“You watch him do it?” Mitchell asked. He was holding his coffee mug close under his chin. When he sipped the coffee, Cam saw that his teeth were in terrible shape, yellow and even black in some places. He looked right at Cam, who couldn’t help but stare. Those silvery white eyes were strangely compelling.
Cam hesitated, then told Mitchell what had happened.
“You a cop,” Mitchell said. “Ain’t you supposed to stop that kind of thing?”
Cam looked away. “I didn’t,” he said slowly, “because I sympathized with the man. The alternative was for him to go to jail, maybe even end up on death row.”
“For doin’ what was right,” Mitchell said.
“Revenge killing isn’t right,” Cam said. “That’s what the law’s for.”
Mitchell made a rude noise. “Law’s for goddamned lawyers,” he said. He pushed back his chair, finished his coffee. He was clearly preparing to get up and leave. “I don’t know nothin’ about no cat dancin’.”
Cam had the feeling that Mitchell knew he’d been holding back. But he couldn’t overcome years of police training. When you did an interview, you told the person as little as possible. That way, whatever you were told should not, in theory, be tainted by hints of whatever it was you were investigating.
“All right,” Cam said. “I appreciate your coming by. I didn’t see a vehicle out there. You need a ride back somewhere?”
“Walked in,” Mitchell said, getting his hat and coat off the floor. “Walk back out, I reckon.”
“And you’ve never met James Marlor?”
“Don’t b’lieve so. But I take lotsa folks into the backwoods. Could be he was one of them, but I don’t recall that name.”
“If I need to talk to you again, what’s the quickest way I can find you?”
“Carter’s store, up to Cherokee,” he said, putting on his hat. “But you’n me? Don’t b’lieve we got anythin’ much to talk about, mister.”
“We might,” Cam said, for want of anything better to say.
“Real talk’s gotta go both ways,” Mitchell said. “Strangers come around these here parts, asking a buncha questions? Most folks ain’t gonna know nothing a-tall.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Cam said nonchalantly. “Appreciate your coming by.”
Mitchell nodded at him, went out the front door, and closed it behind him. Neither dog seemed to pay much attention one way or another.
Cam got up and poured himself another mug of coffee. Okay, he thought, that was a waste of time. The man had said he didn’t know Marlor or anything about these so-called cat dancers, and Cam had no reason to doubt him. He decided to ask around some more, starting with the local cops.
Half an hour later, he left the cabin with the dogs and walked over to his truck. There had been a heavy frost the night before and all the windows were solid white. He popped the dogs into the backseat and was climbing into the driver’s seat when he saw something on the hood. He got back out.
The hood was covered with a substantial layer of white, but right in the middle there was what looked like a paw print. It was a large paw print, complete with identifiable pads and claw marks, eight inches across, maybe a little bigger than that. Cam studied it carefully and then looked around to see if there were any other prints on the ground, but all he could see were his own dogs’ prints, which were much smaller than what was on the hood. He examined the big print again. It didn’t make sense, just one print. He circled his truck this time, scanning the ground. Nothing except his own footprints and those of the dogs. But that thing was huge, and it definitely looked like a cat’s print. He’d seen bear prints before, and this was different.
He walked back over to the cabin and searched the ground around the small building for Mitchell’s boot prints, but there were none. Just his own and the scattering of the two dogs’ prints from where they’d come out of the cabin and done their usual morning romp, Frack insulting trees and Frick checking out the scents left over from the night. But there was absolutely no sign of where Mitchell had walked in or out, either. He looked up into the surrounding hills, where birches, pines, and a host of bare-branch hardwoods stood frosty sentinel duty on the slopes. A crow lifted off from a distant tree and started raising a racket. How had he managed that, Cam wondered. Walking in and out without leaving a trace?
Then he thought about the paw print. Maybe this was Mitchell’s way of telling him something about cat dancers after all. He shivered in the cold mountain air.
37
He saw two sheriff’s cruisers in front of the local Waffle House when he drove into town, so he pulled in. He’d quit going to Waffle House about five years ago, when’d he’d begun to watch his girlish figure, but felt right at home with the sudden aroma of cigarette smoke, hot grease, bacon, and road-grade coffee. Two bulky deputies were having breakfast at the counter, so he took a stool and ordered his usual. He nodded at the nearest deputy, who’d been in the Carrigan County Sheriff’s Office headquarters the day before.
“Y’all find White Eye?” the man asked, stubbing out his cigarette and lighting up a replacement. He was fat but muscular, with a round red face and a belly that strained his uniform shirt. His Glock looked like a toy gun in its side holster. His shiny green jacket looked to be a size fifty-two, if not bigger.
“Actually, he found me,” Cam said.
Both deputies nodded at that, as if confirming something they already knew.
“Get what you needed?” the second deputy asked. He was younger and thinner than the one right next to Cam, but he had the oversize forearms and biceps of a weight lifter. One of the waitresses came banging by behind the counter and refilled their coffee cups in three quick movements while calling in an order over her shoulder in Waffle House code to the grill man.
“No, I didn’t. He was agreeable enough, but said he didn’t know anything about what I was asking him.”
“And what was that, Lieutenant?” the big deputy said, eyeing Cam through a haze of cigarette smoke.
Cam hesitated but then thought, What the hell. “We’ve got us a murder investigation going back in Manceford County. A term has come up that we can’t figure out- cat dancers. This Mitchell guy supposedly knows what it means.”
The two deputies glanced at each other and then resumed work on their breakfast platters. Cam could hear a low mutter of operational traffic coming from their shoulder mikes.
“Y’ all ever heard that term?” he asked.
Both of them shook their heads at the same time.
“Manceford County,” the big guy said. “That’s a ways east of here. Who put you onto White Eye?”
“A suspect,” Cam answered. “Someone who’s no longer alive.”
The deputies absorbed this news with equanimity. There were always risks associated with being a suspect. Cats, Cam thought. He remembered the big paw print. “Are there any big cats up here in the Smokies?” he asked.
“There’s lots of stories,” the smaller of the two said. “Hikers and rafters come back saying they seen a mountain lion. Some ranchers on the edges of the park claim they’ve lost stock. But officially, the Park Service says they’re all gone in the East.”
“We’ve got bobcat, now,” the big cop offered. “Coyotes, some say wolves, even, and lots of bears, too.” The smaller one agreed.
“One couldn’t easily mistake a bobcat for a mountain lion, though,” Cam said.
They both agreed that was right. Cam asked if there were other guides in the area. The deputies told him yes but said most of them closed up their operations and headed south to warmer weather during the winter-not enough business.
“But White Eye stays?” Cam asked.
“White Eye does his own thing,” the big deputy said, stubbing his cigarette out on his breakfast plate. “He guides, but he’s picky. Likes to do unusual stuff, from what I hear. Take folks out to caves, or secret trout pools. I hear he’s kinda expensive, too. Picks and chooses his customers.”