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  “I think we’ll wrap it up here for now, guys,” he told his crew.

  The lunchtime crowd let them pass without a comment. But almost as they reached their Rover, Dexter felt a tug at his sleeve. It was enough to make him jump. There standing next to him was a small man past the crest of middle age with oily black hair done in a bad comb-over.

  “I believe,” he hissed at the reporter. “There is a curse on this town. Probably only the first of many to come.” He nodded to himself as if he had private knowledge of what the others might be.

  “What do you do for a living, friend?” Ben Dexter asked.

  “Why do you have to know that?” the man asked, immediately suspicious.

  “I guess I don’t. Never mind. Thanks for sharing your views.”

  “Don’t you want to put me on TV?”

  “No.”

  Not even if the guy worked from a script Dexter wrote himself. He was too obviously loony. Too downscale. Not telegenic at all.

  The thing that Ben Dexter failed to realize at the time was that he’d planted seeds. The relative handful of people he’d talked to that day all went back to work, home or out to eat and talked about him and his questions with their families and friends.

  Was the town cursed? How did they feel about that?

  In a small town, it didn’t take long for such questions to become topics of common debate. And the dialogue was a lot more serious and candid without a TV crew around.

  Ron Ketchum spent the morning talking with Jimmy Thunder’s two exiled lady friends. They were sharing a suite at the Hilton. The chief interrupted their breakfast, and he was fortunate to catch them at all because they had their bags packed and were ready to leave town. They had first class tickets on the noon Reno Air flight to L.A.

  Their names were Ashanti Royce and DaChelle Chenier. Each said she was twenty-eight. Both claimed to hold master’s degrees from UCLA. Ms. Royce’s area of study was demographics. Ms. Chenier’s major, interestingly, was criminology. The women were so well spoken that Ron was hard pressed to doubt their educational accomplishments.

  That was despite the fact that both of them could have worked any haute couture runway in Paris. Well, there was nothing to say women couldn’t be tall, thin, beautiful and brilliant. And if he thought that seemed a rather unfair distribution of good fortune, maybe it was just another of his latent biases making itself known.

  “Why are you leaving Goldstrike?” Ron asked.

  “Our work here is finished, Chief,” Ms. Royce responded without cracking a grin.

  “And what exactly was your work?”

  “We assisted Reverend Thunder.”

  Ron said, “Isn’t that what Ms. Janet Pak does?”

  “She’s clerical,” Ms. Chenier sneered.

  “And your duties were?”

  “Professional.”

  “In what sense of the word?”

  Now both women shared a smile.

  “My, my, my, Chief Ketchum, are we having naughty thoughts?” Ms. Royce inquired.

  “Not me,” Ron replied. “I wouldn’t even stray near one. Not with a criminologist in the room. What I was wondering, what kind of work did you do for the reverend?”

  “I helped him understand his audience,” Ms. Royce explained. “Reverend Thunder always shapes his own message, but by helping him identify just who he’s talking to, he can better understand which words he should choose to couch his message.”

  “You worked together closely, then?”

  “Every day.”

  “And you, Ms. Chenier, why would Reverend Thunder need a criminologist?”

  “After his unfortunate experience with the law, and having his lawyer of the time fail him, he felt the need to have someone near to reassure him that he wouldn’t attract any unfair attention from the authorities. He’s told both of us on many occasions how unpleasant prison life is. He wants to be very careful that he doesn’t give the police even the appearance of being responsible for a misdeed.”

  “Does he think we suspect him of killing his son?”

  “Do you?” Ms. Chenier asked without blinking.

  “I’m afraid I have to ask the questions. Is Reverend Thunder worried?”

  “He hasn’t said so. At least not to me.” Ms. Chenier turned to her colleague.

  “He hasn’t said so to me, either,” Ms.Royce added.

  “Ladies, at the risk of being indelicate, how about we stop all the bullshitting?”

  Neither Ashanti Royce nor DaChelle Chenier swooned. They laughed. Moderately.

  “You doubt us, Chief?” Ms. Royce inquired.

  “Or do you want to know if we’re just fancy whores?” Ms. Chenier asked.

  “What I want to know is why are you leaving town now? Why did Reverend Thunder kick you out of his house? Was it because he didn’t want his son to think you are fancy whores his daddy was humping? And how did Reverend Thunder get along with Reverend Cardwell?”

  The two women looked at each other for a five count, during which, Ron was sure, several gigabytes of data were silently exchanged.

  Ms. Royce began: “We’re leaving town because Jimmy can no longer afford us.”

  “In terms of public relations?”

  Ms. Chenier picked up the baton. “Quite possibly that way, too. But it’s more fundamental than that. The poor man is having a cash crisis.”

  “The collection plate is coming back empty?” Ron asked, surprised.

  “No, not empty,” Ms. Chenier elaborated, “but not nearly so full as it once did.”

  “Jimmy has a core of believers who would not abandon him even if he … well, even if he did kill his son,” Ms. Royce said. “But that group of loyalists is not large enough to support either his broadcast operation or his lifestyle in the manner he prefers.”

  “So, exeunt Ms. Royce and Ms. Chenier stage left?”

  “Exeunt!” Ms. Chenier smiled with delight. “Aren’t you the surprise for a cop?”

  “I went to UCLA, too. Twelve years part time while I was on the LAPD. Now, tell me, was it just a coincidence Reverend Thunder turned up strapped for cash when his son arrived unexpectedly? Do you mean to tell me Reverend Cardwell’s presence had nothing to do with the two of you leaving the estate?”

  “The timing was something of a coincidence,” Ms. Royce agreed, nodding her head. “We’d seen that the situation was in decline for some time, of course, but Junior showing up right then, that was an anomaly.”

  “Junior?”

  “We called Jimmy’s boy that,” Ms. Chenier informed Ron.

  “Because?”

  “Because he was too good to be an actual adult. He was like a little kid who doesn’t know enough to be greedy or venial, hasn’t been touched by temptation or corruption. But the way he acted so quietly righteous, not even bothered by the near occasion of sin, as the Catholics like to say, we could not believe he was for real,” Ms. Chenier asserted.

  “You couldn’t find a handle on him, in other words.”

  “Not a one,” Ms. Royce conceded.

  “How did Reverend Thunder get along with his son?”

  “I think Junior shamed his daddy,” Ms. Royce said.

  Ms. Chenier nodded. “Junior did his hitch in real divinity school. Jimmy is a mail-order kind of guy with enough Bible reading and natural gloss to smooth over the rough edges.”

  “You think the reverend could have nailed his son to that tree?”

  The two women did another mute exchange of information.

  Ms. Royce delivered the verdict. “Possibly. But don’t bet your investment portfolio.”

  Ron looked at them, sighed and stood up.

  “Thank you, ladies. I appreciate your help.”

  He started to leave, but Ms. Royce called out to him.

  “You didn’t ask if Jimmy was having sex with us.”

  “I don’t think that’s relevant to the case.”

  “You’re not personally curious?” Ms. Chenier asked. “Like maybe did a
ll three of us get it on together?”

  “I have too great a respect for privacy to even wonder,” Ron answered. “But there is one question you can answer for me, if you don’t mind.”

  “What’s that?” the women asked in unison.

  “You ladies didn’t need affirmative action to get into UCLA, did you?”

  Ashanti Royce and DaChelle Chenier collapsed in gales of laughter.

  “I didn’t think so,” Ron said, leaving.

  Chapter 24

  Corrie Knox and Tucker Marsden found the remains of the Derby family’s heroic dog at the base of a sugar pine. Tuck squatted and looked at the little that was left of Sumo; the dog’s bones had been picked clean.

  “Too bad that lion was so hungry,” Tucker said. “If he’d left some meat on the carcass, he might have cached it. Then we’d have a big advantage.”

  “Sure. We could have set out traps for when he came back for the leftovers.”

  Tucker stood up and stretched. His lean six foot four inch frame reached toward the sky. He had sandy blonde hair and crystal blue eyes. He looked like he should have been modeling or playing pro beach volleyball. But Tucker Marsden loved the wilderness and all the creatures in it.

  Except when they got out of hand. Not that there weren’t plenty of jerkwad campers who shouldn’t be scoured from the earth by the savage fang and claw. That would be sound environmental management. But when a big cat started running down innocent joggers and bounding into people’s backyards looking for kids to snack on, then steps had to be taken.

  “How big was this poor pooch?” he asked Corrie.

  “The owners say around seventy pounds.”

  “That ought to keep the beast sated for, what, a couple days?”

  “Maybe,” Corrie said.

  “You don’t sound too sure.”

  “I’m not. This cat’s behavior is just plain weird.”

  “There’s a highly scientific explanation,” Tucker said with a grin.

  Corrie rolled her eyes. “This animal is not following any kind of a normal travel-way, then, okay? His hunting path is totally idiosyncratic. He has to be violating the home ranges of other mountain lions. It’s just as likely that one of his own kind will kill him, in a territorial dispute, as we will.”

  Tucker shook his head. “Things never work out that neatly. So, what do you think is behind this strange behavior?”

  “If I had to make a guess right now, I think it’s old age more than anything. He’s not exactly up to going after a bull elk anymore.”

  “From what you tell me, he jumped a six foot fence with Rover here in his jaws. That’s still pretty strong.”

  “Not compared to what we both know an animal like this can do in his prime.”

  Tucker’s smile was rueful this time. “True. Did you hear that story out of Colorado? Mountain lion kills a six hundred pound heifer, drags it a quarter mile up a mountainside to eat.”

  “That’s what I mean. This cat, if he’s healthy, should be going after four-legged prey. But he’s going after humans. I think what happened was, he got his first taste of people with poor Gary Jenkins. After that, from a predatory standpoint, he worked it out that two-legged creatures are easy pickings. ”

  “Fast food,” Tucker said deadpan. “Maybe he even likes the way we taste.”

  “I thought of that, too. But I wasn’t going to say anything. People in this town are tense enough as it is.”

  “Understandable,” Tucker agreed.

  But Corrie said he didn’t know the half of it, and told him about the “curse.”

  “That’s crazy!” Tucker protested.

  “Maybe. Or maybe it’s just being scared. Either way, I want to get this animal quickly.”

  “If it’s old, like you say, it might just kick off on its own soon.”

  “Now, who’s talking about neat endings? Besides, I wouldn’t like the possible consequences if that happened,” Corrie told him.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look. If we can’t find this cat and kill it and bring it in, what are people going to think?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “They’re going to think we can’t find it because it’s got supernatural powers.”

  “That’s really crazy.”

  “Yeah, but if you believe in a curse, it’s consistent. Don’t you see?”

  Tucker nodded grudgingly. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

  “But do you think the people around here will be content to just hunker down forever, while they imagine some magical man-killer is stalking their town?”

  “No.” Now, Tucker saw where Corrie was heading. “They’d go after it.”

  “Just like the villagers went after Frankenstein’s monster.”

  “Uh-huh. And you get people scared enough, and they don’t exactly have a command of the facts … they’ll kill any cat they come across. Won’t matter a bit to them if it’s some completely innocent animal.”

  “They won’t be stopped by any state law saying please don’t shoot the wildlife, either. So let’s get this bastard fast, okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Because for all we know he’s already hungry again.”

  Chapter 25

  Sergeant Stanley knocked twice on the doorframe of Ron’s office, stepped inside, and closed the door behind him. In his hand, he had a half-dozen pages of computer printout held together by a bulldog clip. He gave the material to the chief.

  “Two for two on those names you wanted checked,” the sergeant said.

  “Mr. Meeker and Mr. DuPree have been bad boys?”

  “No outstanding arrest warrants unfortunately, but otherwise, yeah. Deacon Meeker’s just average bad; Didier DuPree, he’s real bad.”

  Ron looked at Deacon Meeker’s sheet first. Convictions for assault, robbery and extortion. All strong-arm stuff. By today’s standards, small beer. Didier DuPree, on the other hand, had only one conviction, but it was for involuntary manslaughter. He literally threw a man under a bus in Houston.

  Not that his lawyer phrased what occurred that way. That distinguished member of the Texas bar had insisted that at worst his client “assisted in the fall” of the decedent in front of “a mass transit vehicle” that was undoubtedly exceeding the posted speed limit.

  On the hot summer night in question, the story went, Didi DuPree was at a sidewalk party where alcohol was served. A fellow who had proposed marriage to a young woman and had been awaiting her answer for a week became upset when he saw Didi talking to her. He ran at Didi and tried to shove him away from the young lady. Didi, having the advantage of being a teetotaler and sober, sidestepped the angry young man’s advance, and would have been home free if he hadn’t helped the victim’s momentum along with a hand to the small of his back. More than a dozen witnesses affirmed that Didi had acted in self-defense, but one of them let slip the detail about Didi giving his would-be assailant a helping hand.

  As Didier DuPree had been arrested on suspicion of seventeen murders, but had never been brought to trial due to insufficient evidence, the D.A. considered the witness’s slip of the tongue a gift from the gods. His only regrets, he said publicly, were that they couldn’t prove Didi had seen the bus coming and the sentence was only six years.

  “Yeah, this DuPree asshole is major league, all right,” Ron agreed. “And now we’ve got him enjoying Jimmy Thunder’s hospitality.”

  “Maybe they struck up their friendship in Huntsville,” Sergeant Stanley suggested. “I did some additional checking with the authorities in Texas and found out they were both graduates of that institution.”

  “Were they there at the same time?”

  Caz Stanley nodded. “The two of them and the Deacon, too. That’s when he was doing his time for extortion. And Meeker and DuPree are cousins. I got that from the Houston P.D.”

  “You have any idea if DuPree is still in town, Sarge?”

  The sergeant shook his head. “No idea. But my contact in Houston will be send
ing me a mug shot of him.”

  Ron said, “Let me know when it’s here. Meanwhile, I better go ask Reverend Thunder if he knows where we can find the man.”

  “There’s one other thing, Chief. Horgan’s back in town.”

  Ron cursed softly. The last thing he needed was the FBI adding to his problems.

  “He’s outside?”

  “Yeah. I told him we had to talk for a few minutes before you could see him. You think he’s cooled his heels long enough?”

  “Give me a minute to tuck Meeker’s and DuPree’s sheets away. Then send the SOB in.”

  The FBI agent entered Ron’s office without the two underlings he’d brought previously. He strode up to Ron’s desk and gave the chief a cold stare. “You going to ask me to sit down, Ketchum?”

  “Have a seat.”

  Horgan flicked a glance over his shoulder.

  “You want to buzz your girl out there, have her close your door?”

  “No.”

  “No?” Horgan knew after the first three seconds he wouldn’t be able to stare Ron down, and try as he might he couldn’t think of any leverage to use on the chief. The way Horgan’s face got tight and red, Ron thought his starched collar might be strangling him. “You’re a sonofabitch, you know that, Ketchum?”

  “If you have something to say, say it. I’m busy.”

  “All right,” the FBI man went on, “I was trying to make it easy on you. You don’t want it that way, fine. We’ll let the world in on what I have to say. I talked to Reverend Thunder this morning.”

  “Regarding?” Ron asked softly.

  “Regarding the implicit threat to burn his house down. The one you were so kind to send to me.”

  “Kindness had nothing to do with it. It was professionalism.”

  “Right. You realized you had a hot potato you couldn’t handle and tossed it to me.”

  “I recognized a threat that might possibly be serious and connected to a series of interstate crimes. I forwarded it to the appropriate authority. Which complies with the spirit of cooperation Mayor Steadman said you could expect from this department.”

  Horgan chuckled nastily. “Just can’t get under your skin, can I, Ketchum.”