“Yeah. I’ll try to make it steak next time. Take ’em.” Grizzard took the bag, opened a McMuffin and ate it in three bites. I heard his stomach rumble in relief. “When’s the last time you ate a real meal?” I asked.
“Before werewolves started eating people. That takes the joy out of food.” He opened another sandwich and took a bite, disproving his own theory about his appetite. “Okay,” he said through a bite of my cheap bribe. “Show me.” He raised his middle finger to a tri-county map hanging on the wall. I didn’t think the middle finger was an accident.
Turning my back to him, which Beast didn’t like, I found the bend in the river, the junction of Spring Creek on the far side. I pointed. “Campsite’s here somewhere. Away from the river.”
Grizzard pulled up an aerial view on his laptop and it was detailed enough for me to find what might be the rock I woke up on at dawn, not that I shared it with him. I pointed to a smaller area, thinking I recognized a tree that was now larger than when the shots were taken. “The house where the squatter was bitten is . . . here.” I shrugged when Grizzard tried to pin me down more than that. I wasn’t gonna do his job for him, and besides, mountain lions don’t do GPS.
“Park land is close, but so are some private parcels,” he said, sounding frustrated. He dropped into his chair and dialed an old-fashioned phone, calling the park service, where he spoiled the ranger’s breakfast, requesting he drive to the site and check it out. When he hung up, he drummed his fingers, thinking.
I would hate being a cop. The sitting around waiting would drive me nuts.
Next he called the Madison County sheriff, who turned out to be a woman. I heard her voice on the other end of the phone, direct as a drill sergeant and nearly as earthy. Grizzard addressed her as Scoggins, and I had a mental picture of her, with steel gray hair, a muscular body, and the posture of an aggressive alpha dog. Just my nerves talking, but it seemed to fit the voice. She cussed as she took down info and sent a deputy out along Paint Rock Road to liaise with the ranger. She cussed as she arranged radio frequencies so they could manage a four-way chat without being overheard by John Q Public. While they talked and arranged and cussed some more, Grizzard ate, managing to down two more sandwiches.
I brought him a coffee when his voice started to sound dry. The good little helpful citizen, yeah, that’s me. I smothered my impatience and waited.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Who? Bit? You?
I heard the park ranger gag when he described the site over the four-way chat line. It was on park land, but just barely. The deputy wasn’t much better, sounding young and full of horror.
Then, in the background, I heard the ranger say, “There’s fresh cat tracks. Like a mountain lion. Huge paws.”
Grizzard lifted his eyes at me, holding me pinned. I tried to look surprised and innocent. “No mountain lion sign in the state,” he said, “not in nearly a hundred years. The record kill for bobcats, though, is something like forty-eight pounds.” He added thoughtfully, “Lynx have bigger paw pads.” He shook his head. “But unless it’s got rabies or distemper, no bobcat or lynx attacked, killed, and ate humans. Mountain lions, though—”
I shook my head, interrupting. “Wolf tr—”
“Wait,” the ranger said. “I see the wolf tracks. There’re everywhere, but older. Settled into the soil.” A moment later he said, “Looks like the wolves did the killing and the cat came to investigate. If it’s a bobcat, it’s got the biggest damn feet I ever saw.”
Trying to maintain an innocuous expression, I lied. “Could be. I heard snarling and hissing and, in the distance once, a woman screaming bloody murder.” Those were sounds a bobcat makes, especially a female in heat with males fighting over her. Lynx screams sound different to Beast, but no human would know the difference.
“Unless you have some reason to consider putting out traps, forget the cat for now,” the female sheriff said, taking charge of her men. “When CSI gets there, have them make pictures of the cat prints and include it in the report.
“Grizzard,” she said, her voice tight. “How do we kill these things?”
“Silvershot.”
She cursed succinctly. “I can’t afford silvershot. My budget’s screwed already.”
I lifted a finger. Grizzard jutted his chin at me, giving me permission to speak. “I can call a . . . friend or two. See if they’ll donate the silver rounds.” I meant Leo Pellissier and Lincoln Shaddock. They were loaded. Let them help out the local law, make a few friends in high places. But I also knew not to hide that from the cops. “Vamps,” I said.
Scoggins cussed like a sailor for ten seconds, then went silent. Grizzard and I could hear her breathing over the line, harsh sounds like an angry bulldog. “Grizzard? What do you think?”
“Better the suckheads than my men going furry every full moon,” he said instantly.