Claws

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  Claws

  Ozzie Cheek

  For Kimberly Myers

  — who believed long before

  there was reason for belief

  A future becomes inevitable the moment it touches the present.

  Robert Goddard

  Borrowed Time

  Prologue

  The female liger was named Kali. In Kiswahili, an African language rooted in Arabic, Kali means fierce, while the Hindu goddess, Kali, is the lord of death. Of course, Kali was unaware of her name or even that she was special.

  The offspring of a male lion and a female tiger, Kali’s skin was tawny but overlaid with stripes. A tiger’s stripes are usually black, but apart from the tip of her tail and an oval on each ear, Kali’s stripes were orangey-brown. This same hue dotted her face, while her muzzle and underbelly were white and her legs two-toned: the inside white and the outside golden-tan. Even so, it was not her color that set Kali apart. It was her size.

  A male lion mating with a female tiger creates a genetic abnormality – an exotic cat fifty percent larger than either parent. Instead of the usual length of six to eight feet, Kali was more than twelve feet long, and while a lion can top five hundred pounds and a tiger six, Kali weighed nine hundred pounds. Even without a mane, her head was much larger than a lion’s. Huge incisors were deeply embedded and designed to crack bone, and her four inches of sharp, pointed fangs were perfect for ripping and tearing raw meat. Her diurnal claws, over five inches long when extended, were the envy of any German cutlery manufacturer.

  In all, Kali was the most powerful and deadly feline ever to walk the planet. Fortunately for the creatures of eastern Idaho, Kali did not yet know how deadly she was. Like the few other ligers in the world, Kali had been born and bred in captivity. But unlike them, Kali was now free.

  The Saturday morning in mid-September when Kali appeared at the Placett family’s farm was only the second day of her three-year life that she had not been caged. It also was the second day she had to hunt and to kill in order to eat, and she was hungry. Kali reached the barnyard and was approaching a coop of fluttering chickens when the startling shriek of a smoke alarm in the farmhouse kitchen sent her bounding through the open door of a shed. Minutes later, Wade Placett came outside and called for his two black Labs, missing since dawn, walked past the old smokehouse, kicked the door shut, and latched it.

  The barnyard remained quiet except for the chickens until mid-morning when Mandy Placett brought out the laundry. As she was pinning the last of four sets of sheets to the clothesline, her five-year-old daughter, Tammy, cried out. “Ouch!”

  “What’d you do now?” Mandy asked.

  Tammy pouted. “I didn’t do nothing.”

  “Anything. And I saw you pestering Muggles.”

  Tammy was swinging a ball on a string, keeping it barely out of the reach of a tan-and-white tabby boxing at it with her paws. Muggles was a two-year-old barn cat, although not a good mouser yet.

  “Look! See what she did.” Tammy showed her mother a thin red claw-mark on the underside of her right forearm.

  “Well, I think you’ll live,” Mandy said.

  The screendoor banged and ten-year-old Josh hopped down the porch steps, saying, “My bike’s broke again, Mom.” Without saying more, he trotted across the backyard to the toolshed attached to the barn. Other buildings included the chicken coop, an old smokehouse used to store feed, a woodshed, and a long, open-faced building for machinery.

  “Josh knows where daddy hid the firecrackers.”

  “And he knows better than to mess with them too,” Mandy said, while on her way to the glassed-in porch where the washer, thumping away on the spin cycle, and the dryer, used only in the winter, squatted along the interior wall.

  Outside, Muggles suddenly hissed and arched her back. Her hair shot up like she had been zapped by electricity. “Bad, bad kitty,” Tammy said. She thumped the cat in the face with the swinging ball. Muggles leaped a foot in the air and the instant she landed darted across the dusty earth and spotty grass toward the old smokehouse.

  “Don’t let her in my chicken feed again,” Mandy called from the porch. Although they piled rocks and firewood chunks to plug the holes where the gray planks had rotted away, the cat somehow managed to slip into the shed.

  “Come back kitty,” Tammy pleaded as Muggles squeezed through an impossibly small opening. “Stupid cat.”

  “Go get her, Tammy.” A minute later when the washer stopped, Mandy heard the chickens flap and screech as Tammy ran past their coop, calling for Muggles. “Josh, come help your sister,” Mandy shouted. “Cat’s in the feedshed.”

  “Okay, Mom,” he yelled back. Josh pulled a string of firecrackers out of a wooden box that set beside a wrench on the old plank workbench. “Cool,” he said to himself.

  “Here kitty, kitty,” Tammy said when she reached a wooden shed that had been built for curing meats but now smelled like dry corn and manure. “Come’re, kitty.”

  Even from the back porch, Mandy heard the sound – a loud and painful meow suddenly cut short by – by what?

  “Mug-gles.” Tammy tiptoed to reach the latch that secured the plank door and nudged it open. “Here kitty.”

  “Tammy, wait!” Mandy hollered as she slammed open the screendoor and in her hurry only toe-tapped the steps.

  “I can do it, Momma. I’m a big girl now.” Tammy peered inside the shed. “Here kitty, kitty.” From out of the dark she heard a deep, guttural sound. “Kitty?”

  “Tammy! No!” Mandy yelled, rushing to her daughter.

  Josh opened the toolshed door and slid a wood match across the striker of the red matchbox.

  “Kitty? Where are you?” Tammy said in a near-whisper, opening the smokehouse door wider. “C’mere, kitty.”

  Kali’s head appeared out of shadows. The liger’s head was a hundred times larger than the tabby’s. Her huge amber eyes glowed. Her white muzzle and long whiskers were smeared with fresh blood. The giant cat flashed red-stained teeth and loosed a spine shivering sound. Tammy screamed and Josh, at the same moment, lit the fuse and tossed out the firecrackers.

  “Tammy!” cried Mandy.

  Tammy screamed again as a stream of urine ran down her legs. POW-POW-POW! The exploding firecrackers danced across the ground, while Kali sprang straight toward Tammy.

  One

  Jackson Hobbs was an inch taller than average and still fit at forty-two, although struggling to keep his waist within two inches of where it had been a dozen years ago. Dressed in worn black jeans, cobalt blue shirt, and black Blundstone boots, there was nothing about him that suggested the stereotype rural cop, not even with the scar. A burn scar began at his hairline and ran down his neck before turning onto his right shoulder. When it began to itch, Jackson shifted his head away from the sun. He resisted the urge to rub the scar. It never helped.

  The 2008 black Grand Cherokee that Jackson drove as Chief of Police was parked by the east bleachers, near Ed Stevens’ patrol car. Both men leaned against the Jeep while watching the Saturday football scrimmage. Beyond the Buckhorn High School playing field, dotted with red and white practice jerseys, eight girls in red skirts and sweaters, the word Antlers in white across the chest, practiced dance routines and cheers. A teacher in sweats prowled the sidelines shouting encouragement.

  Jackson didn’t care much for football and even less for cheerleading, but Jesse, his fifteen-year-old, needed to know that he supported her, especially since she had become a cheerleader mostly to appease her mother. Iris, Jackson’s ex-wife, was Buckhorn town mayor and his boss.

 
On the field the huddle broke and the linemen dropped into formation, the quarterback barked signals, and the center delivered the ball. Shane Tapper, a tall and lithe receiver, jogged out of the backfield and then spun right and sprinted toward the sideline. The southpaw quarterback threw a perfect spiral. As Shane reached for the ball, Jesse, now only ten feet away, cartwheeled past him: red skirt flapping, white briefs shining, red and white sweater blurring, bare midriff and legs beckoning. The football skimmed through Shane’s hands and hit him in the chest. A second later the defensive back knocked him to the ground.

  Coach Pettigrew waddled up to Shane with surprising speed for a fat man. “Damn it, Shane,” he said, helping the boy to his feet, “if you’d watch the ball instead of your girlfriend’s butt, maybe we’d win a few more games.” The coach gave three sharp whistles to end the practice.

  Jackson gave in and rubbed the burn scar. “Guess we should go fight crime,” he said absently. When Ed didn’t respond, Jackson glanced over at him. Ed’s head bobbed like an infant’s, like it was too big to be supported by the body beneath it. Before radiation and chemotherapy, Ed Stevens had been a robust, short man. Now the blue uniform hung on him like he was playing dress-up. “Ed?”

  “Short practice today.”

  “No reason for you to be out here. We’ll cover it.”

  Ed pulled himself free of the Jeep. “Oh hell, I’m okay, just a little sleepy is all. Used to be, I slept like a baby, but now I wake up two, three times a night. Always dreaming too, the same damn thing over and over.”

  Although Jackson said nothing, he nodded his head to let Ed know that he was familiar with bad dreams.

  “I dream something’s chasing me. A monster with a man’s body and a bird’s head or a woman’s head on a lion’s body – crazy things.” Ed reached into his shirt pocket. His hand came away empty. “Damn smokes are killing me, but I still miss them.” He paused in thought. “I saw these pictures once, Jackson. Some guy painted the monsters I see in my dreams. What I keep asking myself is why me.”

  “We all dream, all the time. We just don’t remember.”

  “Maybe so, but how come we mostly remember the bad ones? Why not dreams where we go fishing all day and your beer stays cold and elk walk right up to you and TV shows actually make you laugh? You know what my wife says? Eileen says the dreams are God writing me a warning ticket. What do you think about that?”

  “Ed, I think you’re about the best man I know.”

  The radio in Jackson’s car crackled with static and then, “Chief Hobbs, what’s your ten-twenty? Over.”

  “And I think Eileen spends too much time in church,” Jackson said, moving toward the squawking radio.

  Ed grinned. “Bosch. Like the spark plugs. That’s the name. The guy that painted the creatures from hell.”

  Jackson removed the microphone from the holder in the Jeep. “Jackson here. What’ve you got, Sadie?”

  “It’s Mandy Placett. Said she found a monster cat in one of their sheds. Said it was long as a car. Over.”

  “Be a hell of a mountain lion half that size,” Jackson said. “Anyway, she should call Fish and Game.”

  “The thing jumped right over little Tammy. She said her boy set off firecrackers to scare the tiger away. Over.”

  “Sadie, I know when you’re done talking. What tiger?”

  “Tiger, lion. She wasn’t exactly sure. But you’re their neighbor, Jackson, and the law. So she called you.”

  Jackson clicked the transmit button. “Who’s free?”

  “Angie responded to a four-fifteen-f, and Tucker, he’s at the cafe trying to sweet-talk Suzy Beans into bed. He should be out with a radar gun at junction thirty-four.”

  Jackson looked at Ed to see if he had reacted to Sadie’s commentary about officer Tucker Thule, his nephew. All Ed did was point to his own chest and grin.

  “See if Angie needs backup on the domestic. And tell Tucker he’s got ten minutes to get out to the highway. I’ll take care of the monster cat. And Sadie, call Stilts or somebody else at Fish and Game, let them know.”

  “Roger that, Chief. Over and out.”

  Jackson replaced the microphone but stayed in the car. “If you won’t go home, you may as well come with me.”

  “With you?” Ed tapped his watch. It hung loose on his wrist. “Don’t you have a meeting to go to?”

  “Damn!” Jackson stared into space, and then he said, “You go. You’re better at dealing with them anyway.”

  “Probably true, but you’re the chief now, not me.”

  Before the cancer Ed had been Chief of Police and Jackson Deputy Chief. A year later Jackson still wasn’t comfortable with the role reversal. Neither was half the town. “They’ll give me shit for not wearing my uniform.”

  “Just make sure you wear your gun. Town council, you never know if you’ll need it,” Ed said and chuckled.

  Beyond Ed, Jackson noticed his daughter coming across the field. She had swapped her cheerleading outfit for jeans, boots, a t-shirt, and a fleece vest – an Idaho cowgirl uniform. Already five-eight, she was slender in that tight-skinny jeans-that-forgive-nothing-way only certain high school girls can be. While watching her approach, Jackson said, “So what do you think Mandy saw?”

  “A big-ass mountain lion,” Ed said.

  “Except they don’t look much like a tiger.”

  “Then there’s only one thing it could be, but I sure hope she’s wrong. We’re cops, not big-game hunters.”

  “You know the Cheneys better than me. If one of their cats got out, would Ted come let us know?”

  Ed shrugged. “They ain’t lost one before.”

  Jackson turned from watching his daughter to looking at Ed again. “Not that we know of, you mean.”

  “I was there a while back,” Ed said. “They’re fixing it all up. Building a brand new, big cage. A real one.”

  “Huh! I thought they were poor as church mice.”

  “I asked Ted if they were finally gettin’ all their permits. He told me to mind my own business.”

  Jackson knew the Cheneys discouraged visits until the safari park business was open, and they could sell tickets to view their exotic cats. “Maybe it is our business,” he said and then added, “Jesse’s coming. Right behind you.”

  Ed swiveled to look at her, and Jesse, some twenty feet away, waved and said, “Hi, mister Stevens. Daddy.”

  “Now how’d you get so pretty, Jesse?” Ed said. “Look at her, Jackson. She’s just like her mother.”

  “I hope not,” Jesse said softly but not soft enough.

  “Jessica!”

  “Sorry, Dad.”

  “One of us should go check it out,” Jackson told Ed.

  “Yep. Me.”

  “Check what out?” Jesse asked.

  “Police business. You feel like doing it, Ed, then go on. Stop at Ted and Dolly’s place too. Humor me.”

  “You got it, Chief.” Ed moved as briskly as possible toward a black police cruiser with blue lettering. As he did, he grinned at Jesse. “So how’s that gelding of yours?”

  “Ready to beat them purebred Arabians.”

  “I bet he is.” Ed laughed. “Got a real cowgirl here, Jackson. Must be doing something right.” He was still grinning as he slid into the Ford Crown Vic and drove off.

  “Who’s Ted? You mean the lion guy?” Jesse asked.

  “Don’t be so nosy.” Jackson kissed the top of his daughter’s head. “You girls looked really good out there.”

  “Yeah right! Sis-boom-bah.”

  Jackson nodded, but even he wasn’t sure why.

  “Daddy, after work today I want to go on a nice long ride, a good three hours or more. Get Touie out there on some steep hills. Up and down. Work him hard. Get him used to being alone again after staying at the Double-D. Then I’ll be at the farm.”

  “Well, in that case, I’ll meet you there later and we can grill some hamburgers and –”

  “I can’t. It’s Saturday night.”<
br />
  “Saturday night?”

  “You understand, right? You were young once.”

  “Was I?” Jackson, already showing gray in his hair, wrapped his daughter in a hug. “Sometimes I wonder.”

  Jackson circled the little park and war memorial in the downtown square, turned onto Salmon Street, and a block later parked in front of the old Tapper Elementary School. A town of four thousand located in the northern part of rural Fremont County, Buckhorn was over an hour drive from St. Anthony, the county seat in the south. Whatever wasn’t handled in St. Anthony or in Boise by the state was done here in the brick building, including town council meetings.

  The Buckhorn Police Department was two blocks west on Red Hawk Road in the former home of an auto dealership. Instead of a showroom it now housed a ‘bullpen’, Jackson’s office, a storage room, a tiny break room, and a large bathroom. There were no cells. Prisoners were escorted to St. Anthony or even Rexburg. On occasion someone was handcuffed briefly to a desk. Ed had tossed a few drunks in the storage room on a cot. Jackson had five blue-pin officers with full academy training and four reserve officers, people with other jobs and much less training. In Fremont County his officers were more likely to handle a car wreck than a shooting, more likely to bust beer-breath teenagers than they were burglars. There was an anti-government group rumored to exist in the area, but for the most part infidelity and not insurrection made up the bulk of town gossip. Of course everybody talked about money and jobs. Everybody felt the squeeze of The Great Recession.

  Jackson notified Sadie that he was 10-7, but even after going out of service, he continued to sit and stare at the brick building. He had been in Idaho five years, having arrived with a wife, a gangly ten-year-old, and a new job as Ed’s Deputy Chief. His wife was now his ex, his daughter training for the country’s hardest endurance race, and he was Chief of Police. “Sis-boom-bah,” he muttered.

  Two

  Four miles north of Buckhorn on county road 34, Ed slowed to a crawl behind a green combine hogging the two-lane asphalt, even though Med Fedder steered far onto the shoulder. When the double-yellow line ended, the farmer signaled to Ed. He pulled out and, seeing no traffic, gunned the Ford. He beeped and waved as he passed.