Zombie Raccoons & Killer Bunnies (10 page)

Well,
a
fisher. I realize my head has started thinking of it as
the
fisher. Probably means something. Likely my brain is telling me something again. I don’t know what it is yet, though, so I don’t worry about it. I recognize there’s no way of me knowing if I find
the
fisher that specifically ate my cats. They’re solitary, though, so chances are if I find a fisher in our woods, it
would
be the culprit.

That makes me wonder what exactly I might do when I find it, but I push that thought off, too.

“Mom, there’s a car in the yard. Can I climb a tree?”
That’s the rule. If we want to climb, we have to be in sight of the house, and there has to be a car in the yard. That way, in case we fall and break something, there’s some way to get us to the hospital. We don’t have a telephone, so we can’t call an ambulance. Mom doesn’t like telephones, and Daddy can’t hear on them, even with his hearing aids.

She looks like she wants to say no. I don’t usually bother her about climbing, and I know she’d rather I didn’t. Probably because I’m more than a little clumsy, and again . . . not so much with the athletic. Now that I have glasses, it’s even worse. But Cat is home, and she has a car of her own now, and Daddy will be home from work in about fifteen minutes. She finally relents. “Okay, just be careful, and not too high.”

I’m already running for the door, so I’m purposely not looking at her when I call back the lie. “Nope, not too high.” I go up into the woods, straight to the really tall pine tree with all the close branches. If I can just pull myself up to get started, I can do this. I reach up to the lowest branch and tug, trying to lift my weight. I’m short, so it’s a stretch, but with a swinging jump I get my leg up and over, and I’m on my way.

Only a quarter of the way up and I’m finding the flaw in this plan. Pine pitch. My hands are already sticky with it, and I
hate
sticky hands. Since it’s too late now and I’m not about to climb back down to wash my hands off and get gloves, I just keep going. Halfway up, I can see my dad’s truck backing into the driveway. I hold onto the trunk and settle my feet, watching him come down the path with his black lunch box in hand—or dinner pail, as he calls it. He disappears into the house, and I start climbing again.

Three quarters of the way up and the branches are
getting a lot smaller, but they’re still close together, and I don’t weigh that much. From here, I start looking around at all the other trees. I can see a lot farther from up here, just like I hoped. I keep going up and only stop when the top of the tree actually sways with my weight. Then I settle onto the biggest branch I can find, grip the trunk, and start scouting. I’m above most of the oak and beech trees and can get a look into their upper branches.

I look and look and pick pitch off my palms. It occurs to me that the trees I can’t see well are the ones down over the bank, and since those are farther from the house, they would probably be the ones the fisher might like best. What are the chances I’d find it the first time out anyway? Frustrated and sticky, I’m about to give up when something moves just about on level with my eyes, somewhere further in the woods.

Searching out the movement, my eyes catch another flicker and focus on a splotch of brown amid the dark green of another large pine. I squint, and the splotch resolves into a long furry body, clinging to the tree like a giant squirrel. I can’t believe it. I’ve actually found the damn thing.

Even as my common sense is whispering, “You’re just not that lucky,” my eyes adjust, take in more detail, and I understand why I’m seeing the fisher at all.

The thing parked itself in the biggest gap in the big pine’s branches. The bushy tail is flicking back and forth, creating just enough movement to catch attention amid the greens of the woods. And it’s looking right at me.

Across a distance far enough that I shouldn’t be able to discern detail, our eyes meet and a brilliant flash of amber sparkles across my vision. I wonder if this is like the “eyes meeting across a crowded room” thing that
happens so often in my sisters’ romance novels. Sometimes they read easier than my school books, and I like the way they describe the guys, especially the ones with the red covers.

This definitely feels electric, like the books describe. And I guess you could say I’m intrigued, which the characters in the romance novels always are. Can’t say I’m kindly disposed toward the critter though. If it wanted to be found, and it obviously did, couldn’t it have made it easier than me climbing up this stupid tree? Now I’m going to have to get back down.

The voice registers in my skull like the muted crack and boom of fireworks going off, and I just about fall out of my tree. The sound almost hurts. Shaking my head to clear it, I glare across the distance. Great. Just great. It talks. Another surreal experience I can’t tell anyone about. Not that there was any doubt, but here’s one more thing to cement my freakiness. Fantastic.

No wonder my dead cats were all cool with me looking for the fisher. They knew it wasn’t just any fisher. They probably even knew it wanted to find me. I’m sure knowing about things like that is easier for the dead.

Grumbling under my breath, I start back down the tree. Climbing down is a
lot
harder than climbing up, especially for a short klutz. I can hear a low buzzing hum of impatience from the fisher. Vaguely unpleasant. I block it out with limited success. Jumping from the last branch to the ground, I stumble and catch myself. Now my sticky hands are covered with dirt, too.

I walk in the direction of the magnanimous voice. He
sounded serious, which irritates me. Who does he think he is?

Ducking branches and stepping over roots, I push further into the woods. Off to my left is our well, and uphill to my right I hear a car drive by. I push aside a swath of branches too low to duck without crawling on my hands and knees. That’s out, because there might be spiders in those dead leaves underfoot. Almost to the big pine he was in, I pause, wondering if I really want to meet up with a fisher who talks. I remember big, sharp teeth.

I won’t hurt you.
He sounds exasperated.

“Right. And I bet you’d tell me if you were going to.”

Shrugging, I push through the last few trees, and there he is, sitting on the ground on his hind legs, looking straight at me. He’s even bigger than the dead fisher at Hogback. Sitting up like that, he looks huge. He extends a hand—paw—as if to invite me to sit down, but I stay standing. “What do you want?”

He blinks rapidly and his muzzle twitches.
Want?
His mouth doesn’t move with the sound.
Honestly. You should be honored. I usually demand a sacrifice for an audience with me. Don’t suppose you have anything to offer?

I glare at him. “I’m fresh out of cats.”

“If I did, I wouldn’t hand it over to you!”

His lip lifts on one side of his muzzle in an obvious sneer.
Strange humans. So particular about which animals qualify as food. We’re not nearly so picky.
Then,
with a sudden lash of his tail, he changes the subject.
I want to talk. You’ve interested me for some time.

That rings an odd bell. “Why me?”

His tail lashes again.
Surely you realize why anyone would want to talk to you. You’re special, child.

I can’t contain the sigh. “Right. Special. Okay, so what does my specialness mean to YOU?”

“Not really. Just tired of being special sometimes.”

“I don’t trap and I don’t wear fur, and you don’t have to kill porcupines for us if you don’t want. I don’t care. I like porcupines.”

That twigs my memory, and curiosity gets the better of me. “Why are you all so good with porcupines, anyway?”

Because we’re specialty killers.
His pride shines in his voice.
We can tree them and then go up after them. On the ground, we can jump right over them when they try to turn quills on us, and we’re fast enough to bite them in the face over and over and bleed them out. Then it’s an easy case of flip and eat.

My stomach turns. Daddy was right. I didn’t need to hear about the face biting and bleeding. I’m not surprised he left that out. “Great. So if there are so many porcupines around, why do you have to eat cats?” My own reasons for finding him resurface in my mind, after the distraction of hearing he was looking for me.

Opening my mouth to argue the point, my brain zeroes in on one statement. “Their God? Do you mean you’re a—”

Of course. You couldn’t tell?
He looks affronted.
Who else but a god could manifest in a dead skin?

“God. You’re a God.”

When I just look at him he sighs.

“What’s the difference?”

Alrighty then. “So, you’re . . . god of the . . . fishers?”

“Do all the animals have their own gods?”

Something about this puzzles me. “Gods, not goddesses? None of you have a goddess?”

The fisher god shakes his head so violently, for a moment I wonder if he’s got something in his ear.
No no no. She wouldn’t be pleased with lesser goddesses popping up everywhere. She would not be pleased at all.

“She?”

Now see here! We came here to talk about me, not Her.
He stamps his foot.

“Actually I, came here to talk about my cats.”

“No, we haven’t! You just blamed it on coyotes and treated it like a done deal.”

“So you haven’t killed any of my cats.”

An anger I hadn’t recognized cools behind my breastbone. I feel deflated. “Oh.” If it wasn’t him, how can I ask him to stop?

That takes a moment to sink in. “Minions?”

He lifts a paw and gives a rumbling growl. A soft red glow suffuses his fur. The woods around us vibrate as patches of brown separate from nearby trees and consolidate into animals. Three fishers and a variety of small weasels edge forward and stop in a circle around us. I stop breathing for a minute, all those beady little eyes trained on me. It creeps me out that they were there, just so still as to be invisible. It continues to creep me out that they sit so quiet,
looking
at me.

“One of these killed my cats?”

The anger is back, and this time I know it for what it is. “But, oh, no, you guys aren’t responsible for all the cat disappearances. It’s the coyotes.” Sarcasm isn’t my best look, but I can manage it. “Why are they targeting my cats?”

His head swivels to the side, and one paw lifts to fluff his fur idly.
Ah . . . that would be my fault.

Why am I not surprised?

“Why didn’t you show yourself? Why’d you let them keep killing my cats?”

Being lumped in the same category as a giant glowing weasel isn’t the most complimentary comparison I’ve experienced. I decide that making that observation out loud could be considered insulting, so I don’t.

“I brought you to me?”

Now that’s scary. I stare at him, trying to determine if he’s kidding, but it’s a difficult face for reading expression. “You lot know Disney movies?”

He snorts, and suddenly his expression is easy to decipher.
Please. I’m a god. Mr. Disney is roasting in a special hell reserved for those who take liberties with the animal kingdom.