Fatalis (38 page)

The initial charge was followed by the choked screams and panicked flight of a disoriented mob. Guests who had been networking seconds before were now trying vainly to survive. The flame pits filled with stumbling waitstaff and panicked producers, the tents were splashed with the blood of actors and agents, and the pool filled quickly with reporters and managers who sought safety in the water. But the cats followed them in. Some of the saber-tooths jumped while others slid into the pool like crocodiles. The water turned cherry-red as the cats bit into their victims and shook them violently from side to side. The guests flailed and gurgled, groping hands and looks of wide-eyed terror occasionally bursting through the surface. Before long the cats climbed back onto the tile, dripping water and blood from their dead prey. The bodies were dropped on the edge of the pool while the cats pursued the few who had managed to get as far as the driveway.

Soon everything was silence. As the flickering fires threw distorted shadows on the hedges, the cats speared the party-goers with their fangs and began carrying them through the hedges to the valley whence they'd come.

He watched from a hilltop that overlooked the preying ground. On either side were two golden warriors whose yellow-white eyes, like his, were focused on the attack. A brown creeper clung to the back of one of them, using its long, curved bill to dig insects from the fur of one of the subordinate animals. Their fur rippled in the wind, the three of them sniffing the air as it gusted by. They ignored the strange smells, of which there were many. Only the familiar ones mattered, and one in particular.

Like the smells, the landscape itself had changed. The hills were different. They were smoother, with many caves above ground and creatures dwelling inside them. There was more water than before, clear and bright and collected in small ponds like the one below. There were tiny fires everywhere, including lights that moved through the sky-

Suddenly, he detected something on the wind.

His great silver head turned slowly in the direction from which they'd come. It wasn't a smell he'd sensed but a presence. He'd sensed it before only it was nearer now, more powerful.

More dangerous.

He didn't wait for those below to finish. They would follow soon enough. Moving quickly and resolutely, but not with haste or fear-never with fear-he strode down the hill followed by the two at his side.

Soon they would be home. He could smell that too. And when they reached it, they would make a stand against the thing that hunted them.

Death.

The Chumash believed that Death was dangerous company, a tangible thing that stayed behind after it claimed a victim. They believed that it inhabited minerals and also infiltrated living things, piggybacking itself on the soul or in the mind. Sometimes it lulled the host outright, sometimes it drove them mad before killing them.

In the end, of course, Death always won.

Grand didn't believe that. But as he rode in the noisy chopper with the dead saber-tooth, he felt more than just the loss of the cats. The scientist was sitting in a sling-seat near the door and the animal was lying on the canvas, trussed and uncovered. Yet there was still a sense of menace about it It was almost as if the saber-tooth could rise again.

The scientist looked around the cabin. Gearhart was riding in the cockpit. He had the copilot's headset pressed to one ear. There was only one guardsman in the back and he was looking out the window.

Suddenly, Gearhart turned and shouted into the rattling-loud cabin. "Professor!"

Grand slid from the sling and went to the cockpit.

"We've got a new destination," Gearhart said.

"Where?"

"The Hollywood Hills," the sheriff said. "There's been another attack."

"When?"

"Within the last half hour or so." He offered Grand the headset. "Lieutenant Mindar wants to talk to you."

Grand switched places with Gearhart. The severed tail of the saber-tooth swung and bounced on the sheriff's left hip as he moved. It almost seemed alive. Grand looked into the cockpit as he slipped on the headset and adjusted the microphone. This was the first time he'd used one of these while standing up. Usually he was sitting in the pilot's seat of his small plane.

"This is Jim Grand."

"Professor, this is Lieutenant Sam Mindar. Did Sheriff Gearhart tell you about the attack?"

"Yes. Do we know how many cats?"

"No. The police are talking to someone who apparently arrived moments after it happened. The person saw large animals and the police found gold fur on the hedges. They're organizing a search of the hills right now."

It took a moment for all of that to register. The Hollywood Hills were to the southeast of their position. Depending on where the saber-tooths struck, they were within ten miles or so of the La Brea Tar Pits. They must have kept moving through the night. Perhaps the females had broken off to rest.

"The LA Chief of Police wants to divert your Chinook to help with the air search," Mindar went on. "Sheriff Gearhart also said you know where the cats are heading. I need that intel now. They're moving into a densely populated region and they have to be stopped."

"I agree," Grand said. "But they have to be stopped with tranquilizers, not bullets."

"Professor, I've discussed this with Sheriff Gearhart. Sedatives are notoriously unpredictable-"

"I understand," Grand said. "Keep your guns as backup. I'm not asking for guarantees, just a chance."

"To do what?"

"Capture them."

Lieutenant Mindar was silent for a moment. "Professor Grand, I can't give you my word about how this is going to be handled. Now that the situation has entered greater Los Angeles I won't be in charge of the operation. I'll talk to the police chief about sedating the creatures but it would help if you gave me some good-faith information to work with."

"All right," Grand said. "Tell him I may be able to figure out the exact route the saber-tooths are taking through the mountains. When I do, I should be able to get ahead of them and lure them to wherever they want."

"How will you do that? If they've already eaten, food won't-"

"I won't be using food," Grand said.

"What, then?"

"I'll be using tar."

"The La Brea Tar Pits," Mindar said. "Of course. That's where the animals are headed."

"Yes, but there are many ways they can get there and you can't cover them all. Look, I've fought these cats close-up. I think I can get near enough to bait them and get out again."

"You'd risk that to save them?"

"Absolutely."

"Fair enough," Mindar said. "I'll do what I can. Please put Sheriff Gearhart back on."

Grand handed the headset to Gearhart and they switched places again. The lieutenant had sounded like a reasonable enough man. Perhaps this wouldn't be as bad as he'd thought. But as he stood beside the sling-seat and looked back at the dead cat, curiosity, concern, and fear moved his mind in countless directions. He picked one.

Maybe he'd asked the wrong question before.

Grand didn't believe that, yet he couldn't help but wonder if he was doing the right thing. Of course it was right to try to save the cats. At least on an emotional and scientific level, and certainly on an ecological one. But what about on a spiritual level? Even if the cats could survive in captivity, was it fair to take away their predatory imperative? The world
was
different from the one they'd known. They couldn't roam free.

Not that it mattered. It wasn't his decision to make. Providence had kept these cats alive. And not for science but for that fact, he would do everything possible to keep them alive.

Grand remained standing where he was as the scuffed floor vibrated and tilted beneath him. He had to call Hannah with this new information, get her to narrow her search. As he reached for the phone, his mind moved somewhere else. The scientist had devoted his life to studying the hunting techniques of ancient peoples. He wondered if they'd ever attempted what he was about to try.

Most likely
, he decided. Pleistocene hunters were pretty resourceful. Grand wondered then, with a flash of concern, if it had actually been tried on these very cats-and if so, whether the saber-tooths had fallen for it.

Probably. So far they seemed to.

But primitive humans almost certainly never had to deal with the other questions that nagged at Grand. They had relied on one another to make weapons, shoes, and water pouches that wouldn't break. They had needed each other to guard their backs during a hunt, to watch campsites while they slept, and to protect the mates and children of men who were out searching for prey.

As his mind took yet another path the question that bothered Grand was whether he could do the same.

Save for Hannah, the Wall-who was finishing up in the photo lab-and the night editor, Charlie Wong, the newspaper office was empty.

Hannah had written up the Monte Arido attack and collected the information Grand had requested. She called the cell phone. She hoped Grand had some ideas: What she had to tell him did not leave her optimistic.

Grand answered. The connection was weak and Hannah had to cover one ear to hear.

"Hello, Jim?"

"Hannah-I was just about to call. There's been another encounter, up on Coldwater Canyon in the Hollywood Hills."

"What happened?"

"The cats attacked an outdoor party," he said. "I don't know much more than that."

"Coldwater," she said. "That's right on your southeast beeline."

"I know. Have you got anything?"

"At least fourteen possible exits all around the Miracle Mile," she said. She looked at the geological charts. "But the route from Coldwater shouldn't be as difficult to trace. I can't read these things too well-but it looks like five or six trenches and faults lead in that direction."

"I'll look around the site and see what I can find in the way of sinkholes or tunnels," Grand said. "Thanks, Hannah. Would you be able to gather up the maps and meet me at the Page Museum?"

"The one right at the tar pits?"

"Yes."

"I can be there in about ninety minutes," Hannah said.

"Great See you there."

Hannah hung up. She immediately called her Los Angeles stringer to send him up to Coldwater; he said he'd just gotten a call from one of his sources at the fire department and was on his way. Hannah then rushed to the small photo lab where the Wall was surrounded by hi-tech processing gear and computer monitors for the digital work. He was examining his color prints.

"All this bloodshed. These are heartbreaking," he said.

Hannah glanced at them. "Completely."

The Wall looked at her. "Is that the best you can do?"

"What do you mean?"

"'Completely.' This is tragic."

"I know, Wall," she said. "But it's like my dad said about war. Fight now, mourn later. Give the best shots to Charlie and then get your stuff."

"What's happening?"

"We're going to meet Jim at the George Page Museum in Los Angeles," Hannah said.

The photographer shook his head. "Can't you leave me here?"

"Leave you? Hell, no. Wall. You're my photographer, remember?"

"For
The Coastal Freeway
," he said, "Covering greater Santa Barbara County."

"Which is where this story started, which makes it ours. Now let's go."

He didn't move.

"Come on Walter. I don't have time for this."

"Time," he said. "You know what happens to reporters who don't take the time to sleep, eat, and reflect on life a little?"

"They get scoops," she replied impatiently.

"No," the Wall said. "They lose perspective. They get desensitized."

"Wall, what the hell are you talking about? What brought this on? The photos?"

"Partly. I've been standing here looking at these photos and thinking that we may be part of the problem. Gearhart wants to save human lives. Grand wants to save prehistoric monsters. Gearhart doesn't want people to know what's going on, you want people to know everything." The photographer shook his head. "We're fighting each other over creatures that are fighting each other. Somewhere, sometime, someone has to say, 'No more fighting.'"

"Wall, we're fighting to keep people informed, to try and improve the quality of human life."

"Not to prove something? Maybe to a father or to ourselves?"

"Hey, I want respect," Hannah said. "But that's not the reason I'm doing this and you know it."

"No, to do good."

"That's right!"

"But you're never the one who gets seriously knocked around," the Wall said. "Remember our last year at Brown when we did the series about mobsters and jocks making book on college sports?"

"Of course I remember. We were nominated for the Anna Prize."

"You were nominated for the prize. When we showed up at one of the bars where they did their betting, I was the one who got hit with a blackjack. A year ago when we did that Lone Rangering about Caltrans and the right-of-way land they bought cheap up here then sold at a big-bucks auction, who got roughed up trying to get into the public meetings? The guy without the lucky dog tags hanging from his neck."

"You survived," she said, "and I was able to be there when upper management voted themselves big pay increases using that money. A week after our article appeared they got voted out. We won."

"That's just my point," the Wall said. "We never really win. We just keep fighting, and they just keep fighting- whoever 'they' are on that particular day-and we all just keep getting more and more worn down." He gestured toward the desktop. "I look at pictures like these and you know what I see? Not death and blood. I see a great page one. We'll sell a lot of copies, outsell the LA
Times
. Another battle won, until the next day and the next day and the day after that."