Predatory Animals Read online

  Maggie laughed. “No. It’s a place just for cats. There will be lions and tigers and cougars and bobcats, and I’m sure a lot more.”

  Lucy skipped into the house calling for her siblings to hurry. Beth, Tad and Maggie followed Lucy into the house and to the garage. Casper waited a moment on the deck, watching the dogs.

  When the pen was empty one hundred square feet seemed plenty large enough. But now that the three were inside it seemed cramped and congested. There was nothing he could do about it, though. It was safer this way.

  The St. Francis Exotic Cat Rescue Center stood only twenty minutes from their home, but as Maggie drove the short distance Casper’s mind wandered. What was he hoping to find there? Dale and Patrick believed something was going on behind the scenes, and though he liked and trusted both, they could easily be wrong. Casper believed that most people wanted a little mystery in their lives, and a good conspiracy helped to numb the banality of the everyday grind. Still, he needed to be on his guard. His military training gave him a unique perspective and perhaps he could see what others had missed.

  When they crossed over the narrow bridge spanning Rogers River, Casper’s face flushed hot and the stainless steel rod implanted in his leg seemed suddenly electrified.

  Maggie noticed her husband pawing at his bad leg. “Are you alright?”

  “Just bad memories, that’s all.”

  She looked out over the river, which was back to its regular depth now that the spring rains had tapered off. Her eyes glazed hard as diamonds where once tears would have stood. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t have to. They had been married long enough for him to have a good grasp on her line of thinking. The river, in her mind, was like a mistress that had threatened to steal him away and tear apart her family. She felt betrayed that Casper had chosen the river over his family on that day, and though she remained at his side, she had neither forgiven nor forgotten.

  They pulled into the parking lot of St. Francis (which amounted to nothing more than a patch of dusty gravel) and found Patrick McTreaty straddling the seat of his motorcycle.

  “It’s about time. I thought I was going to have to go in there alone.”

  “I wouldn’t think a big guy like you would be afraid of a bunch of caged cats.” Casper clapped him on the shoulder.

  “It’s not the predators in the cages that bother me. It’s the ones running loose.”

  Beth gasped. “There are loose animals in there?”

  Maggie hugged her about the shoulders. “Of course not, honey. Your dad and Patrick are just doing more of their secret code talk. Maybe someday they will fill the rest of us in on what they mean.” She fixed Casper and Patrick with a glare of warning.

  Patrick cleared his throat and pretended to be very interested in a handicap parking sign.

  “Patrick was just joking,” Casper said to his children. “He just doesn’t like to be in crowds. When he’s with normal people it reminds him of what a freakish giant he really is.”

  Patrick laughed. “I never knew an old man with a cane could talk so much trash. Don’t make me grind your bones to make my bread.”

  “If you do, mind the steel rod. It’s a tooth chipper.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  Beth laughed. “You two are so weird.”

  They approached the front gate where a small ticket booth stood before a turnstile. The first thing Casper noticed was the twelve-foot high chain-link fence, complete with razor wire, running off in both directions and disappearing in the flurry of trees. While buying the tickets he spotted a retractable gate that could be remotely activated to roll closed behind the turnstile and seal off the gates that served as both the entrance and the exit. Judging from the size of the motor and thickness of gears attached to the track, he figured the twenty-foot gate could slide closed in mere seconds. Though he couldn’t see any wires he had a sneaking suspicion that the fence was electrified (or could be at the flip of a switch).

  All this seemed suspicious, but it was the guard that convinced Casper that St. Francis really did have a hidden shadow.

  A tiny booth nestled within the trees just inside the gate stood hidden by a camouflaged hunter’s-blind. The sun broke through the canopy at just the right angle so that the silhouette of a man could be seen moving behind the leaf-covered screen. A man dressed in a sports jacket stepped out from behind the blind as if he knew he had been spotted.

  The man’s cold eyes poured over Patrick, then over Casper, absorbing every detail. They were being marked. The man’s eyes were sharp and frightful, not the eyes of a low paid security guard, but of a high paid mercenary. He turned and when his body shifted Casper made the outline of a large weapon—most likely an Uzi—hidden beneath his jacket.

  “Oh, this place is better than Disney Land,” Casper said under his breath.

  “Ain’t it, though,” Patrick whispered back.

  They stood by the small gift shop with the other visitors waiting for the next tour to start. It was forbidden to wander the grounds of St. Francis without a guide to escort you. Ten minutes later a short, dumpy middle-aged woman stepped out and began calling the visitors towards her. The small crowd gathered around while she went through her preliminary speech on safety—stay five feet away from the enclosures at all times; never try to pet the cats; no taunting; stay with the group; yada, yada, yada. She had a pretty face, a genuine smile, and in no way seemed to be a part of the arcane side of St. Francis.

  She led them down the gravel paths between the multi-acre enclosures, dispensing to them the histories (sometimes humorous, but most often sad) of the exotic cats they passed with the natural skill of a raconteur. She loved the magic of the place, of the giant cats, and that love had blinded her. Casper could tell that this woman saw only the goodness of St. Francis and never once thought to question the razor wire, the armed guards or even the surveillance cameras—hidden in the small obsidian globes mounted to high posts—placed every fifty yards or so.

  They stopped for a moment to look at an old lioness named Kora which, because of the lion’s version of menopause, had grown a mane. It seems that when you have three inch fangs and razor sharp claws no one bothers to wax you back into femininity. Casper took this lapse in movement to approach the tour guide.

  “Will we get a chance to meet Mr. Felton today?”

  She seemed a little confused to have been asked a question that didn’t involve the cats, but she smiled and was eager to answer. “No, not unless he just happens to be visiting the cats. Mr. Felton is very busy these days. Most of us don’t even see him too often anymore.”

  “You don’t see the man you work for? Isn’t that a bit strange? Who do you go to if you have any trouble?”

  Her jaw clenched and her bright eyes darkened just a bit. “Mr. Felton is very busy working with the Pummels to improve St. Francis. If we need something we talk to the Pummels or to the security staff. I’m not sure what you mean by trouble, but I can assure you we are all well trained to handle any issues that may arise.” And with that, she made a huffy little turn and began another anecdote about the bearded lioness.

  Patrick leaned in close to Casper. “You sure do know how to rub a person’s rabbit the wrong way.”

  “I’ve been told that. What do you think? She know anything?”

  “She knows a butt-load about these walking meat processors, but I’d say that’s about it. If she suspects any dark doings, then it’s on the subconscious level.”

  “What do you make of the guard that’s been following us?”

  Patrick stood to his full height and glanced over the heads of the crowd. “We’re being tailed?”

  “Yeah, he’s back a ways, but I’ve caught sight of him three times now.”

  “They have cameras. Why would they tail us?”

  “Good question.”

  “Hey,” Maggie called. “Are you two going to follow or just stand there whispering to each other like a pair of school girls? I don’t know what secre
t little project you two have going on, but do you mind putting it on hold?”

  They caught up with the group just in time to see a male tiger spray a young girl that had made the poor decision to wear too much perfume. She screamed in disgust and seemed utterly enraged that her friends were getting a good laugh at her expense. The tour guide assured her that the spraying was a sign of affection not an insult of her choice of perfume, but the girl was little consoled.

  The path came to a four-way intersection, left and right leading to more enclosures, but the one straight ahead dead ended in a wooden privacy fence. A sign posted on the door warned that the area beyond was restricted to St. Francis personnel only. When the tour turned to the right Casper continued on straight ahead.

  Patrick made to follow him, but Casper signaled for him to stay with the group. A man of Patrick’s size would be easily missed, but he doubted if the loquacious tour guide would notice that he was gone. Patrick mouthed his disagreement with this decision, laced with a few choice words.

  It was like Pandora’s Box. This door held all the troubles of the world, but Casper’s curiosity had him now and he no longer cared about the cameras or the gun-toting guards. The wooden gate stood down a small slope. Casper moved as fast as his bad leg would allow, but it felt like an age came and went before he reached the door. He lifted the latch and pulled open the door not yet realizing how this one simple act would bring such havoc to his doorstep.

  The downward grade of the land continued past the wooden fence. St. Francis held around 250 acres of land (a tidbit provided by their cheerful guide), but the tour only took you across perhaps ten percent of that, so Casper wasn’t surprised to see large sections of wire fencing going down the hill on both sides of the gravel path like some gulag for trees. Two things did surprise him, however. First was the large concrete building nestled at the bottom of the hill that looked a bit too much like the weapons bunkers he’d seen in Iraq. The second was a gun in his back.

  “White Devil has breached gate thirteen,” the guard said into his radio. “Request back up immediately.”

  Casper stood as still as a statue, though he wanted to kick gravel and spit. He had known the damn guard was tailing him. He had lost a bit of his knack since retiring, but not that much. It took something special to sneak up on a man when he’s watching for you.

  Casper slowly turned his head to get a better look. The man had the same killer’s stare as the rest of the guards, and his emotionless face told of his career as well as any resume. “Never seen a wildlife park in my life that could afford to hire a merc as a security guard.”

  “Don’t talk.”

  “I know special training when I see it. Did you serve in the Corp?”

  “Turn around and keep your hands where I can see them.”

  Casper did as he was ordered and saw the piece of the puzzle that had caused Officer Dale Wicket to connect his accident with St. Francis. Coming up the path was a 1950s powder blue pickup truck churning up plumes of gravel-dust.

  “Awful lot of fuss over me sneaking a peak. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you boys have something to hide.”

  “Stand still and keep your mouth shut, Mr. Brown.”

  Casper flinched at the sound of his name. They weren’t only tailing him, they were tagging him. “Do I know you, soldier? You’ll have to forgive me, but your face isn’t all that familiar.”

  The guard came down with a sudden case of lockjaw. The muzzle of the gun pressed hard into his back. Casper clenched his teeth against the pain. A few months ago he would have turned and snatched the gun from the little shit’s hand and pistol whipped him. But now, with a bad leg and a cane, he wasn’t sure the outcome would be favorable. The Marine within him screamed, Once an asshole, always an asshole. His eyes burned with a sudden flush of anger. He never had been the kind of man to back down to a bully—even a well-armed one.

  Just as Casper made to turn, Patrick came stomping down the path waving his arms. “Hold up now. No need for this.”

  The guard turned and Casper had a sudden fear that he was going to shoot Patrick. Casper spun, his leg roared as if on fire, and if not for his cane he would have fallen. Patrick saw the gun in the guard’s hand, planted his feet and skidded to a stop. The guard backed away, his aim passing between Casper and Patrick.

  Casper waved his hand. “Easy soldier, you can put that away. We’re not armed.”

  “Put it away, Stodges,” a voice said from behind.

  The blue truck was now parked in front of the gate, blocking the entrance. A man that seemed to have evolved from a viper leaned against the door. He approached and the two guards in the bed followed him.

  The man scanned Casper and Patrick while a nasty smirk swirled on his face. “Are you an illiterate?”

  “Why, are you looking for more guards?” The guards grew restless and Casper shot them a smile. “I might be over qualified, though. Do you still take applicants if they’ve graduated high school?”

  The viper ignored this. “Do you mind explaining why you were trying to trespass?”

  “I’ll tell you if you can tell me how your goose-stepping guard over there knows my name.”

  The viper’s eyes widened slightly, but he offered no answer. “This is a very dangerous place. You should be careful where you poke your nose. If you go through the wrong door, there are plenty of things waiting to bite it off.”

  “Ooh, scary place.” Casper waved his hand before his face in mock fear. “Big cats,” he pointed at the guard that had caught him from behind, “and giant pussies.”

  The guard named Stodges started toward Casper, but Patrick caught him with a well-placed shove that separated the guard from the ground. Stodges hit his side, rolled in the gravel and came up with his gun pointed at Patrick.

  Patrick’s face grayed and he stepped back with his hands in the air.

  Casper had been in plenty of fire-fights with all different kinds of people. He had seen enough to know when someone was making an idol threat and when they meant to pull the trigger. The guard Stodges didn’t seem the kind of man that took being thrown to the ground lightly. The dead vacuum of his eyes told the tale of a violent man whose conscience had long since been burned away. He was going to shoot, no doubt.

  Casper unsheathed the bayonet hidden in his cane, grabbed the viper by the collar and pressed the point of the blade against his neck.

  “Tell your man to disarm or by God and the Marine Corps I swear I’ll shish-kabob your Adam’s apple!”

  The other guards drew their own pistols and took aim at Casper. Patrick watched the situation with a helpless frown and bulging eyes.

  The viper smiled as though this were all very amusing. “Seems like you brought a knife to a gun fight.”

  “I guess so, but if they start shooting I can promise you’ll not live to see the outcome.” Casper tightened his grip on the man’s shoulder. “Tell them to stand down.”

  A maniacal defiance arose in the viper’s eyes. “I don’t want to. I think I’ll tell them to shoot you both and feed you to the cats.”

  Casper gripped the bayonet so tight that his knuckles turned white. He never imagined in his wildest thoughts that he’d be standing here preparing to run a man through. He wondered if Patrick would survive. Casper drew in a breath and held it. He focused all of his strength into his arm, willing it to drive the blade all the way to the hilt. The terrible peace of the killer came over him.

  “What is going on here?” Maggie’s voice, dry with terror, severed his link to the darkness within. She stood with his children watching this melee. Tad and Beth were as still as stone, but Lucy clung to her mother’s leg, weeping.

  Casper turned back to the viper, which seemed to be relishing this little turn of events. “Don’t.”

  Horrific images flooded his mind and blurred his vision. How could he have been so stupid? Dale had warned him to be careful.

  “Cute family,” the viper said, but when he looked over Casper’s shou
lder the joy in his eyes faltered. The tour guide along with the small crowd had returned to find their missing tourists.

  With this many witnesses, the fight was over, and all sides would have to concede to a stalemate . . . for now. Without a word from their leader the guards quickly concealed their guns, leaving Casper to look like the aggressor. He let go of the viper, returned his bayonet to its cane sheath, and then used it to steady his balance.

  The viper clenched his teeth. “It’s time for you to leave.”

  The tour guide led the group back down the path as the guards marched Casper, his family and Patrick out in a line. The viper took the lead while the other guards flanked them. They passed through the turnstile and Maggie stormed off toward the car with the kids in tow.

  “Isn’t it strange,” Casper said to Patrick, pitching his voice loud enough to be heard by all, “all this commotion and never once did they attempt to call the police. Almost as if they didn’t want the authorities poking around.”

  “That was for your benefit,” the viper said. “You’re new to Shadeland. You wouldn’t want to be labeled as the man that attacked one of the most beloved families in town, would you?”

  Casper turned to Patrick. “Do you mind explaining what he’s talking about?”

  “That’s Arthur Pummel.”

  “The philanthropist? Wow, what an honor to meet you. You and your family have done great things with St. Francis, or so I’m told. Maybe sometime you can give me a full tour and clue me in on the true nature of your business.”

  The veins throbbed in Arthur Pummel’s neck and his cheeks blushed. “I would like that. Perhaps you can bring your wife and children with you.”

  Casper was doing it again. Endangering those he loved by his foolish actions. But his rage was like the floodgate on a dam—once it was opened the only way to close it again was to allow the pressure to subside. “Tell me something, Arthur. Do you always drive that old blue truck?”

  Pummel tilted his head slightly, thrown a bit by the offhand question. “Most days.”

  “Do you mind telling me what was in that burlap sack you threw into Rogers River a couple of months back? Call it a sick obsession, but I’d just like to know.”