“Is he really part Indian?”
“So they say,” the man answered. “But there’s lots of cons being run up on the reservation, especially around the casino. A lot of those so-called Indians came down here from New York City. But hey, as long as the tourists don’t care, we don’t care. If a hustle gets out of hand, we smack somebody down.”
The smaller deputy pulled his shoulder mike over to listen to something and then nudged the big guy. “MVA ‘with,’” he said. “Rock and roll.” They both threw some bills down next to their platters, nodded good-bye to Cam, and headed for their vehicles.
Cat dancers, Cam thought. Something definitely there, the way both of those guys had immediately denied it. No discussion, no asking him to repeat it, no back-and-forth between them, kicking it around. Just plain denied hearing the expression and quickly changed the subject. And White Eye, talking cryptically about conversation having to go two ways. It had to have been White Eye who left that paw print on the hood of his truck. Screwing around with him a little bit?
He was walking back out to his truck when the pager went off in his pocket. He pulled it out and read the number. There was a pay phone back in the Waffle House’s anteroom, so he went back in. The sheriff himself answered.
“You having any luck?”
Cam described what he’d seen and heard so far. “I think some people around either know what the term means or have heard it. But everyone’s being pretty closedmouthed.”
“Find a woman,” the sheriff said. “Someone who runs something up there. Isn’t there a casino? Find the hookers. They know everything, and women like to talk.”
“Hookers? Up here?”
The sheriff chuckled. “Hookers are everywhere, Lieutenant, despite your limited experience.”
Cam laughed out loud. “How’s it coming with the feds?” he asked.
“Had a brain fart,” the sheriff told him. “Asked the SBI to broker a meeting with the Bureau and the ATF. We’re calling it a ‘comprehensive case review.’ We’re getting together tomorrow in Raleigh. I used the fact that Marlor was dead to break the logjam.”
“So he really did the deed?”
“He did. Surry County found the body. One under the chin. Forty-five, like you said.”
Messy, Cam thought. Very messy.
“Kenny and the guys come up with anything more on the bombing or what happened at that warehouse?”
“He’s checking statewide to see if there’ve been any reports of ‘accidental’ shootings in any of the sheriffs’ offices,” Bobby Lee said. “Nothing yet. I have to tell you, he still doesn’t think cops are involved in what happened to the judge.”
“Well, it wasn’t Marlor,” Cam said.
“We have only his word for that. I need you to pull something out of the hat out there, Lieutenant, and sooner would be better than later.”
“All right, I’ll go find me some hookers,” Cam said, and hung up. He decided it was time to go on up to the casino at Franklin and check it out.
In fact, the casino and attached resort hotel were a total bust in the hooker department. The place was ultramodern, filled with families having a great time, and all the games were digital. He then drove out to some of the smaller strip towns on the approaches to Franklin, cruising streets lined with grease-burger joints, guide shops-most of which were closed for the winter-and motels with names like the WigWam Lodge and the Tee-Pee Campground. He drove around for a while, not quite sure what he was looking for, until he saw Carter’s Trading Post, which was a faux log building, complete with a porch lined with rocking chairs. Stone chimneys flanked each end, both of which were serving apparently operational fireplaces. He remembered the name from his little talk with Mitchell, so he pulled into the nearly empty parking lot, let Frack out, put him to heel, and went in. The store was exactly what he expected, filled with racks and shelves containing a few thousand tourist trinkets and featuring a sandwich bar in one corner. One of the plainest females he had ever seen was doing paperwork behind the main counter. There were no other customers in the store.
He wandered around, pretending to look at all the Indian souvenir junk, with Frack keeping station by his left hip. He finally went up to the counter and said good morning to the three-hundred-pound woman tending the register. She smiled at him, which positively transformed her face, returned his greeting, and then said hello to Frack, who just looked at her. She didn’t seem to be in the least bit disturbed by the huge black shepherd. He asked if he could get a cup of coffee, and she said, “Sure, honey,” and waddled over to start a fresh pot. She was wearing Indian garb of some kind that could have done double duty as an RV cover. The pine floor creaked wherever she went.
“It’ll be a couple of minutes,” she announced while making up the coffeepot. “Where you guys from?”
“Triboro area,” he said. “I’m a lieutenant with the Manceford County Sheriff’s Office.”
“Yeah, I kinda figured you for a cop,” she said pleasantly. “My husband’s a sergeant with the reservation police force. Great-looking dog. He police-trained?”
“After a fashion,” Cam said. “Frack here’s more of a thinker than a fighter. The real deal is out in my truck.”
“Two are best,” she said. “Most bad actors give it up when they see one German shepherd. I don’t know why all cops aren’t issued a dog from day one.”
“Not enough dogs,” he said.
She checked to make sure the pot was going and then came back over to the counter. “So you’re up here out of season, which means business. Anything we can help you with?”
He was a little bit surprised at her overt friendliness, but then, her husband was a cop. He decided to play it straight and told her what he was after.
“Cat dancers,” she said. “Yeah, I’ve heard some stories, but they’re kinda out there, if you know what I mean.”
“I’d appreciate anything you could tell me, because right now I am in the mushroom mode.”
She laughed at that. “In the dark and everyone’s feeding you shit, right?” she said. “Haven’t heard that one since I worked for the state. Well, cat dancers. The way the story goes, there’s supposedly this secretive group of men who go up into the Smokies and track mountain lions.”
“I thought they were all extinct in up here.”
“That’s the official line at the Park Service, and they do have a point: No one has taken a picture of one for a long, long time. Lots of bar stories, tales of encounters-but not one instance of proof.”
“You’d think with all the electronics people carry around today, someone would have a video or a picture.”
“Exactly what the park rangers keep saying: ‘Bring us a picture that proves you saw it up here, and we’ll change our tune.’ Hasn’t happened. Anyway, these cat dancer guys supposedly draw lots and then one of them goes out and tracks a mountain lion to its hideout, while the others follow behind to see what happens.”
“Track how?”
“The old-fashioned way-on foot, nose to the ground. No dog packs. And then comes the hard part. The tracker has to get close enough to get a picture of the cat’s face, and then live to tell the tale.”
“A picture?”
“Right. Supposedly, that’s the whole point: The guy has to be a good-enough tracker to find a cat, find its hidey-hole, and then get a close-up picture of it without harming the cat and while living through the experience. Call it extreme wildlife photography.”
Cam shook his head. “Sounds absolutely nuts to me,” he said.
She shrugged. “So are those guys who scale the threethousand-foot vertical rock faces up in these mountains-without ropes, without a partner up top to catch their asses when something goes wrong. Or the guys who go snowboarding in the avalanche zone, you know? Nutcases, all of them. Thrill seekers. And most of ’em Yuppies from your part of the state-no offense-bored with making money and having to drive a Beamer.”