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DNAKeys’ research facility was out of town, down a narrow, privately maintained, paved road on the far side of House Mountain State Natural Area. There were no streetlights this far out of town and no visible security measures, but there was also no gated entrance, so the lack of obvious security measures was likely occult—not meaning paranormal, meaning hidden. Occam’s fancy car—a 2015 Ford Mustang two-door Fastback GT with all the bells and whistles—was parked in the dark off the side of the road and down a little-used driveway with an overgrown For Sale sign in the weeds, about a mile from the turnoff to the facility. I pulled in behind it, turned off the engine and the lights, and closed my eyes, letting them adapt to night vision. As I waited, I set my comms earbud in my ear, adjusted the mic, and hooked the comms system at my waistband. When my vision was more attuned to the night, I got out, carrying my flash, which I didn’t turn on, and walked around the fancy car.
The men were nowhere to be seen, which meant they were changing shape or were already hunting. They hadn’t been that far ahead of me so I was betting on shape-shifting somewhere out in the dark. I sniffed and listened to the night, taking in the smells and the sounds. A little exhaust. My coffee. Something musky. The wereleopards, most likely. I heard no sounds except what might be the far-off hum of cars. In the distance were city lights. Closer were security lights, which I assumed would be DNAKeys’.
I returned to my truck and sat, engine and lights still off, in the growing cold, sipping coffee from my insulated mug, strong and black. The caffeine was a drug, too bitter to be a froufrou drink, too strong to be my “regular.” I waited, my senses straining into the dark, kneading my rooty middle, literally putting my fingers on my non-humanness. The cold seeped into me, and I pulled the pink blanket over me. I had rescued it from the truck bed and it no longer felt like maggots.
If this had been Soulwood I could have put my hands in the earth and discovered the cats’ location easily. Out here, so far from home, the land wouldn’t even know I was alive, especially in the dormant season. Trying to read the land would be harder. A lot harder. And I’d grow leaves that I would then have to prune. I shoulda brought me a good book.
The first indication that the men had shifted was a thump that rocked the truck and Occam’s cat face pressed against the windshield, staring at me, lips pulled back, showing me his fangs. He hissed. My only reaction was to grip my cup so hard I feared I might bend the metal handle. I wanted to jump or squeal, or both, which I presumed he had intended. Occam’s cat was mischievous. I narrowed my eyes at him, knowing he could see me clearly in the dark. His lips lowered to cover his teeth and he stared at me, white whiskers touching the windshield.
Occam was a pretty cat, all gold and dark brown, his golden eyes lined with black like an Egyptian king’s with kohl. Deliberately, I sipped my coffee and stared back at him, giving as good as I got. Maybe better. He snorted, blowing twin spots of condensation on the glass. He lay down, belly on the warm hood, his huge, dappled body vanishing in the night, his face close to the glass.
He didn’t shift his gaze away.
I was being hunted. I scowled at the cat and set my coffee in the mug holder, pulled on the headgear, drew my service weapon, and set it on the dash. Occam now appeared as a greenish spotted killer, haunches and tail hanging off the truck. “Take that, you dang ol’ cat,” I muttered. Occam blinked. Looked at the gun on the dash. At me. And turned away, giving me the back of his head. He flopped his head down flat on the hood. In cat-speak, it was a complete dismissal and a refusal to consider me anything but a bore, and certainly not a threat. It made me want to laugh or shoot him, or both, but I refrained. “Tit for tat,” I said, knowing he could hear me through the windows. “Don’t push it, pussycat.”
Occam chuffed and started purring. I could feel the vibration through the truck body. He was having fun. The grindylow joined him, and started grooming Occam’s fur, her long, improbable steel claws combing and probably trimming as she worked.
About ten minutes later, there was a second thump and a black big-cat joined him, a comms unit strapped around his neck, but otherwise hard to see in the night. My hood bowed, so I tapped on the window and waved them away. They ignored me. I tapped my mic to turn on the recorder and said, “Night op.” I gave the date and the location by address and GPS coordinates. “Time is three twenty-six a.m. Occam and Rick LaFleur at recon. Nell Ingram as backup.” Without glancing my way, Rick nudged Occam. The two cats, with the grindy riding on Occam’s back, slid to the ground and vanished, leaving the truck rocking and the hood returning to normal. Dang cats.
I adjusted the mic into a more comfortable position and holstered my weapon. Drank down most of the coffee. When the cold started to creep in, I got out of the truck, crossed the road to a tree I had seen when I reconnoitered Occam’s car, and sat on the low branch. I adjusted the fit and the gear until I could see and hear and talk with ease and played with the headgear, switching back and forth from IR to low light.
I identified a small herd of deer moving along the hillside, their bodies reddish on IR, heated against the colder earth, and when I flipped the knob to low light, greenish. Later, two large dogs raced down the road, well fed and enjoying a night of freedom, possibly escapees from chains or small pens, from the way they played and loped and chased each other. They never saw or smelled the deer. Or me. An owl flowed over the ground, silent as death, and dropped on a rabbit. Its squeal of pain and fear was quickly cut off as the owl carried it to a branch and started eating.
Feral cats hunted, small spots of color depending on which visual spectrum I used. Minutes passed. The excitement of playing with the new night oculars wore thin. The cold deepened. I prepared to be frozen and bored. One thing the long wait gave me was time to think and I realized that being left in HQ’s parking lot wasn’t a gender thing. It was totally a cat thing. If Tandy had been their backup, he would have been left standing there too. As slights went it was small, and only seemed big to me because, as T. Laine would say, it had pushed my buttons.
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