Predatory Animals Page 10

  “I’m fine. Just a little zapped of energy is all.”

  Maggie pointed a wooden spoon at him. “You haven’t been overdoing it today, have you?”

  He wanted to tell her to mind her own business. That he was a grown man, not a child. But he clenched his teeth and bit back the words. “No. I cleaned up a mess the dogs made then just spent the morning surfing the net.”

  Maggie turned back to the skillet steaming on the stovetop and stirred a group of sautéing morel mushrooms. “You weren’t looking at porn, were you?”

  Casper winced as he pulled his bad leg up onto a chair. “I don’t feel normal unless I get my daily tranny fix.”

  “You’re not right.” She moved to a pot of red sauce simmering on the back burner, took a taste and seemed satisfied. She switched the burner off then turned back to him. “You said the dogs made a mess? What did they do?”

  “You know dogs. They’re not happy unless they’re killing something.”

  “Oh, so you saw the possum?”

  Casper looked up. “No, a rabbit. What possum?”

  Maggie took the lid off of a pot of boiling water. “The dogs killed a possum. It was in the front yard. There was a rabbit, too?”

  “Yeah, a big one.”

  “Wow. That’s impressive. They’re like the raptors in Jurassic Park.”

  That thought bothered Casper more than he cared to admit. “Maybe it’s time we send the dogs on their way.”

  “Why? Because they killed a couple of animals? Don’t you think you’re overreacting?” She dropped some spaghetti into the pot. The water splashed up over the edge and down into the gas flames, hissing like an angry dragon.

  “No, I don’t.” Casper’s words came out louder than he meant, but her tone had set his newly shortened temper aflame. “They’re starting to pack. They could be dangerous.”

  Maggie rolled her eyes as she looked up to the ceiling. “It was only a possum and a rabbit. The dogs were only following their nature. I don’t see how that makes them dangerous.”

  Casper shook his head. He loved his wife, but too often she let her heart overrule her brain. “You’re right. It’s their nature to kill smaller and weaker creatures. How do you suppose they see little Lucy?”

  “Oh, would you stop it? They’re not the Hounds from Hell. They’re good dogs and they love Lucy. They light up when they see her.”

  “Yeah, the way a deer-hunter lights up when he spots the big buck.”

  Maggie slammed her hand on the counter. “Don’t you dare take those dogs away from our kids. After all they’ve been through with the move and with . . .” Her lips quivered and her eyes grew shiny with tears. “. . . your accident. Those dogs are the first bit of happiness I’ve seen in them. Don’t take that away.”

  Casper started to respond but the words got stuck behind the knot in his throat. He didn’t like the dogs—though why, he couldn’t quite say—and he liked even less having the ruling taken from him. But Maggie knew the chinks in his armor, and she had always been a deadly shot.

  The doorbell rang, thankfully ending the conversation. Casper tried to stand up, but Maggie placed a hand on his shoulder. “Stay put. I’ll get the door.”

  Her feet clomped softly on the floor as she walked away. She opened the front door and exchanged pleasantries with a man whose voice he recognized as Patrick McTreaty’s. At the sound of their returning, Casper grabbed his crutches and stood to his feet. Maggie walked into the kitchen followed by the biggest black man Casper had ever met.

  The man was not only a head taller than Casper, he was twice the width. The man was made of solid muscle from head to toe. He filled the doorway like a storybook ogre (though a handsome and very well dressed one). An amused grin spread across his gentle face, and Casper realized that he was staring at the man with his mouth slightly open.

  “I guess you didn’t give your husband my full description, Mrs. Brown.”

  “No. I wanted to see his face. I’m not disappointed. And please, call me Maggie.”

  “You’re so bad, Maggie.”

  Casper snapped out of his stupor and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend. It’s just with a name like Patrick McTreaty I expected—”

  “A little red-headed white boy with blue eyes and freckles?”

  Casper shrugged. “Yes, actually.”

  Patrick reached out a hand big enough to palm a smart-car and shook Casper’s. His infectious smile returned and Casper felt perfectly at ease.

  “No offense taken,” Patrick said. “With a name like Casper Brown I would have expected a 450 pound brother, complete with a diamond grill and an unhealthy addiction to cheap gold jewelry. I just happened to get a jump on the introductions.”

  “That’s true. Thank you for saving my life. I’m forever in your debt.”

  Patrick gave a hearty, full-throated laugh. “This isn’t fourteenth century China. You don’t owe me a blood-oath. You floated by. I snatched you up. That’s all. Officer Dale is the one that brought you back.”

  “Well, thanks all the same.”

  Patrick shrugged, then without invitation he sat at the table. He brought his left hand up, in which he held two bottles of wine (one red, one white) with their necks between his fingers. Distracted by the man’s size, Casper had never noticed the bottles.

  “My mama taught me to always bring a gift when invited to dinner. I wasn’t sure what we were having, so I brought a selection.”

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” Maggie said. “We’re not having anything fancy. Just spaghetti and meatballs with some sautéed local mushrooms.”

  Patrick smiled. “That’s alright. It’s cheap wine.”

  This time Casper laughed. The size of Patrick’s body was outmatched only by the size of his personality. He was a man that was hard to miss and easy to like. Even the children took to Patrick.

  At one point during dinner, Lucy slipped out of her chair and stood next to Patrick. “Are you a giant, like in the stories?” she asked, her eyes filled with wonderment.

  “Lucy,” Maggie said. “That’s not polite. Go sit down.”

  Lucy reclaimed her seat, while Tad and Beth giggled into their hands.

  Patrick grinned. “She’s fine, Maggie. Just curious.” He looked at Lucy. “I’m not a giant, little lady, but if I keep eating your mama’s fine cooking, I will be in no time.” He gave her a little wink.

  After dinner the children played in their rooms while the adults sat at the table, sipping wine.

  “So, where did a guy like you get that nice little Irish name?” Casper asked.

  “From my parents. Where did you get your name?”

  “Well, my parents were clinically insane. What’s your excuse?”

  Patrick smiled, emptied his glass then wiped his face with his napkin. “I have a nice little white Irish name because my parents are nice little white Irish people.” Both Casper and Maggie raised their eyebrows. “I’m adopted.”

  “What made you become a biology expert? I’m sure you hear this all the time, but you look more like an offensive tackle for the Raiders.”

  Maggie swatted his shoulder. “You’ll have to excuse my husband. He sometimes forgets that not everyone he speaks to is just another Marine under his thumb.”

  “No, it’s alright,” Patrick said. “It’s a fair question. Believe it or not, most people are too intimidated by my size to really talk to me. Mostly they just talk at me.” Patrick poured himself another half glass of wine. “I had my offers to play football. Scholarships to big schools. But to be honest, they treated me like I was never more than a piece of meat. Everyone always assumed that just because I looked like a dumb jock that I was one. It’s just not a life I wanted to live. My parents taught me to be true to myself. So I decided to follow my first love, science.”

  After a dessert of cherry crisps with ice cream, Maggie left the table to put the kids to bed. The two men continued discussing their backgrounds, with Casper finishing wit
h the story of the shrapnel in his leg and the beautiful nurse that took care of him. It was then that Casper asked a question he didn’t intend to. He hadn’t thought about it all through dinner and it wasn’t connected in any way to their previous conversations. Yet somehow when he opened his mouth the words fell out.

  “What do you know about the St. Francis Exotic Cat Rescue Center?”

  Patrick was about to finish off the last of his cherry crisp, but stopped mid bite. His dark eyes hardened for a moment, searching Casper for any hint of an ulterior motive, but found none. “There’s something not right about that place.”

  “Dale Wicket gave me that impression the other day, but it seems normal to me.”

  “Have you been there?”

  “Not yet. But I plan to take the family when I’m more mobile.” Casper patted his bad leg. “I did a little research on the internet, but all I found was a cookie-cutter website.”

  Patrick sat forward with his elbows on the table. “I’ve been there many times, both before and after the changes. It’s technically owned by a man named Sylvester Felton. After Sly’s wife died, the center ran into some funding problems. It was on the verge of closing, which was bad because most of the big cats were in danger of being euthanized.

  “Then out of nowhere, the Pummel family rolled into town. They’re supposedly wealthy philanthropists or something like that. I could never track down any mention of the name Pummel anywhere. But who am I to question rich families pumping money into the local economy?”

  “So the Pummels bailed out St. Francis?” Casper asked with a shrug. “What’s so strange about that? Rich people have all sorts of causes. It’s a great tax write off.”

  “It’s more than that.” Patrick’s voiced hushed as if he were afraid of being overheard. “Once the Pummels paid the tab, they moved into the center and started a huge construction project. And when I say moved in, I mean they literally live at St. Francis. They brought an in-house security force that makes the secret service look like a group of kittens. They claim it’s all to insure that none of the cats escape. But if you ask me, it looks like they’re more concerned about keeping people out than keeping cats in. Now that’s just my fifty cents. You can draw your own conclusions.”

  Casper sat musing for a moment. “Dale Wicket suspects something. I’m not exactly sure why, but he hinted around about it the other day. I think St. Francis has something to do with my little accident.”

  “Dale’s a sharp guy. If he suspects something is rotten at the cat house, I’m inclined to believe him, though I can’t see what your broken leg has to do with it.”

  “If Dale thinks something bad is going on over there, why doesn’t he investigate? Couldn’t he at least report it to his superiors?”

  Patrick sat back and took another drink of wine. “Nobody wants to go poking the cash-cow. You would need some serious proof before officials around here would go knocking on the Pummels’ door. Dale’s just a beat cop, stuck in a car and handing out speeding tickets. His bosses wouldn’t look too kindly on him performing an illegal investigation.”

  A strange curiosity brewed within Casper. He felt like a man that had discovered a great mystery—a mystery that must be solve at all costs. Maybe it was the boredom of early retirement. Maybe it was cabin fever. He didn’t know. What he did know was that he very much liked the two men that had saved his life. Perhaps fate had brought them together for a reason. “What if we gave him a hand investigating?”

  Patrick tried to stifle his smile. “What, you mean go all covert like black-ops?”

  “No. I’m just saying, what if we kept an extra eye on the place?”

  “Look, I’ll admit St. Francis and the Pummels are weird, but don’t let Dale’s conspiracy theories get into your head.” Patrick leaned over and looked at Casper’s bad leg. “Besides, I don’t think you’re in much shape for sleuthing.”

  “I’m a fast healer. I’ll be back up to speed in no time. Watch and see.”

  “I believe you.” After a moment’s consideration Patrick sat back and crossed his arms over his massive chest. “I’ll go out to St. Francis with you, when you’re feeling up to it, but all you’re going to find is a bunch of big cats with sad stories.”

  Casper nodded. “You’re probably right.”

  Maggie came back into the kitchen, noticed somber looks on their faces and stopped. “Something tells me I don’t want to know what you two were talking about.”

  “Just church and charity,” Patrick said standing to his feet.

  Maggie stared up at him. “Are those the names of two strippers?”

  Patrick laughed his full-throated laugh and after a moment Casper and Maggie were joining him. “Oh Maggie, you crack me up.”

  “I try.”

  She started to clear the table, but Patrick insisted she let him help. When the dishes were put away Maggie and Casper walked Patrick to the door. Patrick opened the door and a terrible odor rolled in like an ocean fog.

  Maggie pulled her shirt up over her nose while Patrick pinched his nostrils shut. Casper held his crutches and had no choice but to breathe through his mouth.

  “Smells like your dogs found a skunk,” Patrick said.

  As if summoned, King, Sky and Shadow trotted up to the door. Maggie leaned down and reluctantly patted the dogs. She pulled her shirt down and sniffed each dog.

  “No, they don’t smell. Maybe someone hit a skunk out on the road.”

  “I don’t think so.” Patrick pointed out into the yard. Casper and Maggie gazed past him to where a skunk lay motionless twenty yards from the house. “Unless someone was driving in your yard, I’d say your pooches are guilty.”

  “That’s so weird,” Maggie said. “I’ve never heard of a dog killing a skunk and not getting sprayed.”

  Casper glowered at the dogs. “I told you they were dangerous.”

  “Driving a car is dangerous,” Patrick said. “Those three are ninja assassins. I wouldn’t turn my back on them if I were you.”

  He said it in jest, but Casper didn’t find it funny. This was their third kill today. The dogs sat on the front porch staring up at the humans with a look of pride, yet he imagined he could see something else in those eyes; something sinister, something untrustworthy, something unsatisfied.

  Search Party

  Art stepped out of the car, and though his face was calm, inside he was raging. His eyes washed over the area, past the rows of parked cars to the crowd standing in the open field that bordered a section of the thick forest that swallowed Shadeland.

  The call had come last minute and had it not been Ronald Blester, the mayor of Shadeland, Art was sure Gordy would have turned him down.

  But Gordy had agreed to help. “Look, I know that it’s bad timing,” he had said. “But we had to volunteer. We have an image to uphold.”

  So, on the worst day possible, Art found himself standing shoulder to shoulder with a hundred other volunteers, preparing to comb a section of the thick forest that surrounded Shadeland looking for a man that he didn’t give two shits about.

  The group decided it was best to start early so they could make the most of the daylight, but Art wasn’t fooled. He knew that it had nothing to do with more hours to search, and everything to do with ending this ignorant pageant before noon; it was important that the snobs and looky-loos could get to their cocktail parties and beer-pong matches this evening.

  Art couldn’t believe that Gordy and Nan had talked him into this. What did he care if some museum fruit was missing? And of all days to go searching for this guy, they had to sign up on the same day as the first event. What was his brother thinking? This had to be Nan’s doing. She was the one that said they needed to upkeep their goody-two-shoes image. If it was up to Art, he would stroll through town some Sunday, bar the doors of every church he passed and set the buildings ablaze.

  Art, Gordy and Nan passed through the crowd standing in the open field and joined those upfront under a small white tent that was bein
g used as the search party’s headquarters. They were just outside of town, halfway between St. Francis and the golf course. It had been decided to start the search here because it was the last place the missing man had been seen alive. Apparently the guy went hiking in the woods and never came back out.

  “Remember, even the smallest piece of trash might be a clue, so don’t discount anything,” some bloated toad-looking woman said to the group. “Now, let us have a moment of silence. If you feel the need to pray I’m sure Clifton would appreciate it.”

  Art wanted to gag. If he had his Glock he’d give that bitch a third eye, right in the middle of her forehead. The pretty Asian college girl standing next to him mistook his grimace for grief and reached over to give him a consoling pat on the back. Art faked a smile of appreciation. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

  When the moment of silence was over, the group fanned out and entered the forest. Art stayed close to the Asian girl. He looked over his shoulder. Gordy gave him a behave-yourself look, but Nan butchered him with her eyes. He made sure no one was watching then shot them a rude gesture with his tongue.

  The group walked in silence fanning out the farther they went. After about an hour, the rest of the search party thinned away, leaving Art alone with the Asian girl.

  “Hi,” he said, feigning a nervous demeanor. “I’m Arthur Pummel.”

  “I’m Sarah Chang,” she replied. She spoke with a perfect American accent, which actually disappointed him.

  “Are you from around these parts?”

  She gave him shy but flirty smile. “No. I’m from New York. Do you go to Demaree?”

  It took him a moment to understand that she meant the pathetic excuse for a college they had in this town. “Yes. You?”

  “Yes. I’m starting the nursing program in the fall. What’s your major?”

  Art choked back a laugh. Was gangland violence a major? “Business. Is—” He stopped and turned quickly around.

  Sarah looked terrified. “What is it?”

  Art scanned the woods, but saw nothing. They had walked far enough that they could no longer see or hear others in the group. Still, he waited and watched. He was sure he had seen something move from the corner of his eye. The skin on the back of his neck crawled.