up. He toyed with the unlit cigarette he had just rolled and glanced at his crew. The local rescue team meant him. For all his other faults he was a good mountain man and had brought many a wounded walker in from the hills. He looked at her again, one eyebrow raised, and then he sighed heavily. ‘Have you any idea where he is?’

  She nodded. ‘I think he’s on Devil’s Rigg.’

  Twenty-Five

  IMOGEN DROVE WITH MCKEWAN in his 4 x 4 Toyota pick-up with the winch attached at the front. He used it to haul his brother’s lobster boat up the beach. He smoked as they drove, the window rolled down, his elbow on the sill, protected from the rain by the windguard. The short-wave radio resting in his lap crackled now and again with static.

  ‘Why’s he so important?’

  Imogen did not look at him or reply right away. ‘Andy,’ she said at length, ‘he’s a man lost in the hills.’

  ‘Maybe. But they’ve searched and searched and found no sign. If the RAF can’t locate him, what chance have we got?’ He shook his head. ‘You don’t know that he’s even out there.’