But the rifle was outside the cage, and Wesley wasn’t going anywhere. The man with the light wasn’t coming on, though, and after a time Wesley realized that he was scared of the cats.
Kino seemed to know it, too, and though he growled again, he lowered his head, dropped his chin onto Wesley’s thigh. His large eyes regarded Wesley sorrowfully.
“Not your fault, Kino,” Wesley said. “He did it to me, not you. It was his fault. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”
The cat’s head lolled down onto the ground but his eyes were still open, his breath coming in anguished gasps.
“I’ll be fine,” Wesley told him. “Don’t you worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
Take him first, he prayed silently, take this cat first, because he will understand when I am gone, and I do not want him to know that he killed me, because that will hurt him. So take him first, and Lord, take him soon.
“You’re a good cat,” he said from deep in his throat, his lips thick, impossible to move. “You’re a good boy.”
Then he couldn’t even try to talk anymore, and they lay there together in the dirt, Wesley keeping his hand against the tiger’s fur and leaning his head against the same deadly paw that had struck him in the darkness. Out in the woods, the blue light continued to glow, but it came no closer. The wind blew cold and constant, but Wesley was warm there in his own blood and against the tiger’s fur. He was warm enough.
Kino died first. Wesley Harrington’s final thoughts were of thanks.
18
KIMBLE HAD BEEN POLICING IN Sawyer County for twenty-one years now, and in that time he thought he’d seen about every manner of death. Homicides, suicides, car wrecks, electrocutions, fires—you name it, he’d seen it.
Except for a man killed by a tiger.
Somehow, he blamed Wyatt French. He’d been on the highway for ten minutes, headed for the women’s prison, when the call came. There was an uneasy moment when the ring of the phone inside the darkened car as the countryside slid soundlessly past created a sense of déjà vu so strong he was certain that he’d look down and find the call was coming from Wyatt again.
Instead, it was his dispatcher, but as she detailed the scene and its location it felt as if it had all developed at Wyatt’s hand anyhow. Kimble found out that two deputies were already en route. Pete Wolverton, a veteran, always a good man in a messy situation, and Nathan Shipley, who’d been close to the preserve already, making his own morning drive to go back out and see if they’d had any luck trapping the black cat. Apparently they had not.
Kimble said that he’d be there as soon as he could, and then he turned around and put on his lights and drove back toward the mountains.
You can put another one on the board, Kimble thought. One more dead man at Blade Ridge, Wyatt. I’ll add him to your maps.
The glass at the top of the lighthouse glittered in early-morning sun when he arrived. The wind was still and there were birds singing in the trees and one ambitious woodpecker at work somewhere up the hill. Cold, with that December chill, but beautiful. It seemed like a spot where you’d want to stop and spend some time, right up until you noticed the crime-scene tape.
When Kimble arrived, he learned that he’d beaten Audrey Clark to the scene, and he was glad of that. The fewer civilians around, the better, for his first look, and right now he had only one: the kid who’d discovered the body. His name was Dustin Hall, and though he said he was twenty-four, he looked about fourteen. With thick dark hair that needed a cut and glasses with bent frames, he had the appearance of someone likely to need rescue from the inside of a gym locker. The kid was still worked up, crying and blubbering, and though Pete Wolverton was hardly known for his soothing qualities, Kimble asked him to calm the witness down so he could look over the death scene without distraction.
“I’ll show it to you, chief,” Nathan Shipley said. They’d just gone far enough to fall out of earshot of Wolverton and Hall when Shipley looked at Kimble and added, under his breath, “Do you believe this? I was worried about the one who got out. Harrington was killed by one who stayed in, though.”
“I wish I’d posted someone out here last night,” Kimble said. “I should have.”
Shipley fell silent then, probably remembering the way he’d turned down Kimble’s request.
“There’s something wrong with this place,” he said. “I really think that—”
“Just show me the scene, Shipley.”
The way Shipley told it, the kid, Dustin Hall, had arrived for the morning feedings, found himself alone on the property, and gone in search of Harrington, who was always up and at work by the time Hall arrived. He first checked the trailer, found it empty but with the door open, and then ventured into the preserve. He found Harrington inside one of the cages, torn damn near in half, with a dead tiger at his side.