I wasn't too worried, but I admit I suddenly found myself thinking about what I'd do if he came my way. The woodshed was just an open-fronted lean-to; the closest place that offered protection was the cabin, and I wasn't at all sure I could make it there ahead of him. My pulse rate started edging upward. But while I was trying to decide whether to stand my ground, or slowly work my way toward safety, or just flat-out run for it, he tipped forward from his haunches onto all fours and paced unhurriedly away.
That was when I saw his short black-striped tail, and realized he wasn't a mountain lion-he was a bobcat. The scenario started making more sense. They tended to find a home territory and stay there, and they seemed to have learned fast that we humans had our uses, such as providing livestock and pets for meals.
"You better watch it," I told the black tom. "You'd be an appetizer to him."
He kept staring with his wide green eyes, claws dug into a chunk of fir and tail switching in agitation as his mega-cousin leisurely moved out of sight, pausing every several yards to sniff the air and look around.
When the bobcat was gone, I completed my mission of carrying a few armloads of wood to the cabin. The tom jumped off his perch and followed me back and forth, butting against my ankles-wanting a drink of beer. I was ready for one myself. I dug into the forty-year-old Kelvinator and found a bottle of Moretti left over from a six-pack I'd splurged on a couple of weekends ago. I poured a splash into a saucer for the cat and worked on the rest myself, thinking about how to handle this.
On the one hand, I was relieved. I'd never heard of a bobcat attacking anyone. On the other hand, he was a really big bobcat. While I knew that wild animals and fish always grew with the telling, I also knew what I'd seen. I even wondered if a cross with a mountain lion was genetically possible. Besides his size, his coloration, brown and mostly solid, was more cougarlike; bobcats tended to be tawnier, with leopard-like black spots. And yet, there was no mistaking that tail.
I didn't want to shoot him-on the contrary, I was glad that creatures like him were out there, and I wanted to keep him there. I was just nervous that he'd eat my pet-the tom was extremely canny, but everybody made mistakes-and maybe even me. When the snow melted and the ground dried, he might head into the backcountry in search of more satisfying game, but that wouldn't happen for several weeks. And then again, he might not. I considered contacting the Fish and Wildlife Department, but that was a can of worms-strangers stomping around my place, and me losing any say in the matter.
I started leaning toward the notion that the best thing for everybody concerned would be to give him a good scare-let him know that he'd better stay away from human beings. But that was easier thought than done.
I'd start carrying a pistol when I went outside, I decided-one that threw big slugs and made a lot of noise. If I met the bobcat with a burst of explosions and chunks showering out of the trees around him, that might get the message across. The weapon would also be a comfort when I came home after dark and walked from my truck to the cabin, just in case he was bold and hungry enough to take on something bigger than a bunny.
I finished the beer and went back to puttering, while the tom curled up on the bed to sleep off his adrenaline and beer. I stacked the firewood beside the stove and started scrubbing out the blue enamel roasting pan I'd had soaking in the sink-waiting until a decent hour before I headed downtown for a Saturday evening tour of the bars, and maybe hooking up with a lady friend who wasn't interested in anything long-term, at least with me, but occasionally enjoyed the kind of company that was gone in the morning.
When the phone rang, it brought me a routine touch of angst. I wasn't crazy about telephones-another of my regressive traits. I used mine mainly for work and other necessities, rarely for chatting, and it seemed to me that unexpected calls usually meant either hassles or outright bad news. But the news would come anyway, and answering was the only way to get rid of asshole solicitors who'd otherwise keep tormenting you forever, so I picked up and grumbled hello.
At first I was sure I'd guessed right-it was some kind of a pitch. The caller was a woman whose voice I didn't recognize, asking for Hugh Davoren. But she sounded pleasant, slightly uncertain, and she even pronounced my last name right, to just about rhyme with "tavern." I tried to sound a little less brusque.
"Speaking," I said.
"This is Renee Callister. Do you remember me?"
That caught me by surprise. I hadn't seen Renee or heard anything about her since I was a teenager. Ordinarily, I'd have stumbled over a name from that long ago. But I'd been thinking about her family because her father, Professor John Callister, had passed away earlier this week.
After all this time, it seemed unlikely that she was just calling me out of the blue. I guessed that her reason had something to do with her father's death, which added a poignant element.
Professor Callister had once been a prominent figure in Montana, a highly respected wildlife biologist and defender of wilderness. But his life was ruined when his young second wife was murdered, along with the lover she was in bed with at the time. Uglier still, Callister was the chief suspect. He was never formally charged, but the murder went unsolved and he was never cleared, either. He'd spent his last several years in a nursing home, after a series of strokes left him incapacitated and, eventually, comatose.
That was the legacy his daughter, Renee, had inherited.
3
"Good God, Renee," I said, regretting my grumpy hello. "Seems like light-years."
"A lot of ordinary years, for sure. I think the last time I saw you, you were about to leave for college, and your family had a backyard barbecue party."
My recollection wasn't that clear, but I trusted hers. She was several years younger than me, so she must have been about ten then. She'd be in her early thirties now.
I hadn't really grown up with Renee. Besides the age difference, our only point of contact was that our parents were acquainted, and that had ended when her folks got divorced and she'd moved to Seattle with her mother. My recollections of her were sketchy, mostly just images of a skinny, dark-haired girl. But she was sweet, solemn, and gentle in a way that wasn't just childish shyness-it was her nature.
"I'm here in Helena, for Daddy's funeral," she said.
"I saw the notice. I'm sorry." The sentiment was trite, but I meant it.
"It's a mercy, really. I don't think he'd been aware toward the end, except maybe of pain." She sounded a little shaky, which was understandable. Mercy or not, losing a parent was losing a parent.
"Is there something I can do?" I said.
She made a slight sighing sound, like she was frustrated.
"I hate to admit it, Hugh, but that's why I called. I feel guilty, barging in on you and asking for help right off. But there's so much going on, I'm overwhelmed."
"I know that feeling. And believe me, you're not barging in on anything."
"I was hoping you'd still be a nice guy," she murmured.
Still? I thought. I couldn't recall ever being anything of the kind to her, but it was good to hear her say it.
"Daddy never sold our old house, and I couldn't bring myself to do it while he was alive," she said. "But I want to now, and it needs some work. I heard that's what you're doing these days."
I grimaced; I was probably going to have to let her down.
"I am, Renee, but I'm committed to another job for the next couple months," I said. "Are you talking something major?"
"It's hard to describe. But no, I don't think it would take long."
Homeowners rarely thought otherwise.
"Well, how about if I swing by and look it over?" I said. "I could give you an idea of what you might need done."