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Ron shook his head.

  “It’d have to be a matter of principle more than money,” Sergeant Stanley insisted.

  The chief gave that idea some consideration. Texas Jack had told him the he was careful about not winning too much from the handful of men who’d still sit down at a card table with him. So money wasn’t his primary consideration. Love of the game was. But if one his opponents refused to pay what Jack had won, that would remove any sense of legitimacy to the game. Reduce it to a charade. Implicitly make a mockery of Jack.

  That might piss him off, all right, but enough to crucify a man?

  The intuitive sergeant seemed to understand Ron’s silence almost completely.

  “If Texas Jack killed Isaac Cardwell like that, it could have been as a warning. Pay up or you’re next.”

  That paralleled Ron’s idea that Didi DuPree might have killed Isaac as a warning to his father. Ron was not happy that his suspect list was expanding when he wanted it narrowed.

  “When we’re done here, run Texas Jack’s name with NCIC. Let’s see if his past isn’t more colorful than everybody already thinks.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Any movement at the Thunder estate?” Ron asked.

  “No. Nobody in or out all day. They’re hunkered down.”

  “Any word out of Mahalia Cardwell?”

  Sergeant Stanley shook his head.

  “Any feedback on the lion situation?”

  “A day goes by without any more bad news, people start to lighten up. Not that there are many runners or hikers out on the woodland trails. But in town the pedestrian traffic is back to normal and the cafés are full.”

  “How about the media? Are they behaving themselves?”

  “I think they’re getting bored. Annie Stratton is encouraging the notion there are greener fields elsewhere for them. They might start buying into the idea soon. Even Ben Dexter hasn’t come out yet with that story accusing you of harassing Reverend Thunder.”

  “That’s the best news I’ve heard all day. Okay, Sarge, let’s keep this information about Texas Jack strictly between you and me. We’ll look at it some more after you do the background check on him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As Sergeant Stanley picked up the evidence bag, the chief handed him the nail he’d stolen from Texas Jack’s house.

  “Sarge, find out every place in town where they sell this kind of nail.”

  “Sure thing, Chief.”

  Thinking ahead to tomorrow, Ron had one final question.

  “By the way, did you ever get in touch with the concierge at the Renaissance about finding a sketch artist for that likeness of Didi DuPree?”

  “Yes, sir,” Sergeant Stanley said, seeming uncharacteristically sheepish. “I’m meeting Marjor — I’m meeting Ms. Fitzroy at the hotel in an hour. She seemed to think she could be of help herself. I should have something on your desk in the morning.”

  “Very good, Sergeant.” Ron kept a straight face as Dan Stanley left. But he found the idea that he might have played the inadvertent matchmaker for his dedicated bachelor sergeant both amusing and gratifying.

  With things at least temporarily quiet, Ron thought it would be a good time to go shoot some hoops.

  Chapter 35

  Corrie Knox took a swig of water from the canteen that Tucker Marsden had offered her. She made sure she’d left him a last gulp and handed it back. He finished it off. It had been a long day and they were both tired.

  The sun was lowering and the temperature was dropping. The sweat that had flowed through the heat of the day was starting to dry on their bodies. Tuck pulled his shirt away from his chest.

  They had to be especially vigilant now. Their physical resources were nearing depletion. Their senses were dulled. And mountain lions hunted at twilight. All day, they had tracked the animal, expending as much energy on watching, listening, and maintaining field position — placing yourself for a clear shot if your prey broke from cover — as they had hiking up and down the mountain.

  “The fucker’s still out there,” Tucker said softly. “He’s been leading us around in circles all day.”

  “Damn, I wish we had a dog,” Corrie lamented quietly.

  “I’d want three. Give us three good dogs and a guy who knows how to handle them and we could have bagged this bastard in time to have lunch by the pool.”

  “Whine, whine, whine,” Corrie retorted. But she said it with a smile, and Tucker smiled back.

  “What do you think, we have another half hour before it gets too dark to see?”

  “Too dark for us to see,” Corrie replied.

  “Whaddya say we try to get this cat to follow us for a change?”

  “Yeah, as long it’s in the direction of our truck.”

  The two game wardens moved carefully through the forest of alpine evergreens. The shadows of the trees lengthened. Each pool of darkness had to be approached with the utmost caution. Their rifles were lethal, but only if you had the time to get off a good shot. There was no question that with the coming of night the odds were quickly shifting in favor of the lion.

  With the light about to fall past the point where a clean shot would be possible, they headed directly for the highway. It was time to get out of the woods. Time to get out in the open where the cat wouldn’t have any cover.

  As they set foot on the pavement, knots of tension in their necks and shoulders began to unwind. Their truck was parked at a scenic overlook about a quarter mile downhill from where they stood. Five minutes and they’d be on their way into town.

  “Well, hell, boys and girls, that was certainly a fun day,” Tucker said.

  “Let’s do it again real soon,” Corrie agreed wearily.

  “I know. We’ll come back tomorrow.”

  They’d walked only twenty yards down the road when they heard an animal grunt. The sound had an almost mocking, derisive quality to it.

  Tucker frowned. “That sonofabitch is just right inside those trees there laughing at us. Why don’t we see if we can have the last laugh?” He headed back up the road, trying to pinpoint the animal. Then he veered toward the trees.

  Corrie yelled, “Tucker, stop! It’s too dark. You’ll never see him.”

  She was greatly relieved when he heeded her warning.

  Then he cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted at the trees. “Think you’re so smart? Well, we’re going to dinner. What the hell are you going to do?”

  He turned his back on the woods and started down the road toward Corrie.

  “Thanks,” Tucker said. “You were right. False pride will get you killed every ti—”

  The mountain lion struck from the trees like a bolt. It leaped and hit Tucker Marsden from behind, high on his back and shoulders. The impact sent the big game warden tumbling down the slope of the road head over heels, the cat scrambling right along with him.

  By instinct, Corrie jumped out of the way, up against the face of the mountain. Then she shouldered her rifle, but the two moving bodies were already several yards downhill of her. By now, Tuck was purposely continuing to roll, trying to keep the cat from getting a purchase on him, trying to keep those ghastly fangs from crushing his neck. Corrie had no way to take a shot at the cat without risking that she’d kill Tucker.

  But she had to do something. The cat was pummeling her partner with its paws, and pretty soon one of its swipes would bring him to a stop. That or its razor sharp claws would sever a major blood vessel. In the dark gray wash of the day’s last light, shooting downhill, Corrie snapped off three quick shots from her Winchester 94.

  She didn’t want to hit anything. Rather, her intent was to fire scant inches above the tumbling, scrambling bodies. Close enough for the cat to feel the passage of the rounds, hear flat, echoing cracks of the rifle shots to know it was in danger.

  Her aim must have been off though, because she heard a feral howl of rage and pain — and was reasonably sure it hadn’t come from Tuck. Her heart leaped with joy at the thought she might have
gotten lucky and nailed the cat. But then she saw the lion escape into the trees, moving somewhat unsteadily, but not as if it had been shot.

  Corrie ran down the road to where Tucker lay curled on his side. She knelt next to him, her rifle pointed at the trees in case the cat made another try. But there was no sign that the animal was coming back.

  “Jesus,” Tucker gasped in pain. “I feel like I’ve been through a threshing machine.”

  Corrie dropped her eyes to him for just a second.

  He was a mass of abrasions from the road surface and lacerations from the cat’s claws. A flap of his scalp hung loose. He shirt and pants were in bloody tatters.

  “I think I broke my right leg,” Tuck groaned.

  “I’ll get you out of here,” Corrie promised. She kept her eyes on the trees. “I thought I might have hit him, but I don’t know.”

  “You didn’t. Those shots were damn close, though.” Tuck had to grind his teeth to master a wave of pain. “You were just trying to scare the fucker away, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. I’d hate to think you were willing to sacrifice me.”

  “Unh-uh. You’ve got a real future ahead of you when you decide to grow up.”

  Corrie used all her strength to help Tuck up to his good leg. She managed to do it while making him cry out only once. Tuck put his arm around Corrie’s shoulders and they began a halting, three-legged walk to their truck.

  Corrie held her rifle at the ready in her right hand.

  “So, my shots did scare the lion off then?”

  “Sorry, Annie Oakley. But it was more of a guy thing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “In all that tumbling and rolling and swiping and scrambling …”

  “Yeah?”

  Tuck smiled through his pain. “Right at the last second there, with the only good leg I had left …”

  “What, Tucker?” Corrie asked with exasperation as they reached the truck.

  “I kicked the fucker square in his nuts.”

  Chapter 36

  Didi DuPree stood before the bathroom mirror in Gayle Shipton’s house and shaved off his goatee. Too bad. He hadn’t had it long, but he’d already come to like it. The beard had made him look … what was the word he was looking for?

  Jazzy. That was it. Like he could be blowing clarinet in some smoky little place back home in the Big Easy.

  But he’d heard from a bartender at a place he’d doubled back to in his search for Colin Ring that the deputy chief of police had been there looking for the man, too. The barman had even been straight enough with him — and with the tips Didi had been leaving he’d better be — to say that he’d mentioned Didi to the cop.

  Didi was pissed but he didn’t let it show. Best way to keep things cool was to be cool. He told the bartender it was no problem. He just asked what this cop looked like and what his name was so he could say hello if he happened to bump into him.

  Oliver Gosden, he was told, and the barkeep gave him the description of a medium tall, muscular, dark-skinned nigger.

  Didi thought he might see if this cop was dumb enough to have his address listed in the phone book. Small town cops sometimes were. Maybe he’d go burn down the cop’s house for him. Give him something else to think about while Didi was out tending to business.

  After Didi had given himself a clean shave, he grabbed a tube of goop he’d bought at a drug store. Bronzing cream the label said. He was going to bronze himself up good. Get so dark they wouldn’t serve him lunch at a soda fountain in Mobile.

  Didi knew he was part spade. How big a part he wasn’t exactly sure. He didn’t really care, either. He knew he had an African nose and mouth, and pale skin and fair eyes. He was white and black, and you couldn’t get any cooler than that.

  Wave of the future, that’s what Didi was.

  But right now he was going to explore his dark-skinned heritage. That thought gave him another idea. Made him smile. He found a pair of scissors and clipped his hair close to the bone. Then he took his razor and started shaving his scalp. He’d bronze up his melon, too.

  Gayle came in while he was shaving his head. She’d put on some silver silk lingerie since he’d last seen her. “What are you doing?” she asked, her eyes wide.

  “Creating the new me, baby. I ain’t just dangerous. I’m a man of mystery.”

  Didi wiped off his head and bent over for her. “Feel that.”

  She ran her fingers over his smooth pate.

  “Imagine grabbing on to that mother while I’m licking your lollipop.”

  “God!” Gayle Shipton exclaimed. “I’ve just got to have you do some dialogue for me,”

  Didi grinned and started applying the bronzing cream to his scalp. “You done enough work you can go out to dinner with me?”

  “Yes … but you know what you need?”

  “What?”

  “Wait here. I’ll be right back.” She returned quickly with a gold earring. It was a small, understated, elegant hoop. “I’ll have to pierce your ear,” Gayle said.

  Didi laughed. “You go right ahead.”

  Let’s see the cops or anyone else recognize him now, Didi thought.

  Maybe he’d get lucky and find Colin Ring tonight. Show ol’ Gayle just how dangerous he really was. See if she could handle it. If not, he hoped she was done with her script. Wouldn’t be any rewrites if she got squeamish. But even if he didn’t spot his prey tonight, it’d be all right. Didi was learning the man’s habits, picking up his rhythms.

  Ol’ Colin Ring would be buying his last round any time now.

  Ron’s BlackBerry chimed while he was on the basketball court. Made him miss free throw number one twenty-three in a row. Right when he’d been thinking that a visionary league like the NBA might be ready to accept his suggestion for a designated free throw shooter. Somebody the coach could call on maybe only twice a quarter, once in any overtime period. Somebody who’d replace that useless twelfth man who sat on the end of the bench. Say some steely-nerved white guy who’d stayed cool when he’d been shot at, and would laugh at any chump fans trying to distract him as he calmly swished his two shots. Him, for instance.

  Ron looked at the text message on his phone and called Corrie Knox. She answered on the first ring and did her best to sound calm.

  “Can you get right over to Community Hospital?” she asked.

  “Be there in five minutes.”

  He didn’t need to ask why she was there.

  “I’ll be in the emergency room,” she told him.

  Ron pulled his uniform and his gun out of his gym locker, threw them in the back of his patrol unit, and drove to the hospital as fast as he could without using his lights and siren. No point fraying people’s nerves any more than they already were.

  “Who was it, and how bad is it?” the chief asked when he saw Corrie at the hospital. He had his badge pinned to the waistband of his gym shorts, and his holstered gun in his hand. A cop didn’t leave either of those items in his car. Not even in an affluent place like Goldstrike.

  “It was my partner, Tucker Marsden,” Corrie explained. “He’s going to be okay, but he’s got a compound fracture of his right leg and multiple lacerations and puncture wounds.”

  They walked over to an empty waiting area. Ron asked how the attack occurred and Corrie told him.

  “You’re all right, though?”

  “Only my pride is bruised, Chief. Only my pride.”

  “I don’t see what you could have done that you didn’t do.”

  “I don’t either,” Corrie admitted. “But I’m sure something will come to me.”

  “Maybe next time you should carry a knife,” Ron suggested. “You can’t get a clean shot, just grab your blade and wade right in.”

  For just a second Ron thought he’d pissed her off, that she might wade right into him. But then the image he’d conjured caught up with her and she laughed her deep laugh.

  “Thanks for the jab,” she said. “I’m
not usually prone to self-pity.”

  “Sure. You’ve never let your partner get eaten by a lion before.”

  “Okay, okay. I’m over it.” Then Corrie finally noticed the gym clothes Ron was wearing. “Interrupted your game, huh?’

  He shrugged. “Just shooting free throws and spinning some middle-aged fantasies.”

  “Fantasies, huh?”

  “Yeah … about how I could find a place in the NBA.”

  Corrie laughed again “Wow! You do have a rich imagination.”

  “Hey,” Ron objected. “I want you to know I could have beat you at HORSE the other night.”

  “Oh, yeah? How?”

  “By dunking the ball.”

  Corrie repressed more laughter. “You really expect me to believe that?”

  “Want to put some money on it?” Ron asked evenly.

  She looked him over, paying particularly close attention to his legs.

  “How tall are you?”

  “Six-two.”

  “Palm the ball?”

  “With either hand.”

  She had one more question: “And how old are you?”

  Ron had never been shy about his age, but now he had to force himself not to hesitate before answering. “Forty-eight.”

  Corrie looked him over again, this time from the bottom up. She studied his face. She calculated. She came to her decision.

  “Tell you what,” she said. “You show me you can dunk … and I’ll indulge any other fantasy you may have for, say, a period of twenty-four hours.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Excluding any third parties, yeah. If you show me you can dunk.”

  “And if I can’t?”

  “I’ll still be nice to you. Buy you a cane and a shawl. Visit you at the old folk’s home once a month.”

  Ron started to laugh, but he cut it off as an ER doctor approached. He nodded to Ron and spoke to Corrie. “Warden Marsden is ready to be taken to his room. We’ve set his leg, debrided his wounds and sutured his scalp back in place. He’s sedated now, and tomorrow we’ll be transferring him, at his request, to a hospital near his home.”

  The chief asked, “Doctor, how many people are aware of this attack?”